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"Excuse me, Patrick Hockstetter," a voice pierced through the silence, interrupting the young photographer's focused gaze out of the window. Patrick remained motionless, his attention fixated on capturing a fleeting moment through the lens of his camera. Ignoring the presence behind him, he refused to acknowledge the girl's request.Undeterred by his lack of response, the girl continued, her voice tinged with a hint of awkwardness. Patrick emitted a low hum, still refusing to turn and face her. "I heard you run a business, and... well, I was wondering if you could do me a favour.""Who," Patrick replied in a gruff and hardened tone, his eyes still glued to the camera. At last, he turned to meet the girl's gaze. Her face instantly contorted into a pout, disappointment etched across her features. He had encountered countless clients like her before — desperate and persistent, pushing him to lower his already high prices. But Patrick remained resolute, his expression stern and unwavering."500 dollars," he stated bluntly, making it clear that there would be no negotiation. The girl's pout deepened, her desperation evident. Patrick couldn't fault her; after all, his clients always seemed to be this way, whining until they either accepted his terms or walked away. "I won't change the price," he asserted, refusing to back down."This better be the most exceptional photo I've ever seen. If not, I'll expose your business." The girl huffed and turned to face the classroom door, but before she left, she glanced back at Patrick. "I've heard it takes you a few weeks, maybe a month at most, to deliver the photos. I'll give you one month. Two months at the most." With that, she turned away and exited the classroom.Patrick remained silent, his attention now fixed on the figures outside the window, specifically Henry Bowers.From what Patrick had observed, Henry seemed like an easy target. When he wasn't surrounded by his gang, comprised of Victor Criss, Reginald Huggins, Steve Sadler, and Peter Gordon — affectionately referred to as Vic, Belch, Moose, and Gordon by their leader — Henry mostly kept to himself. While he had never personally interacted with Henry, rumours painted a portrait of him as "aggressive," "sociopathic," and "troubled." Yet, in Patrick's eyes, Henry constantly sought to assert his dominance in any interaction. Patrick, however, refused to submit to someone he considered one of his own creations. He saw himself as a god, and gods do not bow down to their mere creations.Leaving the room in haste, Patrick retrieved the photos he had taken of Moose from his camera and quickly found Beverly Marsh, another client on his list at school."Beverly," he called out, tapping her shoulder. Understanding the nature of their encounter, she led him into the privacy of the restroom before handing him a crisp $200 bill."The photos?" she asked eagerly."Here." Patrick passed her the three photos of Moose — one taken recently, another captured at a store, and a third peering into his bedroom window."You're a godsend, Patrick. This is worth a week's worth of material." Beverly hugged the photos tightly, and Patrick simply nodded, exiting the restroom to seek out his new target.Patrick never truly explained his clandestine profession to anyone. Officially, he served as the school photographer, responsible for yearbooks, event coverage, and student portraits. But beneath this facade, he ran a covert business. Clients approached him with requests for three to ten photos of a specific person, providing him with solid information. Patrick would then embark on a mission of stalking, meticulously gathering as many photos as possible for his clients. He often wondered why humans derived such pleasure from seeing pictures of those they loved, a concept that eluded his understanding. Nevertheless, the monetary reward and his passion for photography fueled his endeavours. In a world where he rarely experienced any form of emotion, being able to indulge in his passion while earning a profit served as an unexpected bonus for the boy.Patrick POV
"Henry Bowers?" As I closed in on Henry Bowers, a fabricated smile stretched across my face, only to be met with the most distasteful and dismissive look imaginable."Who's asking?" he retorted, turning his back to his little clique. Undeterred, I discreetly retrieved my camera, its lens poised to capture every detail."It's for the yearbook," I replied, showing off all the enthusiasm I possibly could. "You've been elected as the strongest boy of the year. I've been asked to get a photo of you and your gang, if that's acceptable.""Yearbook photos are faggy," Henry jeered, prompting laughter from his friends. "But I'll do it, as long as you make me look tough," he added, flexing his feeble muscles, which brought further amusement and envy from the others. I sighed inwardly. Capturing Henry, or anyone for that matter, without their knowledge wasn't exactly thrilling, but this particular girl demanded only the finest."Very well, now all of you," I instructed, pointing towards them. Obligingly, they took their places and showed off their poses, with Henry standing centre, a wide grin adorning his face as he draped an arm around each of his gang members. I snapped the photograph, while maintaining my forced smile. "You'll be able to see these in the yearbook when it's released," I announced, before departing. My emotions mirrored their usual state, though an unexpected sensation lingered in the air—could it be described as a sense of accomplishment? Henry had proven rather compliant today, so assuming he would continue to be for the rest of the week, this job appeared to be a breeze, offering easy money. Perhaps this wouldn't be as terrible as I had initially anticipated, I pondered as I walked away. All I needed now was some additional information about Henry that would help capturing him further—a home address, his daily schedule, nothing too complex.Simple enough. Just a bit of extra effort, and it'd be over in no time.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
For the next several days, I carefully made my rounds throughout Derry following Henry Bowers. Whether that be around school or around Derry itself, I did my best to follow Henry around, and soon became accustomed to his schedule. He was always so oblivious giving the perfect opportunity to snap candid images. As easy as it was, I hated how easy it was too. I wanted a challenge, maybe even the thrill of nearly being caught. But no, Henry was as much as an idiot as everybody said he was, I bet I could shove a camera in his face and he wouldn't realise it until it was too late. His life was boring, predictable, and uninteresting; just as I imagined. I could just tell that girl 'hey, I don't feel like doing Henry, he's boring and such an easy target you can do it yourself!' But that would be a dick move first of all, and she's already obtained the 500$. But there was something about Henry that intrigued me, and that fascinated me even more. Why was he so organised with his routine? What kind of life did he lead with his gang? And the thrill was, those were things I have yet to find out.
Today ended like every other, Henry passed out drunk on a random bench. He always stayed out late, sometimes with the gang, but mostly by himself. And after another night of hopeless drinking, always, at the same time, he'd stumble to the same bench and fell asleep in his vomit. He never went home, that's what intrigued me. Never had I ever seen his house. Was he homeless? He couldn't of been, he had a dad and I knew with his job he definitely wasn't on the street. He must live somewhere close, though. That's the only explanation.
My mind raced, thinking of various ways I could take advantage of Henry's condition in order to discover more about him. I mean he was just another human I somewhat pitied in my position as a god. But, I needed to obtain more about him. I knew humans were interesting creatures, and when drunk, they become even more interesting. But maybe I should discover more later, leave him in his condition and go home, before anybody saw me and assumed I was a 'stalker.' I don’t consider myself one. I would call myself more of a business man, going about his work. And that work just happens to be borderline stalkerish.
Anyways I need to stop loitering and go back home. I don't want my parents to worry. Not like they would, but in that slim chance they would, I don't want them to.
After making my way back home, I found myself standing face to face with my very obviously drunk father, who proceeded to start screaming obscenities and insults toward me all while throwing punches at the same time. It was quite entertaining that at his age he was still throwing punches like he was twenty at the most. After several minutes of his yelling, he finally stopped and threw the contents of his flask at me. Without hesitation, I ducked, allowing it to splash against the wall and spill onto my clothes.
