I Just Wanna Run (Marcel Fanfic)

Marcel Styles;

school target,

bully magnet,

human punching bag.

And done with all of it.


4. Chapter 4

My eyes fluttered open to the blinding sunlight peeking through my window. Oh that's right, I forgot to shut the curtains last night. The early birds chirped at my windowsill and the light breeze picked up as I pushed myself off the wrinkled bed. My hands searched for my glasses on the nightstand and I slid them on, making everything clearer. Nothing was different from last night. My picture frames still hung on the wall. The door was slightly closed. The corner where the paint was chipping remained tattered. This meant I was still Marcel, I was still alive and breathing. At least, I think so. 

Fortunately today was Saturday. Finally the weekend. It was never long enough but at least I had the break. What shall I do today, I thought to myself while I took the long staircase down into the kitchen area. I sat down and glanced around the room. It wasn't normally this quiet in the mornings but I didn't have to think twice, knowing my mom was at work. She always was. Me, myself and I were becoming quite close acquaintances lately. Not that I minded that much. I mean, I would rather be alone with myself than surrounded by people who make fun of me all day. It isn't exactly enjoyable being in pain from day to night. Luckily, I get to see my mother when I return home. Even if it is a sliver of time. Honestly, I think she is my only savior. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be here today. Long gone by now, I suppose. Truth is, I needed her as much as she needed me. 

When I was low, she would be there to pick me back up and help me move forward. And when I say low, I mean depressed. Like in deep, deep depression. My early teen years had to be when it started. It was basically my ending of friendship with Damon that aroused this eager fire within. I had no one. I was the 'loser' of the group. The 'nerd.' Pretty much any hurtful name you can think of, they used against me. Until I was safely home at least. Then I would turn to my mother and cry into her warm, welcoming arms. She could listen to me sob for hours but wouldn't dare say a word. At the time, she wasn't sure of what to do. I had never acted like that before. Well, I never broke down like that before. Usually, when I was bawling that hard it was alone, to myself. I never mentioned that I was being harassed or bullied. I didn't have the heart to tell her that. When I realized sooner or later that she would start calling the school and ask what was going on, I had to be strong and try to explain to her it was just a phase. Just a phase that has lasted 5 years. 5 years later, here I am. Stronger now but still weaker than most. I still shed a few tears once in a while. Internally, I am numb to the pain but on the outside, the scars reveal the suffering. 

A loud clank on the counter made me jump out of my thoughts and back to the kitchen. A steak knife laid on the marble surface where the noise came from only seconds ago. The empty, silent house suddenly became three times quieter. I looked down to see my hands nervously shaking nonstop. My eyes wandered down to my shirt curiously. Silently, I prayed nothing happened. But I didn't feel anything come in contact with my skin. Then again, pain was numb to me. A relieving sigh escaped my lips when I lifted my shirt and saw there was no blood or scarring. Carefully, I picked the dangerous knife back up and slid it into the wooden set.

I tried to swallow the lump stuck in my throat but I couldn't get a hold on what just happened. That knife would've killed me if I didn't stop myself. It should've killed me. 

Seeing what almost happened, being alone is not an option anymore. Maybe I could go to work and visit my mom. Take a walk in the park. Or stay at my grandmother's house. Now that I think about it, I hadn't visited her in a while. I'm sure she would be delighted to see me. The clock hanging on the wall read 10:30 am and ticked louder every second I watched. I assumed she was up, reading the news, or knitting or something else she likes doing.  My fingers dialed the 7 digit number on the phone while I stared out the window at the trees swaying back and forth. It rang 4 times before the other end picked up.

"Hello?" Her soft voice answered.

"Grandma? This is Marcel." I smiled into the phone.

"Marcel?" I could nearly hear her smile back. "How are you sweetie? I've missed you so much."

"I'm fine, thanks. I've missed you too." My voice cracked and I cleared my throat.

"How's your mother? I haven't spoken with her in a while either." She asked.

"She's doing good. Still looking for a job." I paced back and forth across the carpet.

I heard a faint sigh across the line. She was like me, worried and stressed everyday. The call was now silent, from neither of us knowing what to say. She lived alone, so her home was always quiet. My grandfather died tragically months ago and it was devastating for her. And me. Now the house was silent without his booming laugh echoing in each room. I remember how he would sit me on his lap and tell me these amazing stories of his adventures that he's been on. At that time, there was no one I wanted to be with more. His stories involved bad guys and heroic strangers on the streets and sidekicks. He traveled everywhere across the world. India. Rome. Africa. Australia. And there's pictures to prove. Everytime I visited their house, I had to pull out the pictures so I could listen to another story. I always dreamed that would be me one day. Then one night, his magical adventures ended. 

It was cold, rainy night. Rather late, I recall. I was trapped in a book using my flashlight as my only source of light. My mother sat just downstairs, watching the local news on television. It was just us for the night and we were about to fall asleep. It was past my bedtime but the I couldn't take my eyes off the page. One more chapter, I remember thinking. One more page and then I will go to bed. But that wasn't the case.

"Marcel!" I recognized my mother's worried voice, running outside my door. I sat straight up in fear and before I could step off my bed, the door swung open quickly.

"Marcel, it's your grandfather." My mom's eyes were brimming with tears while she was trying to catch her breath. My book dropped to the floor and my mind went blank. He was gone. Forever. We rushed to the hospital but by that time, it was too late. And that's where the book ended. For him at least.

"Marcel, dear? Are you still there?" A voice spoke in my ear. Then I remembered I was still on the phone.

"Yes, yeah I'm here."

"Was there something you wanted to talk about?" She asked clearly.

"C-can I come over?" I stuttered, tightening my grip on the phone slightly.

"Why, anytime sweetie." I sighed in relief and felt a smile grow on my lips.

"I'll be right over."


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