I still feel alive
Soft afternoon light drifted hazily through the partially cracked open window of the classroom. It was on the fifth floor of a New York City high rise building, so the view was a strange mix of exquisite and repulsive. Fire escapes and gorgeous apartments mixed with smog and dirty streets to create the intercity landscape. To others looking in on the school, it would look grimy and disheveled or like a poor place for a school. But to the students in the classroom, it was home and they had never known anything but schools being located in high rise buildings.
Dust was floating in the air as nearly two dozen teenagers flipped through textbook pages and jotted notes down on scraps of looseleaf and spiral bound notebooks. Posters adorned the walls, reminding kids not to do drugs, and overall it was a pretty typical classroom. Antsy kids working on homework as the minute hand of the clock ticked to the final six minutes of their seventh period Algebra Two class. Feet bouncing up and down, pent up nervous energy ready to be spent when dashing out of the classroom the second class was over.
Peter’s head was propped up on his skinny arms laying flat across the desk. His feet were tucked up onto the worn blue plastic of his chair, knees pushed tightly against his torso. He felt like he was melting, exhaustion present in every tense muscle of his taut and sore body. However, he still held his body tensely.
Peter was using every single muscle in his stomach and upper body to hold his ass inches above the chair. Anytime it hit the hard plastic, he would hiss in pain. Alex had been particularly rough the previous night and his entire body felt like he was on fire. His ass was sore and he could swear he felt a small trickle of blood pooling in the back of his boxers and dripping down the slope of his thighs. Everytime it hit the chair, he wanted to scream. But, he couldn’t give away the fact that he was in pain. So, he kept his face expressionless and his ass hoovering with great effort inches above the seat.
Peter had not slept the night before- rather staying up to count the glow in the dark stars stuck to his boyfriend's ceiling, until they no longer glowed when the early morning sun started to creep in through the windows. He had then dragged himself out of the bed before Alex awoke and taken a quick shower- scrubbing his body raw with steaming hot water, until he finally felt even a little bit clean. But Peter never felt clean anymore, not when he was always covered in bruises and dried semen. He could never feel clean when he was so direly and fundamentally dirty.
He was exhausted and every time his eyes drooped downwards, they stayed shut for more and more seconds- until finally from an outsider's perspective it would look like the boy was asleep. However, he was not asleep- simply thinking while his ass still hoovered inches from the seat of the chair. His mind was drifting to the project he and Mr. Stark had been working on, the TV show he had been binging recently (another activity he had been doing in lieu of sleeping recently)- the inky blue and purple bruises dancing at the edge of his long sleeved hoodie. They looked like someone had dipped their hand in paint and then proceeded to grab his arms. They were beautiful in a sense, the colors just perfect and looking like watercolors mixing together. But they were too painful to actually hold any beauty and he refused to find art in the remnants of his torment.
Peter fidgeted slightly, losing the appearance of being asleep as his ass painfully slapped into the plastic chair. He bit his tongue trying to keep from crying out at the contact. His eyes teared and blood gurgled into his mouth from the little cut on his tongue.
When it was clear the boy had contained the sound of pain, he shook his head briefly in contempt towards his own feelings of pain. Sighing, he adjusted the hem of his sweater to better cover the aforementioned bruises. He hissed slightly at the pain, but it was nothing compared to his ass so he didn’t linger too long on it. He was used to the pain and at this point it simply didn’t bother him anymore. Pain was just a side effect of living. Sadly this side effect would completely distract him, however. Usually science and math were two of his best subjects. He was an A+ student and according to his teachers he was ‘destined for greatness’, someone who was definitely going to make it out of his crummy little apartment in Queens and make a name for himself. He was going to go to college and get an invaluable education. He was going to be the best. But right now he wasn’t the best. Right now he couldn’t even focus on math because he was in too much pain. Pain that he couldn’t control, pain that was simply a side effect of his existence.
His teachers used to say stuff like that a lot. They used to really believe in him, they thought that he was actually worth something. But now, they would only look at him with that sad look in their eyes and shake their heads in some sort of tragic disbelief at him.