"I hate fucking hate you!" he cried loudly. "You're useless! You're a fucking loser and I wish I had killed you, because then maybe your useless fucking mother would stop crying about Avery! At least he would've grow up to be something other than a pathetic little bitch!" he continued. With each word uttered, I stayed composed. It wasn't like he was doing anything, I simply had no reaction to his words. Five years ago I would've been crying and cowering in a corner from him, but you tend to stop being a whiny little bitch after years of abuse. "And you, you...you...you fucking whore!" he snarled, throwing the remainder of the flask at me. "Go shut up your mother while I go out." He snarled at me, leaving the room and slamming the door behind him.
I didn't want him to be any more angry as it was getting annoying listen to him use the same insults again, so I did as he said and went to go check on my mother. I wasn't surprised to find her in Avery's room, swaddling a fake baby in her hands and sobbing profusely.
I decided to give her a moment, quietly entering the bedroom and placing my hand on her shoulder. "Dad asked me to check up on you."
She turned to face me, her eyes puffy, bloodshot, mascara streaking down her cheeks. "Don't touch me you little shit." she sniffed, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her nightgown before hitting my hand away and walking towards Avery's closet. She began rummaging through it, eventually finding what she was looking for, a picture of Avery. When she turned around to face me once more, she clutched the picture tightly in her hands, shaking slightly. I remained silent and observed her intently, waiting to hear what she was about to say.
"Avery's dead," she stated softly, before continuing, "he's gone, Patrick." She broke into sobs and hugged herself, holding on to the small baby doll so tightly it seemed to almost cracked. "And it's all your fucking fault."
"It wasn't my fault." I stated to her calmly.
"Bullshit!" she screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks uncontrollably. "You killed him! He was just a baby and you fucking killed him!" She ran to me, pushing me against the door frame violently. "It's all your fault." Her voice rose with every sentence, becoming louder and louder with every passing word. I watched as her grip tightened, and felt a slight sting as it pressed uncomfortably into my chest.
"Mother..." I said in desperation, trying to pull her hands off of me, "go to bed."
"No!" she screamed.
"You're not well, go to bed."
"Fuck you, you filthy bastard! I'm sick because of you! You killed our son and now I hate you! Do you understand?! You ruined everything!"
With a swift movement, she slapped me across my cheek, causing her to cry out and collapse on the floor in shock. After rubbing my face, I grabbed her by the arms, pulled her up, and slowly but surely walked her to her room.
After a few minutes, she stopped struggling, although she continued to cry. "Please…" she whimpered, "don't hurt me Patrick..." As I placed her on her bed, I sat beside her and placed her vitamins beside her.
"Go to bed mother, you're sick." I mumbled before getting up to leave her room.
"You're a sick monster Patrick." As she called after me in pain, I ignored her, and walked off to my room.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"Come on," I mumbled to myself as I left home. I was determined to find a reason to visit Henry Bowers. I couldn't figure out what it was exactly, but I just knew I needed it somehow. I've never gone to lengths to get pictures, but Henry is barley home, at least when i'm following him, and that's lead to some mediocre pictures of him either in a bar or on a random Bench. I couldn't just ask around, I'd get found out. I needed to get close to someone. Maybe someone in their circle of friends. Or someone closer. I think I know someone. When I reached the school, I began to scope out for my target. Not Henry, someone that's somewhat close to him, Marcia Fadden. It wouldn't be hard to find her, she always had the most vibrant purple flower scrunchie in her hair, especially since she dyed her hair blonde to match her popular superior, Greta Bowie. She was among the popular girls, despite the fact people haven't really described her as the best looking. But since she was the girlfriend of Peter Gordon, nobody really bullied her. Well to her face of course. I've had the pleasure of meeting this girl before. And honestly, she wasn't bad. She was probably the first friendly client who I didn't know. I couldn't care less about meeting her again, I just wanted to learn a little more about Henry Bowers and his friends, which shouldn't be hard. As long as I get close to Marcia. I took a deep breath before walking over to where Marcia was hanging out with Greta's and the rest of Greta's goons. I tried not to seem too awkward, and instead walked right up to Marcia with a fake smile plastered on my face. "Excuse me, uh, sorry for interrupting but do you have a minute?" I asked her awkwardly, hoping she wouldn't notice how uncomfortable I was. "Huh?" She replied confusedly. "Of course I do! Come on over here!" She said brightly, gesturing for me to sit next to her. She then leaned in closer and whispered to Greta. After some giggling she looked back at me and smiled. "What's up? Can I help you?" I hesitated for a moment. Should I be honest? Would it change anything? I don't know how humans work, gods like me are just simply oblivious to some of the things they do. "Um… well…" I put on a pretty good act if I might say so myself. "I'm just-" Greta and Marcia glanced at each other with the same look of confusion and then back to me. "Sure you can join us" Greta replied, smiling. "If that's what you were gonna spit out." Holy shit that was easier than I thought. "But." Nevermind, should've seen the catch coming. "Free pictures for all of us." "Deal." I quickly agreed. It was a good deal, I mean, what will a few lost bucks really do to me? Besides, I have absolutely nothing better to do. I kind of just tailed Greta and her goons all day, taking pictures and pretending to be interested in them for the whole day, even though I was actually only paying attention to Marcia. She seemed to talk a LOT about Gordon to the point even I was sick of it. But I had to at least cater to her, give her the impression I didn't care how much she rambled about her dick of a boyfriend and that it was 'sweet.' Even though it wasn't sweet at all; Gordon wasn't an amazing guy from what i've heard, and he hadn't even done anything to deserve such praise. And yet Marcia still clung onto him like a goddamn leech, constantly telling me I should hang out with them. The more I listened to her talk about Gordon, the more disgusted I became. He could have been a nice guy, he could have been a decent human being, and he definitely didn't deserve her, she seemed way too sweet for a sweaty and disgusting boy like him. "So I'll see you guys like what, around six maybe..?" Marcia said once she finally paused talking and the other girls nodded. God so much time passed and all they did was skip school, I didn't even realise we're in a fucking park. I had gotten so bored I zoned out holy shit. "We'll see you at Sally's house, make sure to pass the invites to your boyfriends friends! Especially Henry Bowers~" Greta flirted and the others giggled beside her before leaving, coincidentally leaving me and the only one I somewhat cared to talk to alone. "What were you guys talking about?" I questioned her and she dug through her purse and pulled out her flip-phone, a motorola, hm, rich parents. "Basically, Sally Mueller is having a party at her place, popular people only, but since I'm feeling nice, I don't think Sally will mind if you're there. Give me your number so I can text you the deets." "Oh," I replied, "no problem." I gave her my phone and let her put in her details. Once she finished, she handed the phone back to me and stood up, brushing the dirt off her skirt. "Guess I'll see you tonight Patrick!" She grinned before waving to me and skipping away. "See you later," I responded, watching as she made her leave. And what i assumed to be a message from her popped onto my phone. It read: P4RTY 4T S4LLYS #####N0 N3RDS ALL0W3DBRING B00ZE XOXO !1!1!!1! Might of had a stroke trying to decode anything she said, I guess this is how everybody in their group types. Illiteracy runs in the friend group. Really upsetting to see my creations have gone to shit. I got up from the bench and started making my way home. I couldn't believe I can’t believe I’m going to be hanging out with the most stuck up and stupidest people to ever exist. I can’t even fathom to believe what they’re gonna be doing at the party. Probably drinking before someone’s dad arrives and all the boys have to sneak out a back window in just their underwear. I’m just assuming from the movies I’ve watched of teen parties. They all seem dumb and always end up in an injury or a pregnancy. Despite how much I despised this though, I did dress half decent. I didn’t want to be kicked out. And I stole some of my dads alcohol, have to make myself likeable. Get closer to the target. I also took his cigarettes. The smell helps to keep sleep at bay. It’s strong and bold and sticks easily to an avid user, something about that makes it such a pleasant smell. When I was ready, I took my steps downstairs and headed for the door. “Where are you heading.” He looked at me, obviously agitated and extremely sober. “Sally Muellers. Study group.” I answered him and he didn’t seem to retaliate so I left. I made sure he wasn’t watching me as I went into the garage and quickly grabbed the car keys from the tool bench and just started his beat up car and driving off before he could come out and beat me to death with a stick. The drive from my parent’s house to Sally’s was surprisingly a short one.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I parked outside of the big house and sat there for a while, just contemplating my decisions. Was this really that important? And yes it is. After getting over the shame that I was actually about to enter a party with the most annoying people ever, I got out of the car and walked towards Sallys door, promptly knocking on it.
