Darling, you'll be okay

Vic Fuentes is just starting a band with his brother Mike and two other guys, Tony and Jamie. Becca happens to an old friend of Jamie's, who introduces her to the band. Becca has a twisted past and neither of Vic or Tony's stories are the prettiest. So what happens when Vic learns more than Becca would like and Tony develops a tiny little crush. Trigger warning for sensitive content including self-harm, abuse and alcoholism and Kellin Quinn.

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7. 6- Vic

 

6- Vic

 

   I could tell the others didn't notice, but I did. You only do if you do it yourself. Tony brought up Jamie's girl and so they showed Mike and I a picture of her. That's what and when I saw. She probably didn't even notice she did it. It's a simple gesture you only realize you do until you see other do it.

   She covered her right wrist.

   I no longer had to, but I think I still do, even when I'm wearing long sleeves. After a while, it just instincts. You find yourself wearing an extra few bands around your wrists; putting your arms behind your back every so often; hands in pockets, longer shorts, more long sleeves. Any way possible to hide the red.

   You just don't know what it's like unless you do it yourself. You don't know what it's like to wake up from numb dreams to a worse reality, with no-one to comfort you. You don't know what it's like to be scared of your own urges. Urges to inflict pain on yourself. Dark thought on how pretty a blade would be right now. 

   The only people who ever acknowledged me, hated me, and showed it very clearly.

   That's why I woke up in the middle of the night scaring the thought of kissing razors.

   That sounded pretty good, so I quickly jotted it down. Even now, writing that onto the paper, the words look like scars, scratching across the originally pristine page. Even now, out of the corner of my eye, I can see the faded lines- so straight and precise. I don't even know how... Why...

   I hate that word. Those syllables, in that order just sound horrible. Scars. They sound like accusation. Scared. It sounds like pain. Scar. Self-harm.

    I wonder what her story is.

   Mine? Well...

   *Hey big boy. hows ur band going?? England is still England. Wet. Hope u and mike r ok. love ya    Mamaxx*

  *Hey mama. yh mike and I r good. how r u?? Vic*

  *Im gd. Band??*

   *Oh yh. The bands going great we found 2 other really cool guys*

   *What r they like??*

   *Youd love them. Their both coverd in tattoos and one of them smiles so much u always think he is about to offer u a cookie*

   *Thats great. Hows mikey*

   *Hes at school right now. or he should be at least*

   *Haha. gtg ttyl darling*

   Darling. She used to call me that all the time when I was little; I can still hear the slightly Spanishy/Mexican twang in her American accent in the way she would say it. Darling, it's fine. Darling, it'll be... Okay? And then she was gone. How is that okay? I didn't expect it at all. I didn't even accept it for years.

And now, 15 years later, I can talk to her again as if she's just off on a little business trip. 

   I'm not actually angry though. 

   I thought I might be, but I'm not. The hard bit is not telling Mike. I don't know why, but I don't think  it's right yet. The horrendous truth she told me made me so scared to even look at my Papa. I don't want to even call him that. I've still got to deal with it, then maybe I'll be able to tell Mike.

    He was 2 when she left. He doesn't remember her at all. Maybe it should stay that way.

    I'm so alone. 

    Sitting at a kitchen table owned by a parent I hate, and the other was never there when I needed them. Maybe I still need her, I don't know.

  My wrists were covered and she wasn't there to know. Not her, not Papa, only them. I wish I could say I didn't care, but even now I'm conscious of how many times I've said 'I'. I feel self-centered, and it's probably not, but I can't help it. There's only so many times you can pretend it's a lie. Only so many times you can tell yourself they're only finding someone to pick on because of their own problems. You know every 'inspirational' line, you've told yourself them over and over until they're meaningless.

   I use 'I' too much - I'm self-centered.

   I repeat myself a lot - I'm unoriginal.

   I mix sentences together- not creative, just stupid.

   I hid a lot about myself - scared or just boring.

   Bullying didn't cause the lines, but added to them.

  I'd say "there are only some many times you can break 'till you shatter", but I'm still here. I don't even know why. The only people who would have cared, would have been Mike and I thought my Papa, sorry, thing, but I guess not.

   He's a foul human being. 

   He never bothered to realize his own son's depression. 

   How can blame me for feeling alone?

   Maybe that's why I stayed, though. To prove I didn't need him.

 

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