Now he gets straight D’s instead of A’s and he sits at the back of class, head down and asleep within the first five minutes of the period. He’s always sleeping in class now and he hates what he has become. But by this point, he felt like he had no better option. He’s tired all the fucking time and spends every night either working his ass off an patrol, or curled into a ball at the edge of his boyfriend’s bed or sometimes on the hard floor next to it- once Alex is done fucking him, he’s often not good enough to sleep with his boyfriend anymore. He’s not good enough for love, and Peter knows it makes sense that Alex would not let a creep like him into his own clean bed.
Peter remembers when they used to cuddle or simply curl up together and listen to each other's heartbeats. They used to be the perfect couple. Alex would bring him milkshakes when he had a bad day, he always came to Peter’s science fairs and he even let the boy sleep over at his house whenever May had a night shift at the hospital (which was more often than not at this point due to a single paycheck never being enough to support their small family). But slowly, Alex stopped doing those thing. It started with him forgetting to bring Peter milkshakes when his eyes were red rimmed or anxiety attacks shook through his bed like a hurricane, but quickly morphed into daily insults and verbal abuse and then backhands to the face when he was angry or hands grabbing him too hard and finally the violent sex he was now so used to. Sometimes he missed how their relationship used to be. But the good times were a thing of the past and there was no use mourning what he no longer had.
Ironically, class is now one of the only times he actually got to sleep and feel alone. You would think that sleeping on a desk sounds horrible, but anything that was far away from Alex was amazing. And luckily for him, Alex didn’t have seventh period algebra two with Peter. No, Alex was all the way two floors down in an AP literature classroom. So, Peter could comfortably be alone in this class, and being alone meant that he could sleep. He knew he should be focusing on the teacher and taking notes, on preparing himself for college and a better life than the one he currently was living, but he didn’t care anymore (it’s not like he was planning on going to college at this point anyways). If class was a place he could sleep in peace, damn right will his head be down on the desk in slumber.
He often tricked himself into finding normalcy in his actions. He used to care, be motivated, want a future. But now he seeks the escape of sleeping during a math class, walking in late to avoid having to talk to people, and doing absolutely anything to hide the bruises maring his porcelain skin. Somewhere in his mind, Peter is tempted not to hide them. Run around shirtless and displaying the hand shaped bruises on his arms and hips like blue and purple battle scars. Whether he subconsciously wants help, or is simply resigned to the fact that no gives a fuck- he does not know. The reality is that statistically no one really does give a fuck. Truly, no one cares about him or anyone like him for that matter. They didn’t care when he was a bullied gay kid and reported it to the school, so if he told someone why would they care when he was an abused gay kid. Society treated gay kids like garbage, the outcasts at the outskirts of their perfect little world. Kids like him were meant to be ignored and hurt and bullied and abused and mistreated. And even though it hurt him to admit, Peter was very intune with that fact. No one cares about gay kids, it was a fact.
The bell rang abruptly and seemingly out of nowhere, startling the boy out of his racing thoughts. He flinched violently at the loud noise, toppling out of his seat and landing in a tangled mess of limbs on the floor. His head hit the linoleum and he flinched further in pain. There were a few muffled chuckles from his classmates standing around him. People occasionally stopped to stare at the freak who had fallen on the floor, some even whispering a rushed ‘faggot’ or ‘loser’; but for the most part his peers didn’t even spare him a glance. If they did, perhaps they would realize something was very wrong. They would see that he wasn’t just being stupid or clumsy or a loser like they all so casually assumed. They would see that he was actually in pain, real fucking pain, and something was really really really really wrong. Their hearts might even go out to his in sympathy and he would get help- he wanted their help (at least his subconscious wanted it). But they simply kept walking, ignoring him and Peter was left curled into the fetal position on the floor of his seventh period algebra two classroom. He felt frozen, as if his body couldn’t move and the world had simply stopped spinning. Is this what giving up felt like? … this must be what giving up felt like. It had to be what giving up felt like.
The teacher loomed over the crumpled boy on the floor, her entire body casting a shadow on his small, skittish figure. Peter could see her mouth moving, but it sounded like gibberish in his ears and her lips appeared to be going in slow motion. The syllables and motions of her mouth stretched out and distorted.
