Playing His Own Games | ✔︎

chapter three | feelings are for the weak

*•*•*•*
"Roses are dead,
Violets are dying,
Outside I'm smiling,
Inside I'm crying."
*•*•*•*

Mason

LOCKING AWAY YOUR feelings, your emotions and turning indifferent and cold towards the world is the only way I've been taught how to survive in this world. My fathers words ring in my ears, "You don't feel, you just endure."

I stagger out of bed and bolt to the bathroom to empty the contents in my stomach from last night. Even after rinsing my mouth dozens of times the vomit still leaves a sour taste in it. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, exhaling sharply. By now the drugs I took after I woke up from the blackout last night has worn off—as well as the sleepiness—and all the pain hits me at once.

Shaking slightly, hands gripping the edge of the marble vanity, head bowed over the chipped sink, I throw a glance into the pristine mirror. I barely recognise the person staring back at me. Coarse black hair falls in gentle ripples over my forehead, flicking up at my ears. Since my skin is so pale, it brings out the dark-purple bruises that fill out almost all of my face. All the blood vessels have broken through my right eye which has also blossomed a fantastic bluish-dark colour, while my other one is swollen shut. My lip is busted, I have a cut underneath my eye, a lump on the back of my head and a ring of bruises around my neck.

My torso sears in pain each time I move and I don't have the heart to lift my shirt and inspect the damage. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before. Although my ribs might be a problem. From past experiences, it's apparent that at least one is either broken or fractured. I should take painkillers, I should rest and spend the day upstairs in my bed to let them heal. But I won't; I never do. I just have to suck up with the pain and keep moving forward.

"Mason." Knuckles rapping against the door and a commanding tone. "You're taking your brother to school. I have a list of chores for you to compete have you come back home."

"Yes, sir," I whisper, my voice barely audible. One look at my face and there's no way I can go to school today. Add that to the twisted, stiff way I'm walking from my broken ribs and I could be off for a week. Anger builds inside, boiling the pit of my stomach. Fucking sadistic bastard.

After getting dressed into some tight, very uncomfortable clothes to not arouse any suspicion if I see anyone I know dropping Jared off at school, I descend downstairs, my mood only darkened when I find Jared sprawled carelessly across the leather sofa, a cigarette hanging off his lips and schoolbag slung over his forearm.

"You do realise you shouldn't be smoking." I snatch the cigarette from his mouth and pop it in my own, my lungs filling with smoke as I inhale deeply. My ribs scream in pain at each sharp breath.

"You do realise you're not my brother," he fires back, looking annoyed.

"I do and I'm very thankful for it," I say with a small smile. My frustration is mounting each second I stand here, reflecting on the events of last night. My father hasn't been that violent in a while now. Something must've triggered it and it couldn't have just my behaviour. "Did Dad get declined a promotion yesterday?"

Jared grunts out a, "He was drinking."

I swallow a lump in my throat. Alcohol does not mix well with my dads already hostile and irascible personality. "Shit. Why?"

"I dunno," Jared barks, standing up and throwing his bag over his shoulder. "His your father. You're one and the same: Total dickheads."

I scowl. "Don't speak to me like that."