Work Text
Spot climbed out the window, barely repressing the urge to scream. He climbed to the rooftop hurriedly, stomping as hard as he could. The metal rattled underneath his rage.He didn’t understand. He wanted to be better, God did he want to be better. But instead, he was here, fucking up everything in his shitty life no matter how hard he tried. His foster parents were nothing if not nice to him, yet here he was, shoving it all in their face accompanied with cruel words.He walked in between the aisles of the vegetable garden, refusing to kick anything, but glaring at the plants to get his point across. Then he realized how stupid he was being and broke down into sobs.Angry at his own weakness he slammed his fists into his head. He slammed them again, pain exploding across his skull. It fell back to a dull throb after a second, so he hit it again. He slammed his fists and forearms into his head again and again, punishing himself for his own stupidity.What is wrong with me? His brain screamed. Why can’t I do anything right? They have just as much stuff to do as I do, why do I keep complaining? I’m always so tired why can’t I just make myself get up and do things. Why aren’t I a better kid? Why can’t I do it right? I’m trying so hard. I’m sorry, I’m trying. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!A fresh round of sobs tore from his throat as he yanked at the roots of his hair. Spot yanked some more, then scratched angrily at his collarbone before moving down farther to his wrists. He drew a long, red, angry line down his left wrist, all the way from his palm to the crook of his elbow. He made another one that followed his vein, imagining what it would be like if he had a razor. Imagined the blood that would spill out on either side and cover his wrist and arm in crimson warmth.Realizing what he was doing, he slammed his open palms down on his head once more before climbing back into his apartment. He changed into a large red sweater and gym shorts, knowing that the outfit would cover his new injuries from his foster parents. Spot collapsed on his bed, face first.His foster dad, Ray, entered a moment later, no doubt having heard him climb back through the window. “You know you can’t blame this on us. You’ve known about this for three weeks.”I know, Spot thought. That’s why I came to you for help.“It’s entirely your fault.”Internally, Spot scoffed. It always is. I know that. Why do you think I hide away when this shit happens? I’m beating myself up, not that you’d ever notice.Ray said some more things, and Spot tried his hardest not to listen. He wanted so desperately to not be the one at fault, but he was the only one to blame. He was always the only one to blame.Eventually, Ray left, and Spot sat up. He stubbornly ignored the tears that had silently fallen onto his cheeks and ripped his poster off the wall. He packed silently until one in the morning, before falling asleep on the old twin mattress. Ray and Steph had promised they’d never kick him out, but so had others. He slept uneasily, dreading the morning, where he was sure that a social worker would greet him.