Eventually, when it was clear the boy was not hearing her words, she leaned forward and tried to get his attention by resting a single hand on his shoulder and shaking him softly. However at the feeling of her hand on him, his mind seemed to finally work again and his body flinched away from the touch violently. Her lemon scented hand sanitizer was heavy in his nose and Peter clamped a hand over his mouth- refusing to breathe it in and needing a physical barrier between him and the overpowering scent. But, it still seeped through the corners of his mouth and the gap between his fingers and lips.
His face was pushed up against the bright yellow pillow case laying on the bed. His body was splayed, back side facing up and ass pushed into the air. The silky smooth fabric of the pillow case was deceptively soft on the skin of his face, yet scratchy on the rest of his naked torso. A hand was roughly pulling at the curls dusting at the nape of his neck, the other wrapped tightly around his upper arm. A bruise was forming, Peter could feel the pain bubbling under the surface of his taut skin. But all Peter could focus on was the feeling of fabric on his face and torso and the scent of lemon laundry detergent burning in his nose.
“Peter, sweetheart, class is over.” A soft voice drifted through the air and he felt like his body was somewhat coming back to him. Like a bandaid, slowly and carefully being pulled back in order to avoid pain.
He shook his head groggily, trying to rid himself of the last remnants of the out of body experience- like shaking water droplets from damp hair. He clenched and unclenched his fists, flexed his muscles and rubbed his hands back and forth over the cool floor. The cool tiles helped him feel grounded, more in his body and in this moment than in his boyfriend’s bed.
The teacher bent back over him, her necklace dangling in his face as she reached out to help him get situated and sit up. Peter swallowed the fear of the woman approaching. He hated when people got in his space, when they tried to touch him. He tensed his entire body in order to avoid flinching- he didn’t want her to see that he was scared. He hated that he was flinching all the time recently. He felt like he no longer had control of his body. Like his actions were predetermined by a set of shitty things that had happened to him. He wanted to be able to react, without his body screaming that his actions would no doubt result in pain. Without his mind insisting that the entire world was out to get him and every movement was a second before he was hit- before he was hurt by someone he trusted.
He scrambled off of the floor, his body moving heavily and without any sense of ease. as he grabbed the torn red backpack leaning on the side of his chair. He went through backpacks like no one's business. In fact, Aunt May often stated that she hated that he lost so many. To be fair, Peter also hated that he lost so many. Because when he lost them, he had to ask for a new one and backpacks were expensive. Even though Aunt May never mentioned it, Peter knew they were quite poor and Peter would never use their little money on something like a new backpack every three weeks. Part of him knew that if he asked Mr. Stark for help they wouldn’t be so poor, but he would never dare ask the man for help.
He had a pretty good relationship with the man. After the whole homecoming fiasco, they started having lab days every friday night and Peter would stay at the compound for the remainder of the weekend- either training or just chilling with his mentor. Mr. Stark was the closest thing Peter had to a father (ever since Uncle Ben passed away at least) and it was refreshing to have that sort of relationship again. Peter loved Mr. Stark with all his heart and he would never ruin that by asking for help with money or by being greedy. Peter hated being greedy and even though it was something trivial like a backpack, he still refused to ask. So he was stuck with a torn backpack or sometimes with no backpack at all. It made him look disheveled and the permanently torn appearance of them never helped the boy look any more put together. In fact, they added to his waif-like appearance and teachers would constantly wonder why all his belongings were so worn down. However, being intercity teachers, they were used to run down looking children and eventually they stopped asking questions when kids came in looking a little worse for the wear or sporting second hand clothes or school supplies. It was a good sentiment in theory, but they still seemed to miss the kids that were actually struggling or needed help.