Sally immediately opened up and welcomed me inside. “Hey Patrick!” She yelled excitedly, pulling me into a hug. “You know you’re welcome anytime, right? The girls told me about the agreement they had with you.” She laughed after pulling away from the hug.
“Well I hope so Sally. You’re not excluded from that agreement.” I chuckled lightly. Holy fuck she was completely shit faced. She’s never acknowledged my existence before, and all of a sudden, she is? Alcohol changes people.
“Well come in! the parties active upstairs! Small scale because my dumb parents are just at work. My room is this way, come on!” She explained cheerfully as she led me to her room and I saw the rest of their group already here, sitting just all of the place. And Lo and Behold, the Bowers gang.
“Uh, I brought drinks.” I turned Sally with my bag and she squealed, turning to the group.
“Look what Hockstetter brought! More drinks!” She loudly announced and the others cheered loudly and grabbed the cans from my hand.
I awkwardly shuffled around in the middle of the room as everyone else sat around, talking amongst each other. I didn’t really have anybody to talk to so I stuck to the only people who would talk to me, the girls. Yeah once in a while the boys shot me semi confused and nasty looks when the girls seemed to get way too close with me, but I chose to ignore them. Just so handsome that the girls can’t get their hands away (sarcasm, obviously.)
“Patrick you’re so funny!” Greta laughed and held my arm, stroking it for an absurdly long amount of time. “Do you need help getting drunk~? You haven’t touched a single drink all night.”
“Oh, I’m ok. I want to be able to drive back home.” I chuckled awkwardly and she still pushed.
“One drink won’t hurt Pat.” She got even more to than normal, rubbing my thigh and then squeezing it tightly and smiling at me, almost in a possessive manner. It made me more confused than pissed off. Like what? Why?
“Greta let’s play spin the bottle!” I heard one of the boys call from the other side of the room and the seemed more interested in that, leaving me alone to catch my breath.
Thank god for that. After a few second I walked over to the game and sat down beside Marcia, trying to avoid Greta’s prying eyes.
“Who’s gonna spin first!” Peter Gordon exclaimed, holding the bottle in front of him like a knife. Being met with silence, he took upon himself to pick. He scanned the group before stopping on Victor Criss. “Vic, you’ve been quiet tonight so, you first.” He placed the bottle in the middle and Vic replied with an awkward chuckle before spinning the bottle.
I cannot lie, that was an interesting experience. The unnerving feeling that the bottle might land on you. And after some spinning, it landed on Belch Huggins.
“You and Belch, into the closet!”
“Woah we said spin the bottle not seven minutes in heaven?!” Vic turned to face Moose and he rolled his eyes.
“Fuck you! Are you taking a shot or kissing Belch.” Victor pushed a shot glass towards him and Vic thought for a moment before crawling over to Belch and giving him a quick peck on the cheek.
“I need to stay sober if I’m gonna drive.” Victor sat back down and looked around the circle before passing the bottle to Gordon.
And the cycle continued. Vic was probably the only boy who chose the kiss option towards one of the boys, the rest braved the shots. The girls, well they practically made out with each other, probably for the boys entertainment. Was convinced I was watching porn for a minute. I only got really two options and those were the boys. So I happily took a shot.
“I guess I’ll get the last turn!” Greta took the bottle and spun it. Now it was tense. I was praying I wasn’t on the other side of that bottle, she might swallow me hole. And to my surprise (not really surprise), I was on the receiving end of the bottle.
She didn’t even need to be asked ‘kiss or shot’, she knew what she wanted. And everybody here got like pecks, excited the girls to each other, and Gordon and Marcia of course who tongued each other down.
“Patrick~! Come here!” Without any warning, the bitch POUNCED on me. POUNCED. Like a rabid ANIMAL.
“I’d prefer a peck on the cheek.” I awkwardly smiled and she leaned in, whispering into my ear.
“Go along I want Henry Bowers to be jealous.” She whispered and I had nothing better to do than go along with it. She like cupped my face so you couldn’t really see our faces that much. Pro, more insight on Henry if he decides to confront me. Con, Greta's breath is hot and slimy. And she had me pinned onto the ground and was grinding on me. Fucking hurt, hope she got derivation burn.
“Ok get off him before you end up eating him alive Greta." Henry stood there and crossed his arms.
“Oh fuck off Henry you jealous prick. You can have this next time.” Greta smirked and Henry nodded, looking slightly angry. I don't know who at but, he was just angry. I managed to ply her off me after some struggle and just got up, sitting down on the bed.
As the 'party' slowly died down, people began to take their leave. Moose and Gordon were first, then Marcia and Greta, leaving me with the last three drunk idiots, excluding Sally.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"God, I assume you're taking the boys home Patrick?" Sally looked over at me in concern before I could sneak out unnoticed.
“Uh, yeah sure, I will.” I grinned brightly at all her and took the three drunkards out to my car. As much as a hassle this is, the prize will be sweet, Henry's home address. After getting them into the car I obviously asked Henry the question, "where do you live."
"Farm." He mumbled and I looked at him in disbelief. Was this gonna be back and forth.
"He lives at #####, it's not too far from here, it's semi countryside I guess." Vic spoke up from the back and I obviously thanked him for his service. We drove silently for a while, the only sounds coming from the bustling nightlife of derry. So just prostitutes, creepy old man shouting and police trying to get to every crime currently happening.
We finally arrived at the farm and parked the car in the driveway. The only me and Henry got out of the car, walking to the door and I knocked loudly on it, just to announce ourselves to anyone that would be home. It took a good few seconds for anyone to answer. When they did, I was a bit surprised to see a woman there. I thought Henry didn't have a mum? And she looked straight out of a magazine. Her curly hair was a pleasant dirty blonde colour and her face was soft, her skin smooth and glowing, and her smile seemed genuine and welcoming. She was pretty curvy too. I wasn't interested in her, just fascinated.
"Oh Henry you're home!" She opened the front door for us and embraced Henry into a hug. "How are you dear? I haven't seen you in awhile." She smiled kindly to him and he scoffed, rolling his eyes and plopping onto the couch.
The house smelled like wood smoke and old books. I had to admit. The place looked comfortable. And then I saw it. There were photographs everywhere. In frames and on desks. Of Henry when he was younger. At age eleven maybe. He looked like such a nice kid, he looked innocent and happy. He was so young. I had never seen him look like that before. He was always looked like he had a stick up his arse when I talked to him.
"Thank you for bringing Henry home..." She turned to me before pausing to think. "Sorry, what's your name?"
"Patrick Hockstetter."