When he exited the classroom, the hallways were so empty you could hear every tick of a clock and whir of a vending machine prominently. Peter was thankful for this, as the last thing he wanted to do was deal with the sensations of an overcrowded hallway. He hated crowds with a burning passion. The feeling of being surrounded by people was suffocating. The sounds and sights and touch all became too much for him and he often felt like he was going to completely shut down. Peter wanted to attribute these feeling to the effects of the spider bite, and consequently his powers. He often described his senses as being dialed to 11- which people mistook for being exclusive to his powers. However, at age 8, Peter was diagnosed with aspergers- later on at age 12, he learned of it’s codependency with his newly diagnosed anxiety disorder- and he felt like he was drowning. Everything was hard for him. Sitting still, focusing, talking and understanding people, feeling calm and even breathing sometimes. It was even worse with his senses, because they always felt like the live end of a wire. Every texture he hated felt like poison, touch felt like a hot iron brand and sound made his ears want to bleed.
Having sensory processing challenges was one of the worst feelings in his life. However, he had to live with it because feeling this way was simply a reality of being Peter. He got more overwhelmed than other people, had a harder time with emotions and sometimes needed to cry for hours on end or sit in a dark room rocking back and forth and flapping his hands. Others viewed it as crazy, but it was just a part of his life and he was used to it. However, the world wasn’t used to it and Peter was well acquainted with the feeling of being unlovable. No one could love a freak like him and because of his aspergers it made it even harder to decipher if the love he received was real. Maybe that’s why he let Alex do this to him. Being gay and autistic meant that pretty much no one could love him. So he would settle. Painful love was better than no love and if Alex was the only one that could give him love, he would deal with it.
When he finished collecting his books from his locker he gently closed the door of it, trying to avoid the harsh sound of metal clanging. It was a little ironic that he took his books from his locker, as if he was actually going to read them and do his homework like a normal kid. He knew they would remain sitting in the bottom of his bag until the next class period he had. But, refusing to break the veil of normalcy, he still took them and would still pretend to do his homework. Maybe one day he’ll actually start doing his work again. He was resigned to the fact that that day would probably never come. But he kept on telling himself that maybe, just maybe it would actually happen. He promised himself that one day he would get back to caring about school. Right now it was on the bottom of his priority list, but one day he was going to make it number one again.
His tatty sneakers made a soft scraping noise as he dragged his tired limbs across the floor. If this was last year, he would already be on the subway home, earbuds plugged in and on his way to pick up an after school snack from his favorite corner store/deli combo. However, this was not last year anymore and instead of taking the D line back to his cozy apartment in Queens or to Ned’s house for legos and dinner with his family, he was taking the local 6 train to Alex's apartment. He didn’t want to go, in fact he would do anything in his power to get out of it. But, he knew there was no way out of it. He could either go immediately and have the chance of seeing a somewhat happy Alex, or he could avoid it for a short time and have to face the wrath of an angry Alex. Angry Alex tended to remind him of a rabid dog, snarling and feral. Making him mad was like watching his amazing, generous boyfriend morph into a monster. In a single second, he went from zero to a hundred. Every ounce of happiness and love, seeping out of his being until he could only inflict pain.
When he pushed open the main door to his school, Peter pushed his hood over his head and directed his eyes down. There were still a few stragglers milling about the entrance and near the subway stop, and Peter refused to make eye contact with them. He just needed to survive his peers until the next train came and he would then become another face in the constant commuter traffic. He would become invisible.
When the train pulled into the station, the boy trudged onto the crowded car. Finding a lone seat in the corner, he gently sat down, hissing at the pain in his ass. Next to him sat a woman and her toddler son. They were happy and smiling- sharing a cookie wrapped in a napkin and rapidly talking to each other about Finding Nemo. Peter tipped his head up at them and gave a small smile. He loved seeing young children with their parents. He felt like he missed that part of his life, and seeing kids so happy made his heart swell with joy. He was very much of the belief that kids should always have an amazing childhood and even though his was crappy- he refused to let himself feel jealous. No, he was happy. He wasn’t going to cry or get overwhelmed over some stupid kid and his parent. No, he was happy. Happy. Happy.
The train pulled into the station with a painfully loud screech. The many occupants of the car swayed like seasick sailors as they hustled to exit and run to their next train or end their commute in the richer, nicer side of Manhattan. Peter used to wish he lived here, in a half a million dollar apartment, with a doorman and flowers in the lobby. But that image was now ruined by Alex’s apartment, and maybe it was better he lived in Queens. Away from the insufferable wealth and pain of this part of the city. Where he lived people couldn’t hide behind prep schools and jobs on Wall Street. They worked harder for less and in the end always lost. It was a fucked up system, but Peter was used to it.
Everyone in New York City acts like they’ve drunk four espresso shots hourly. The people walk seemingly faster than humanly possible, scrambling like rats on the sidewalk. They’re in their own world, forgetting to marvel at the massive skyscrapers that are staples of their daily commute and knocking into others with reckless abandon. Being tiny, Peter is constantly at the receiving end- being knocked into and mulled over like he is nothing. Insignificant.
It was garbage day and as he walked the several blocks to his boyfriend’s apartment, Peter couldn’t help but equate himself to the heaps of trash on the curb. His nose wrinkled in disgust- unwanted, unloved and repulsive were words used to describe both trash and Peter Parker.
His fingernails dug into the fleshy skin on the palm of his hand. The pain helped him ground himself in the moment, in not getting too caught up in the self hate and bad thoughts- because those never led anywhere good.
His phone buzzed and Peter dug his slightly bloodied hand into his pocket to retrieve it. He winced as the little cuts on his palm brushed against scratchy denim jeans, but simply clenched his teeth and read the message presented on the screen.
Mr. Stark (3:27): Hey kid, you coming by later ?? I have a gauntlet that needs repairing with you’re name on it.
Mr. Stark (3:27): *your
Mr. Stark (3:28): Why did I have to put damn autocorrect on StarkPhones ??? It corrected your to you’re- stupid phone.
Peter chuckled for a second, caught in the ridiculous notion of a genius like Mr. Stark being thwarted by autocorrect. But his laugh seemed to die as soon as it reached his lips. He wanted nothing more than to go curl up in his mentors lab- a warm mug of hot chocolate (Mr. Stark would probably have coffee, but he would still put the mini marshmallows in like it was hot chocolate) and a difficult science problem to spend hours solving. It wasn’t Friday, so he probably couldn’t sleep over. But Peter might fall asleep on the worn down couch in the lab and Mr. Stark would probably wake him soothingly with a pet of his hair or even carry him to his personal quarters. These small moments were the only times Peter felt like he had a dad since his uncle had passed, and Peter craved the attention. He soaked it up like a sponge and basked in the warm feelings of being loved.
Alex used to make him feel loved, a different type of love, but loved nonetheless. He used to bounce between his mentor and boyfriend’s affection like a ping pong ball. Back and forth, collecting hugs and cuddles, and in Alex's case- kisses. But now, he hides between pain and hiding the pain. Alex hurts him and Mr. Stark is oblivious. It’s a nasty cycle, leaving Peter worn down and out of the love he uses like a drug. He wishes he could protect himself from the pain or even just be honest with Mr. Stark. But he wears a mask of porcelain and blood. His emotions are a closed door and he will never be liberated. He will continue living with dishonest moments, a strong facade and tainted love.
Peter leaned his shoulder into the heavy front door of the apartment building, pushing his entire weight into opening it. Usually he didn’t have to try so hard, but the combination of exhaustion and wounds were not doing wonders for his body and he felt too weak to even open the door currently.
Peter tipped his head at the doorman; Antonio, an older and quite boisterous Italian man. But he didn’t remove his headphones or stop to partake in conversation. He was usually a pretty sociable person, especially when it came to the doorman at Alex’s apartment (he could relate to the whole not having a ton of money thing)- but today was not the day for a casual chat. No, today he was on a mission. Get to Alex’s apartment and escape as quickly and unharmed as possible.
The up button outside of the elevators glowed bright white as Peter waited. His head would bop every few seconds, his teeth were clenched and he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Anxiously, the boy entered the elevator when it finally came. Punching floor 17- Peter cursed himself at the otherworldly aspect of New York City elevators. Somehow they went twice as high in half of the amount of time and it really didn’t make sense to him. Taller buildings equal faster elevators- so technically it really did make sense, but elevators should be a safe haven for thinking and he never could think when he felt rocketed at top speeds to his destination.