"Yes... thank you again for bringing him home Patrick. He hasn't really been home for the past week and his dad isn't really happy with that.." she sighed softly, looking tired.
It seemed like those words had an effect on Henry, as his head jolted to star at her with what I can describe as a look of pure terror.
“You’re very welcome Ms Bowers.” I smiled kindly at her and she laughed slightly.
“Call me Mary. Mary Bowers. Just know you're welcome here whenever you want Patrick, you're a nice boy.” She gave me another smile and went upstairs, shutting the door gently behind her.
With that, I went back to the car to drop off the last drunk idiots in my car, Vic and Belch. I don't think Vic was that drunk, I mean he was sober enough to push Belch off him every time he made and advance. Or maybe he's the alert type of drunk. Belch was definitely touchy drunk, he was all over Vic, and Vic was into it, but each time Belch made and advance Vic would whisper 'not here' or 'not now Reggie' pretty loud enough for me to hear. The tension was even killing me.
"I don't care what you do back there, not even my car." I looked back to both of them in the car and started up the car. "And I won't tell Henry, not even my business." I smiled at the two and left them to their intimacy, I did not care what they did at all, besides, I had plans to make.
After driving around for a couple of hours and dropping off the boys of course, I decided to finally head home and just rest after the shit that's happened tonight. After entering the house, and making sure the door was properly locked, I headed into my room, where I stripped down quickly and jumped in the shower, letting the warm water relax the stress away.
Afterwards I got changed and dried myself with a towel before getting ready for bed. Once I crawled under the sheets I just contemplated everything going through my mind. Everything had gone so well, it was just bound to go bad at one point somehow. But now, I'll just wait and watch.
The next day I woke up, feeling refreshed and energized. I showered, got dressed, and prepared myself breakfast. After having eaten, I grabbed my bag and headed out to the school. I was planning to spend the day with Greta's group and just watch Henry afar and take the photos from afar, but, seemed like I was blessed today, when Vic Criss came over to me.
"Hey Patrick?" I looked up at Vic's questioning voice, "just wanted to know if you wanted to, like, hang out with the gang. You seem, in the nicest way possible, a bit of a loner." Vic's words caught me by surprise and I paused before answering. Christ I was even closer to Henry now.
"Uh, yeah, that would be sick, thanks." Vic grinned happily before shaking my hand and taking me to their little hang out spot. I found myself being dragged around by Vic and properly introduced to everybody. They greeted me like no tomorrow and it felt...great, just to have my presence acknowledged.
"So Patrick, tell us your secret on how you get all the girls." Moose Sadler sat down next to me and all the other boys jeered and joined in. "I mean, no offence, you look a bit, gay, you know? All feminine." He scanned me up and down and the others nodded in agreement. "Not like that shits wrong, I mean Vic is pretty feminine, we don't really say shit tho. But, how do you get so many girls."
"I mean, they approach me, but just to be friends." I responded.
"I call bullshit! Greta was all over your dick last night! I guess girls like feminine guys these days."
Do I really look that feminine? I didn't think so. I mean my dad used to make fun of the fact I kept my hair past my ears, and the fact I had a slim figure. But I didn't think it looked feminine. Maybe it's more about my looks? I shrugged the comment off and continued to listen in on everyone's conversation. I couldn't help but feel someone staring at me, more specifically, Henry Bowers. Every now and then he'd send a glare my way which annoyed me. Why does he hate me so much? He stayed sitting quietly with his arms crossed, glaring at me like I did something to him. Jesus it's like he had a stick up his arse 24/7.
"Patrick you want to come down to the barrens later today?" Gordon looked over to me and I shrugged in response.
"Sure, why not?" Fuck yes this is like the motherload.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
After lunch break they decided that school just wasn't good enough for them, leading us to head to the barrens early. It's ridiculous the amount of school I've missed trying to complete this simple task.
And you know what they say, 'boys wills be boys', but this was fucking disgusting. Sorry, I'm all for a little banter, a few cheeky giggles, but this takes the fucking piss. They were stood, knee deep in the sewage water, flashing it around, even fucking taking a mouthful to spit at each other. I'm not a germaphobe at all, but there's something repulsive of people farting in water and spitting the same water at each other. And luckily, I wasn't alone on this.
"It's great to have someone who is as repulsed as I am watching this." Vic laughed lightly. He then looked up to the sky and sighed. "Got winter is coming fast, can barely see the sun anymore."
"Yeah, it's cold." I said in a monotone voice.
"I think it's gonna snow soon. Not ready for when they start pissin in snow and throwing it at each other." He rolled his eyes in annoyance and I mirrored his emotion and laughed along with him.
We spent quite some time chatting with each whilst we waited for them to stop throwing piss and shit water at each other. Of course I took this moment to snap some pictures of Henry, especially when he went shirtless. This made the picture count to about 5. So fucking easy, while taking photos of Henry I paused for a minute and stared at the camera. My heart began beating rapidly for some odd reason as I looked at the photos. That was the first time I ever thought he was cute. Not only cute but hot as hell. His body was perfect and strong, his shoulders wide, his chest and abs covered, he also had these tattoos that made it hard not to stare. And those green eyes? I could stare at those eyes forever and never miss them, I swear. I'm not gonna even deny, I was already obsessed. More lust than love.
I snapped back out of my thoughts and shook my head in order to get rid of these stupid thoughts. No, not now, this wasn't right, I shouldn't be thinking about these things when I should be focusing on the present and making a quick buck. After snapping a few more photos and putting them into my pocket after printing, me and Vic continued to sit and wait patiently until they stopped their childish act . It must have been quite a while since then.
"Fuck, guy's it's getting colder!" Vic complained and shouted at the boys lingering around in the water. finally clambering to the rocks just to air dry and shake out the water. When they were, somewhat, finally dry, they began to walk to the main road to the cars. For some reason too, I was still somewhat staring at Henry, I didn't know I was that obvious too.
"What is happening with that?" I heard Vic whisper to me and I looked back at him confused.
"Sorry, what?" He raised an eyebrow at me.
"You're practically drooling right now and you're staring at the man himself. What is going on with you?" He was smiling and pointing to where Henry was walking.
I assumed I was acting normal, but I guess maybe, tone it down? But suddenly I found myself looking at Henry again and a genuine smile creeping onto my face. As we got into Belches car, I could just smell him; the smell of dirt, wet hair, sweat, even the shitty fucking smell of sewage. But it's fine, whatever it means he's still somewhat...attractive? The feeling felt so repulsive, I don't want to see his face any longer. But I didn't know what to do. I mean if Henry noticed me staring at him he probably beat me up and call me a fag. Or worse yet, kill me. Yeah, definitely kill me.
The next thing I knew, I was snapped out of my trance by Belch screaming at me, or rather, yelling at me.
"Earth to Patrick! Are you dead?!" Everyone else was just staring at me as I daydreamed. "Dude I asked you a question, are you alright?" I shook my head, clearing out the images I saw from the corner of my eye.
"Oh, sorry. Just kinda lost in thought." I muttered out, not meeting anyone's gaze and instead looking straight forward, at the front of Belch's car.
"This your stop, right?" He looked up and I nodded, getting out the car quickly, avoiding his intense gaze and waving to Vic before leaving and going into the house.
As soon as I got to my room and followed my regular routine as I stripped of my clothes, jumped into my shower and stood there, thinking about Henry, the way he looks in general, the fact I got a kick out of him splashing around in sewer water, I started fantasising about him. I pictured him naked, standing naked in my bed. I envisioned holding him close, his beautiful face buried in my neck, his lips moving against my skin, kissing, sucking, nipping and touching every inch of my body with his tongue. My mind raced, imagining everything that I could dream of doing with him.
I quickly came up for air from dirty thoughts as I realised what I was doing. It didn't matter though, I don't like Henry, He was just extremely pleasant to look at. This was more a feeling of, lust, I guess. I wanted to feel those soft lips on mine, I wanted him to kiss me. But not in a loving way, of course not, that's disgusting. More in a possessive way, like he'd kill me if I didn't want his touch. That riled me up in ways I've never felt. And I wanted to experience such a sensation again. To feel that rush, to feel the heat rising between my legs, as if a furnace was being turned on and burning them alive. I imagined all of these things, the things that would lead me to climax, the things that would keep me satisfied till I passed out. I closed my eyes and let the images play through my mind one more time. I felt a shiver running down my spine and I smiled, relishing in those thoughts for a short while more. Then reality struck and I slowly opened my eyes, gazing at myself in the mirror across from the shower.
I knew better than this. Why was I thinking about Henry like this was a mystery to me. Why all of a sudden, he's the only one preoccupying my mind. I didn't care that much though, I mean this is my target, maybe i'm just stressed about getting photos to the point I've started imagining him in such situations.
Enough thinking about Henry, let me get out of the shower before I prune.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I ended up leaving my house to go get pictures of Henry, I knew his address, so why don't I get work done now? Anyhow it's around midnight, he should either be too drunk to know im watching, or asleep. Preferably I want him awake, I need more variety of photos, not just him passed out sleeping. It wouldn't hurt to take a quick shot of him sleeping though, but I mean I've already taken a whole bunch of pictures of him asleep, but one more won't hurt, hm?
I once again took my dad's car for a drive towards Henry's humble abode. The streets weren't empty, people were still out, either drinking or sitting outside having a few beers. Surprised I didn't see Henry loitering out here
After a short 15 minute drive, I parked my car a good two minute walk from his house, for safety measures, you know? I made sure to sneak around until I found a tree. Maybe that would give me a good view through one of the windows. Once I climbed the tree up, I sat on one of the branches and waited for Henry to walk into the room I was spying into, praying that this was his room. About ten minutes later, Henry finally came in and I let out a sigh of relief. Good, this is his room.
I couldn't help but admire his beauty, he looked amazing. He was only in his boxers when he walked into the room, his messy dirty blonde hair wet from what I guess was from him getting out of the shower. I tried to control my breathing as I watched him grab something from under his pillow and threw it behind him. I smiled at his adorable behaviour before snapping another photo, but this time I focused on his bare torso, he really was beautiful. He seemed unaware that anyone was watching him, he simply grabbed his bag and placed his hoodie over it and walked towards his wardrobe. I could hear him shuffling through his clothes and I knew he was probably looking for a clean pair of trousers to sleep in. Once he finished changing into just a flimsy white shirt, he put his bag away and decided to sit on top of his bed. d I snapped another picture of him as I admired how his back muscles looked. I think my heart was gonna explode. I couldn't stop staring, I felt so attracted to him I thought I was gonna die of a heart attack at any moment. But luckily he was so oblivious to me, I can't risk anything so I stayed hidden in the trees, trying to not look as creepy as I was actually behaving.
"God, Henry.." I muttered under my breath as my gaze followed him, completely transfixed by the way his muscles moved. God, his body was perfect, I didn't think I'd ever tire of admiring it. I stared at him, feeling hot, bothered, excited all at once. My heart was racing and I could barely breathe anymore.
I had no idea why I was getting all worked up like this, I knew I should leave now that I had the photo's, but instead I stayed and just watched him, mesmerised. I couldn't help myself, I just felt like I was getting hotter by the second looking at him, my hands roaming around my body as I watched his every move, wanting nothing more than for him to touch me, to hold me, to kiss me. And of course not in a romantic way, that's sickening, I want it in a way where I can see how much he hates me, how if I didn't listen to anything he said that he'd kill me or beat me up beyond recognition. I was panting as I tried to catch my breath, my mind was a mess, I wasn't in control of what was going on. So I just sat there, watching him, wanting to see his bare chest, but he kept it covered most of the time. I'm gonna have to do something about this, soon. Because I can't stop thinking about him.
It got to my head after a while so I finally left with my camera and went home, collapsing onto my bed as soon as I reached my room. I spent the rest of the night staring at the roof, thinking about him, how he slept, thinking if he even is sleeping, how he looks, everything about him, I was just so infatuated with him. Maybe tomorrow I could get a better look.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
gonna skip a few guys, been about a month since the gang and Patrick met and shiHENRY POV I woke up to the vibrating of my cell, a groan escaped my mouth as my eyelids cracked open. What time is it? It must be early. When i check though it was almost 4 pm now and I hadn't eaten anything since last night, where I promptly threw up anything I did that hour. Sighing, I decided to get up and get dressed. Slipping my jeans and shirt on, I headed downstairs into the kitchen. I felt a chill run down my spine as I heard my dad's voice behind me, slicing through the air like a fucking razorblade. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, practically suffocating me with a sense of dread. "You were late home last night," he stated, his tone laced with a mixture of accusation and anger. I clenched my jaw, my muscles tensing as I tried to compose myself. Fuck, I thought I had managed to sneak back in without anyone noticing. I had forgotten that I hadn't told him I was going out, hoping to avoid any unnecessary confrontations. But here we were, standing in the kitchen, the tension between us thick. My relationship with my father had always been strained, a delicate balance between silence and explosions. We were like oil and fire, when you mixed them you’d get a critical explosion and a shit load of damage — minus the coolness, we never quite understood each other. His absence and his violent outbursts might've been the reason. You kinda find a way to become desensitised to that shit, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt or piss me off. I remembered when I used to try to bridge the gap between us, to connect with him on some level. But all I received in return were harsh words and harsher blows until I got him a beer, a constant reminder of my worth in his eyes. It was a repeat of abuse and neglect that had started when my mother left, disappearing without a goodbye. But instead of just leading myself to an early grave by trying to stop him or leave, I channelled that rage, that pain, into something else, something just as bad as what he did. The streets of Derry knew my name, feared my presence. I was the enigma, the shadow that lurked in the corners, the phantom that haunted their nightmares, you know what I mean. I took my pain and turned it into power, into control. I preyed on the weak, on the outcasts, on those who dared to cross my path. I became the monster that my dad had created. I turned to face my father, my gaze set towards the floor. I replied in the simplest way possible. I didn't dare meet his eyes, afraid I might say something I shouldn't, or worse, cry. I wondered how long he intended to keep me there, silently awaiting whatever it was that he wanted to say or do to me. "Yes I was late." Silence reigned once again, except this time it lasted longer, a couple of seconds, half a minute, it felt like an eternity that's what it felt like, an eternity. I closed my eyes tightly as I braced myself for whatever was to come, the silence unbearable.I was ready to hear anything, the kick, the slap, or worse yet the punches. I was ready for his insults or his kicks, hell, I deserved that. But at the same time I wasn't. I wasn't expecting to end up sprawling across the kitchen floor, the smell of alcohol wafting in the air as my dad stood above me, a smug grin stretched upon his lips. "I think it'll serve you right." He spat, his dark brown eyes meeting mine with a cold glare. I felt tears burning my eyes once more as tears rolled down my face, shaking slightly. "Come on, act like a fucking man you sissy!" His fist hit me across the face and I bit down onto my lip to suppress the scream that threatened to escape me. As soon as I tasted blood I knew I wouldn't be able to fight him off, my fists began to tremble as I prepared myself. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard that I drew blood, refusing to cry. Even when my side hurt, I refused to make a sound. I was too numb to scream and cry like I used to do, I could feel the pain radiating throughout my entire body. As much as I hated to admit it, my dad was right; I was a sissy. And now I was being punished for it. As hard as I tried not to show any emotion, I couldn't hide the pain as he hit me once more and I curled into a ball, waiting for the blow that I knew was coming next. After several more hits I eventually gave into the urge of crying and sobbed into my arms, my father laughing loudly as he continued to strike me across the face. I was starting to feel numb to the pain, too caught up in it that I didn't even notice my vision going blurry. My dad's footsteps faded as I was left alone, still clutching onto my bleeding cheek. I couldn't bring myself to stand back up, I was terrified that he'd come back to finish what he started, my body frozen in place as I slowly crawled across the floor, desperate for comfort and safety. My hands shook as I wrapped them around the edge of the table, slowly pulling myself up into a sitting position, my knees touching my chin as I held onto the table for dear life. Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to take a breath in between the loud cries that echoed around the house. After a while I finally stopped crying, my eyes stinging and cheeks raw from the tears that fell from my eyes. He soon came back after I was done. "Get me a beer while you're at it you fag." I remained silent as I stood, making my way to the fridge and grabbing a beer and putting it into his hands. I turned around before making my way up to my room and looking at the damage in the mirror. I was due to meet up with the gang at the junkyard in a bit, their leader covered in bruises would not be a good look, so I applied cream to them. It was my mums, I'd always see her apply some after dad had an outburst at her. I just assumed it helped them heal quick. And with my newly healed scars, I made my way down to the dump soon after I heard that Patrick had left for the junk too. He was shockingly always in walking distance and picked me up when we had gang outings, since he had a car. That creep always made me feel somewhat uneasy. It's weird because I always feel like I'm being watched, and I get the same feeling when Patrick is around me. He's lucky he's even apart of the gang, he's a bit of a weirdo and normally I'm beating them up, not befriending them. Especially with his fridge antics. He told me about his fridge, the guy keeps dead birds in it, and I'm assuming other animals too. But like I don't know, I've always felt like, weird around him in another way too. Like I felt like I just wanted to get closer. As friends of course, I don't do that homo shit, I don't want to risk getting my throat ripped out by my dad. When I got to the junkyard I found it empty. Well empty except for Patrick, who was sat with his legs crossed on top of a broken down car, staring into space in front of him, his head rested on his hand. I cleared my throat and Patrick's attention turned toward me. I quickly made my way over to him and plopped myself down beside him on the ground. "Morning Hockstetter." I greeted. He looked away from me, seemingly uninterested. "Yeah. Hey Henry." he muttered, turning to stare up at the sky as he leaned back and closed his eyes. "Ok weirdo." I muttered and looked around. "Where is everybody else." "You seem stressed." "Yeah cause I'm in the middle of this dump with a homo!" "Well, let me show you something." Patrick looked over to me and I cocked a brow. "What?" "Just something." He inched closer to me and I just shrugged. Wasn't expecting him to take my pants down, not in a million years would I have seen that coming. I was more stunned then mad, and in the end I just let him do what he wants. A little bit of pleasure never hurt anybody. All he did was reach into my underwear and stroke me, gently at first, his fingers grazing against my tip. He smiled and licked his lips, moving his head slightly closer as he stared at me, his pupils blown wide and his creepy ass smirk plastered across his face as I groaned and leaned back, "Fucking hell Hockstetter..." I moaned, the sensation almost driving me insane. My whole body shuddered, I felt dizzy and lightheaded, aching everywhere and yet unable to move a single muscle. I couldn't remember why I even bothered coming here. All I really cared about currently was what Patrick was doing currently. I was practically hypnotised by his hand. "Want me to put it in my mouth?" Patrick asked, breaking me out of whatever trance I was in. His big, livery lips smiled complacently at me. "Huh..?" I came back from whatever dream I was in and kinda clocked that this was Patrick jacking me off. A guy. "I'll put it in my mouth if you want, I don't mind--" Before he could get anything more out I punched him straight in the nose and had him sprawling on the ground. I could hear as his head knocked against the gravel. What made it creepy was the fact he still kept a grin on his face, somewhat amused at my reaction. "I don't go for that queer stuff." I glared at him and he just laughed. "You liked it." "I didn't like it! I shouted at him. "And if you tell anyone I did, I'll kill you, you fucking little pansy!" "You got a boner." He said through a smile and I shuddered. He wasn't afraid of me. That wasn't no surprise though, since Patrick was crazy, and crazy people don't fear anything. But that just ticked me off. Fuck you mean he wasn't afraid of me? "I saw it, your boner." "If you tell anybody, I'll say you're a cocksucker. Then I'll kill you." "You don't scare me Henry." Patrick sat up and laughed. "But I might not tell if you give me a dollar." I shifted to face him fully again and scoffed. "If you tell," I cleared my throat, "I'll tell what who was behind that shit with the cats a year back. The dogs too. I'll tell them about the fridge as well. You know what'll happen, Hockstetter? They'll come and take you away and put you into the fucking-Aloonybin." I smiled and that seemed to knock the smirk off his face. "You hear me?" "I hear you Henry." He sounded sullen now. Sullen and a bit scared. But like the psycho he is, he burst out laughing soon after. "You liked it! You got a boner! Biggest boner I ever saw!" "Yeah I bet you seen a lot of them, you fuckin' homo faggot." I spat at him. "You just remember what I said about the refrigerator." I punched him again, kicking some of the dirt at him and walked off, hearing his sadistic laughs from across the junkyard. What is wrong with that guy?! He never been right in the head but fucking jerking me off? I knew he was a fag, but not a fag with feelings for me? I mean this just confused me, why? Is this the whole reason he hangs with the gang? Or maybe he's boning someone else. Definitely Vic, they seem to talk a lot and I've suspected Vic of being a fag for a while. Or maybe this is one big mistake and he's high on those crazy people's drugs he takes. I'll just try to forget about this shit and sleep. Easy, right? It wasn't that easy at all. I was tossing and turning all night, waking up every few seconds to think about...Patrick. I blame him for this, he's built like a chick, slap a wig on him and I'll probably think he was. He already has long hair anyways! And it's like, thinking about Patrick wasn't what was bothering me, it was how I was. I felt hot and bothered in a way, just playing back what happened in the junkyard. I...I liked it. I mean I get handjobs from Greta Bowie half the time and they're not really that great, and in a way Patricks was way more enjoyable. But not in a gay way, he looks like a chick. And I don't fancy Hockstetter like that. I just...want him to give me a handjob. Or even more. I don't know. I'm just horny and in a weird way all I wanted was Hockstetter. I was just pissed at myself for thinking about a guy like this, so I went to take a shower. I just stood under the water for a while, just washing away everything and feeling guilty for my thoughts earlier. I guess I should've known better. Patrick was a gay weirdo, and I let him touch me. And it felt good. And he looked good. Especially when he was sprawled onto the ground, looking up at me with a glint of fear in his eyes, scared of what I'd do if he told anybody what we did. It was hot, and I found myself replaying that in my mind as I stood there, feeling bothered and wanting more from him. Isn't better I felt my hands trail down my body and rubbed the part of my chest that he touched, even trailing down further and touching myself a little further. This felt really good. But again, why do I feel this way? Why do I want it to be him doing this to me? What was I thinking? Why am I suddenly attracted to this boy who I barely know?! I mean I've never felt like this with Greta and her multiple attempts to get with me, or any other girl. Just him. I don't know why I'm acting like this. I must be losing it and turning into a nutter just like Patrick. But again felt really good in that moment as I jerked myself off and it was nice. But fuck, he's a freak. If I tell somebody what just happened, I'll be in major trouble with my dad. But it's not like I'm ever telling anybody I enjoyed it or anything stupid like that, I wouldn't do that. Not even to Patrick. But I wouldn't mind if it did happen again. It's like, I wanted him. But not in a gay or romantic way, no. I wanted to purely just fuck with him. Mess with his mind, make him think nobody but me cares about him, beat him up until he's on the brink of death and fuck him at the same time, let him know who has power over him. I wanted him just to break him mentally for the stunt he played. I wanted him just to make sure only I can use him and make him think it's ok. And that won't be hard, considering he has a gay crush on me. It's going to be fun seeing him tomorrow.