True to their nature, the elevator reached his desired floor in mere seconds. With a small ding and flourish of opening doors, Peter was in front of Alex’s door in the blink of an eye. His nose was pressed close to the glossy, white wood and his toes scraped at the corner of the bright red doormat. He briefly remembered Alex mentioning it looking like “cherries”, but currently it only looked like blood. His blood. Thick and red- staining his paper white skin like inkblots.
He knew the longer he waited to knock on the door, the longer it would to take for him to leave. It would also no doubt make Alex more upset with him. But, Peter felt like his entire body was stuck in molasses- his head full of cotton balls. His body was refusing to listen to him, his limbs defying his brain. He wanted to knock. Needed to go in and get the fear and pain over with. But, he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Couldn’t. Couldn’t.
A loud knock reverberated around the hallway, bouncing of the narrow walls and glossy wooden doors. Peter’s head shot up and he grimaced at the loud sound- looking around to find the source of the sound. But after mere seconds of confusion, he stared down at his own hand. The hand which had seemingly betrayed him. He had not given it permission to knock, in fact he refused to let himself knock. But here he was after his hand betrayed him, standing fearfully on a cherry red doormat and anxiously waiting for his boyfriend to open the door.
The door peeled open, reflections of light bouncing higher and higher onto the wall parallel to the door as it moved farther back. Peter willed himself to only focus on the reflections. To keep his eyes trained to the shifting form of light on the wall and off of the person standing menacingly in front of him. But, the boy quickly failed and his eyes flitted down from the shifting light to the person standing in the open doorway. His boyfriend’s lanky figure seemed almost out of place in the small frame. Alex’s head was tilted slightly to the side to fit in the ‘short’ space and it contributed to a sense of Peter feeling even smaller than he truly was. Once upon a time, there height gap was something to be envied. Alex was tall and strong, a track star and often frequenter of the local gym. Peter was his perfect nerdy boyfriend, tiny and often drowning in big hoodies with sweater paws pooling around his skinny wrists. Being small definitely had benefits for the boy and Peter was the perfect little spoon. He loved curling up against his boyfriends lanky frame, it made him feel safe and protected. Now his small stature made him feel weak, small, defenseless. It felt like his super strength melted into a puddle on the floor, abandoning him any time he faced his boyfriend.
Alex’s hand came forward and caressed Peters cheek. It was an act of innocence, but Peter violently flinched away from the touch, recoiling like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He wanted to run as far away as humanly possible, but the hand grabbed his jaw. Using the fingers clenched on his face, Alex forced his boyfriend’s gaze upward- demanding the boy look straight into his eyes.
“Now where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” He spoke quietly, every syllable pronounced and venomous. His muscles bulged under a tight white t shirt as he pulled the boy into the apartment and flush into his skin. Alex glanced quickly up and down the hall, as if scared to be caught manhandling the small boy. However, when he sees no lingering eyes- he violently slams to door closed. Peter flinches away from the harsh sound, but having none of it, Alex simply pushes him by slamming him into the wall next to the door. His backpack tumbled off his shoulder and hit a nearby shelf, books and china shaking and threatening to fall as his skull connects with the hard surface. Alex is holding him by his neck now, constructing his airways and causing him to splutter and gasp for air like a fish out of water. His feet dangle inches from the ground. His only points of contact, the hand choking his neck and his head on the wall. A trickle of blood dripped down his neck and onto Alex’s hand, crimson stark against his pale skin.
Peter crashes to the floor in a heap of limbs. His boyfriend is nervously shaking his hand, trying to rid of his boyfriend’s blood. It splatters like paint, hitting the china plates and books on the nearby shelf.
“Fuck.” The word is short and clipped. “What the fuck do I do now???” Alex is ranting and raving, pacing around the room with his hands on his head.
Peter tries to back away, trying to reach the door and escape the conflict. Alex grabs his arm roughly and refuses to let him leave.
“Oh no you fucking don’t. Your blood, your problem Peter,” His voice is maniac and his eyes scream danger.