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The next day I started the same old routine. Get dressed, walk to school, have lunch with Greta, pretend to be interested in the dumb shit she’s into, skip school with the gang and then go home to deal with my dad. Well it changed today. Purley a change to get closer to Patrick. On one of our many expeditions that consisted of terrorising the kids of Derry, I insisted Patrick followed me around as we hunted the losers. I just waited until I knew we were alone before sitting on a rock in front of him. “Cockstetter. What’s your deal here. Why did you join the gang?” I asked and he shrugged. “I mean you guys kinda invited me to join after the party since I was friends with Marcia.” “Right, that happened.” I muttered and cleared my throat. “So, how’d you like the gang?” “Henry, is this about yesterday?” He stared at me and I shook my head. “Fuck no, it would be gay to even think about it!” I spat at him and he grinned. “You liked it.” “No I fucking didnt!” “Your boner said otherwise.” He gave me a creepy grin while chuckling at my denial. It was aggravating and his face pissed me off. I can’t recount much that happened, it felt like a blur, but all I know is I immediately threw a punch at his face, causing him to laugh hysterically while holding his bloody nose in pain. I quickly grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind him and pushed him against the ground of the woods, getting up to put my foot down on his back. I was panting, breathing heavily, and shaking with anger. I was ready to fight the next person that passed by. But instead I focused on Patrick, looking up at me, smirking at me. His lips were swollen, he had scratches on his cheek and blood on his mouth that had trailed down with his nose. His clothes were dirty too and he was covered in dirt and dust from the ground. And I fear that I liked it. I felt weird at his gaze, but a good kind of weird. I kinda wanted to, you know, finish what was started yesterday. But I held myself back because I was angry with him. I kicked him in the ribs and he wheezed, still smiling. “Fucking freak, I swear if you bring that up again I will end you.” My voice cracked a bit and Patrick didn’t react. “That’s it?” “‘That’s it?’ are you into this shit you faggot?” “You probably are. You got another boner.” He grinned and I looked down at myself, embarrassed, then glared down at him. “Get out of here.” I growled at him, kicking him aside and walking on. “Hold on Henry.” He stumbled up from the ground and pulled me back to him. "You liked it Henry. Stop lying to yourself." He whispered and leaned his lips close to mine. “Ok, so what if I enjoyed it? im not fucking gay, you look like a chick and have fucked enough dude to know how to give good handjobs!” I spat at him and he grinned. “Want another one?” He asked with his cocky smirk. I wanted to punch his stupid face again and leave, but something held me back. I can’t describe it but whatever it was, was strong as fuck. “It brings me no enjoyment.” “You just confessed to liking it.” “Shut up, that was a moment of weakness.” “Do you want to beat me up again?” He stared at me and I paused. Fuck he’s either a messed up freak or just kinky. “God you’re a freak.” “A freak you get off from.” He grinned. “Beat me up. I don’t care, it’s not like it affects me. If it helps you get off.” He winked and I took a step back. I hesitated for a moment, but ultimately relented, grabbing the sides of his shirt roughly and shoved him up against a tree and punched him across the face. As soon as I did this he staggered a little but recovered almost instantly. I grabbed him by the collar and pushed him back down to the ground, wrapping both my hands tightly around his neck. Despite the fact he couldn’t even fucking breathe, I could see the smirk on his lips that made my heart race. I just let go after that and got off him. “You’re crazy.” I spat at him and turned to walk to my house. I walked faster now, trying to shake off those images that kept coming into my head. That image of Patrick lying on the floor, smiling up at me like that, bloodied up, and it’s fucking disgusting and disturbing at the same time. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. It was just so different from the usual stuff I was into, and made me want more of it.I sat on a bench in front of my house and stared at the ground. I just sat there, staring at nothing in particular, again, thinking of Patrick. Thinking about beating him up again and how much I wanted to see him in such a vulnerable state. I thought about the feeling of my hands gripping his hair and how bad I probably hurt him, and the fact he still wanted to talk to me after I hit his jaw. God I need him now. PATRICK POV After my altercation with Henry I decided to just drive back home and take a shower to both relieve myself sexually and wash the blood and dirt off me. After getting out of the shower I stood in front of my bedroom mirror and admired the bruises on my face, arms and torso from Henry. It was hot. They were like marking that showed how much he fucking hated me, and that alone got me all hot. I just smiled at the sight of them and quickly dried my face with a towel, slipping into my pyjamas to just lay in my bed and maybe process some more photos. “PATRICK. YOU HAVE A VISITOR.” I was quickly interrupted by my dad yelling from downstairs. I just got out of bed, walking downstairs. When downstairs, I walked into the living room, and that’s when I saw Henry sitting on the couch beside my dad. They seemed to be chatting away before I walked in. My dad’s expression immediately changed to disgust when he saw me and he got up. “Your friend is here to talk to you. Be a normal person for once and be nice to our guest. Your mother is waiting for me in the car so we can go to church, be good and feed yourself.” He said and left, slamming the door behind him, coming back in for a quick second to glare at me. “And stop taking my fucking car on joy rides. “Yeah sure whatever.” I grunted and my dad stormed out of the house leaving only Henry and me. “I knew you’d come.” I grinned and he rolled his eyes, sitting down on the couch. “Oh shut up and put your mouth to better use.” He snapped, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched me. I didn’t waste a second, approaching him quickly on my knees and unzipping his jeans , pulling them down swiftly, taking his cock out of his boxers. I cupped his hard cock in my hands and rubbed it in my palm gently. He groaned and closed his eyes, letting himself relax. “Stop teasing me. Just take me already like you said you would fag.” “Wouldn’t this make you a fag? I mean you’re letting a ‘cocksucker’ suck you off.” “Don’t be a smart ass.” “I’m not.” “Yes you are, now shut up and suck me off.” He said and opened his eyes to stare right into mine, grabbing my hair with one of his hands and pulling me down to his dick. “Fuck..” He gripped my head tight, thrusting into my mouth and I began licking the tip of him slowly. “Fuck Pat, right there.” He groaned and tightened his grip on my hair. He moved his other arm behind my head and held down onto his cock while my fingers wrapped around it and massaged the base, working it quickly, sucking and licking, making him moan louder as he basically face fucked me. “Fuck!” He grunted and came undone in my mouth. He slid out of my mouth and sat back down on the couch and laid his head on the back of it, closing his eyes and breathing heavily, holding his breath for a few seconds. He breathed out and opened his eyes. "Fuck, why do I keep giving in to you?" He groaned and ran his hands through his hair tiredly. “Maybe because you want me, Henry.” I grinned at him and he looked down at me in disgust. “I’m not gay. As I said, you happen to look like a chick and this was a one time thing.” “I know you don’t want it to be one time. Just say it Henry, you wanna sleep with me.” I looked up at him and his expression shifted slightly, but still mostly disgust and anger. “Shut up you creep.” He punched me in the face and got up. “I'm leaving, you tell nobody about this.” “I can’t promise that Henry. How about we keep this secret but you know, make this a frequent thing.” ”So what, friends with benefits?” ”Exactly that.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He seemed to pause and think for a bit after my proposal, something you don't really see much from Henry, I just assumed it was empty space up. But obviously not, he seemed to be thinking really hard about this.