With Peter’s arm in one hand, he scoops up the books with the other and pushes them into his boyfriends grasp. The boy tries to squirm away, but Alex simply pulls the writhing boy to the window. Cool air rushes into the room, chilling the boy to his bones and making him flinch away from the window. It all feels like too much; the sticky blood trickling down his neck, the cool air and the texture of Alex's rough hands on his skin. His senses feel like they are on overdrive. He wants to shut down. He wants to pound his hands against his own flesh, scream and cry until his throat is raw. He needs to let the pent up emotions out and knows there are ways of doing it in a healthy manner. But he does not feel very healthy right now and he has no idea how to do it without having a meltdown.
Alex’s rough hands gripped the wrist of the hand Peter was using to hold the books and brought him within inches of the open window. Confused, he tried to back away- but Alex only pulled him closer. “Nope, drop them.” The commands where short and direct.
“What??” Peter sputtered, speaking for the first time since arriving at the apartment.
Alex scoffs, “I know you heard me Peter. Drop. The. Fucking. Books.” His last sentence is spoken in a no nonsense voice
with short, clipped words
“But, but… we’re 17 floors up...it’s going to hurt someone Alex…. I can’t do that…. I can’t hurt anyone… please.. I can’t.”
“Now.” Alex commands, his voice commanding and loud.
Peter jumps, his hands slipping and the books tumbling like dead weights out of the window- blood flying like commits in the night sky.
“Good, now follow me,” His boyfriend’s voice is soft and icy now.
Alex spins on his heels, grabbing the china plates from the bookshelf and retreating towards the lavish kitchen. Peter glances at the door once, contemplating leaving for a split second. But, that thought is killed faster than it came and he follows dutifully behind his boyfriend like a kicked puppy- head down and tail between his legs.
The kitchen is painted in bright yellow and cream hues, perfectly complemented by the stream of sunlight from the large windows that serve as the left wall of the room. The air is thick and heavy with warmth, perhaps from the steady stream of sunlight entering the space. However, it feels too stifling and unnatural- like they are trapped in a furnace cranked up to a million degrees.
Alex is facing away from him, his tall form hunched over the sink and leaning against the soft cream colored cabinets. Despite his back being turned, Alex seems to sense his presence. It is clear in the way his body stiffens and he straightens his back to be his full six feet and two inch height. The brooding male motions for his boyfriend to come closer by quickly pointing his hand in Peter’s direction and then signaling towards the sink in front of him. Peter stumbles forward, eager to comply with the clear motion and avoid any repercussions of taking too long. In getting closer he notices thick trails of steam float above the surface of water, like little clouds in the afternoon sky. It is clear now that the insufferable heat is coming from the sink and he is unsure how the tap made such hot water.
Water droplets wildly splash as the china plates loudly crash into the sink. Rough hands grab his wrists from behind, he is pushed forward, and for a split second it feels like time has stopped. Like bird wings are flapping in slow motion and the arch of water droplets splashing is ethereal. But then, it all stops and his body is rammed into the counter and his hands forward into the scalding water. And now, his screaming mixes like water and oil in the air with the sound of sizzling flesh. It sounds like red, like blood, like pain; and it has no place in this bright yellow room, in this perfect apartment.
The water in the sink swirled with thick trails of blood. It looked like a galaxy, otherworldly in the way that makes you want to drop everything, abandon the life you have and chase after aliens and fairies and other such mysterious and questionably real creatures. Peter really wanted to chase after said creatures, or perhaps visit another dimension or meet an alien. But sadly, he was stuck here. Stuck in this perfect yellow apartment, in this not so perfect life. And the closest thing he would get to an otherworldly creature, was the ghost of the boy he used to be.
Alex’s voice cut through his thoughts like a molten knife, “When you’re done here, meet me in my room.” He looks down his nose at the shorter boy, “Don’t even think about adding colder water or pulling a stupid act like that.”
With an exaggerated sigh he turns to leave. For a second, Peter glances over and catches sight of the boy. Alex is shrouded in light from the large windows, his sweater is slightly ruffled, his hair sticking up just the slightest. But, he mainly looks normal- looks beautiful. Like the man he fell in love with. But, the blisters on his hands and the books that had tumbled so carelessly from the window told him otherwise. Alex wasn’t beautiful, Alex was dangerous.