"Why should I." He looked at me and I shrugged.
"Because you want to."
"So what if I do?! We've established this already, you look feminine." He glared at me. "And anyways, how does this benefit you?"
"Because it gets you off."
"So you just want to do anything I say?" He cocked his brow at me and I nodded. "So like a fucking lapdog? You're fucking weird Pat." He crossed his arms and smirked.
"I've realised that." I grinned up at him.
"Whatever." He pulled up his trousers and snarled at me.
"So, what's your answer Henry?" I smirked.
"No fucking way. I'm not going to sneak around doing gay shit with you, let alone sleeping with you." He rolled his eyes and got up. "I need to go home, come near me tomorrow and you're dead." He left the living room and I got up from the floor.
“Henry?” I called after him and he stopped at the doorway.
"What."
“If you want to see me, you have my number. And my address too. Don’t forget.” I grinned at him and he scoffed, walking away and ignoring me completely as he left my house. After he slammed his door shut I ran back up to my room and went to process the photos I had gotten of Henry that week.
It was like I hit the million dollar jackpot. It all came together. Yes, what happened at the junkyard was me just acting on impulse, but god, I didn't expect him to like it at all. And since he did, I used that to my advantage. He thinks he's the one in control and that he has me gawking over him, but that's not the case. I feel nothing for Henry really. I guess sexually I've felt a lot, and some other moments of weakness, but other than those incidents, I don't feel for him romantically. This gives me a better chance to get closer and more photos.
One problem though, I don't think I want to give these photos away anymore. I mean, I had no use for them other than keeping them hidden in my drawer. But I just felt like nobody but me deserved these photos. No, not because I took them. But maybe because I...treasured them in some weird way? I don't know, these emotions were too new and random for me to think about for too long, let me just go to sleep.
I kinda blanked the whole week after that, but it was fine. Henry made empty threats so it was entertaining to watch him get mad and frustrated anytime I came near him literally any day that week. We obviously weren’t at school for the whole week. I’ve realised no one, except Vic Criss, actually cares about school. Must be frustrating to skip so many lessons you actually want to be in. I’m (for once) on the bowers gang side for this one. Never really cared about school, so then skipping daily to go to god knows where never really affected me. Well it didn't affect me until the school called our parents to inform them of our absence. Of course for the others this was a normal thing, but of course before the gang, I frequently attended lessons. To sleep and stalk. yeah, but at least I was in class.
"Patrick." I looked up from my phone and saw my mom stood at the door. She looked as she normally dead, weak and frail. The only difference being a glint of anger and disappointment in her eyes. "Am I a joke to you?"
"Where's this coming from." I muttered and and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.
"Answer me, am I a fucking joke to you?"
"No." I responded and she scoffed.
"You embarrass me daily and bring constant shame upon this family. You're lucky and shit that your father threatened me to keep you, wasting his money on medication you don't even take -- you're such a problem child! You're pathetic!" She yelled and I just nodded in response. No point engaging in a battle you know you'll never win. "Silent. Like always. You're such a disrespectful little shit."
"Mom-"
"Don't call me that!" She screamed and stormed over to me. She grabbed me by my collar roughly, pulling me up and closer to her, glaring angrily into my eyes and squeezing me tighter. "You'll never be my son. You're such a selfish brat who brings disgrace to my family!"
"Mom you're not well-" Before I could even get anything out, she struck me in the face.
"Don't fucking speak to me like that. You're nothing but a murderer, an addict and a disgusting piece of-"
"-Okay I get it." I cut her off, removing her hand from my collar. "But I'm going to be straight here. I don't care about you, or our reputation. It doesn't matter to me." She shook her head angrily, looking back at me. "Avery is never coming back, live with it you deranged psycho."
"How dare you speak to me that way." She stared at me and and teared up like always. "You're the reason I'm like this!" She yelled and fell to her knees. "You killed Avery and ruined my life! I just want my baby boy back! Please Patrick." Tears streamed down her face, dripping down to her chin.
I walked passed her and grabbed a box of tissues, walking back to put them in her lap. "You need to sleep."
"Go fuck yourself! I don't need you! You're just a worthless waste of air and energy! Get out!" She cried and slapped my leg, throwing the tissues back at me before falling onto her stomach in hysterics. I watched her and just let out a deep sigh, picking her up despite her retaliation and taking her to her room. When she was finally tame and safe in bed, I was ready to leave her alone and idle (until the next time she decided to have a go at me), but she called me back. "Patrick..." She rolled over under her sheets to call for me and I turned back. "Come here baby." She pat the spot beside her and I obliged.
She just laid there, holding me in a tight embrace and stroking my hair, muttering rapid and random sentences.
"You'll always be my little boy Patrick."
Yeah right.
I've been dealing with her mood swings since I was five. It seemed like everything went downhill the day Avery died. She seemed to resent me more and more everyday just for being alive. I sure she wished it was me and not Avery who died that day, that I was the one who suffered instead of him. I really couldn't care less what she thought by now, it was a cycle, every single day since then leading up to now. She was always yelling, screaming, hitting me, all sorts of abuse. But then out of nowhere, a split second later she was coddling me in her arms, stroking my hair and telling me how much she loves me. I never knew who the real her was, it was hard to tell what was genuine and what was fake after so many years. Did she really love me? Or did she just want me dead. It was tiring to think about it. She was my mother so I had no place to really resent her for what she had done to me. She was just coping in her own way. Terrible way, I'll admit, but I kinda just hope one day she'll be better. For now, it's just waiting for her to fall asleep and start the cycle again.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
"You're a fucking psycho Sylvia! You need to get rid of that fucking doll already before you fucking embarrass me again!" I sat and listened my dad scream at my mother from my room while I sat on my bed trying to distract myself from whatever they were saying in the kitchen. They were always at each others throats like this, and I was always too scared to intervene, considering the last time I tried I got a plate to my skull. "It's not just a silly doll Richard!" "Can you just accept that Avery is dead?! That is a fucking toy, not our son. It's bad enough Patricks already sick in the head and on all this expensive medication, don't make this harder by just being crazy!" Dad continued screaming while Mom sobbed. "It's not my fucking fault he's a psycho!" "Kind of is. Your family has always been the crazy one, obvious some fucked up mental issues have gotten to our son!" "That boy is not my son." "Wake the fuck up you crazy whore, that is your son, and if you don't want me to walk out of both your lives right now, act like his fucking mother. Now I'm late for work because of you." I heard the front door slam loudly and slam against the wall outside my window. My heart beat fast and loud in fear. A sudden surge of anxiety went through me and I stood up immediately, running downstairs to see if my mother was okay. She wasn't, she was standing next to the couch, gripping the sides and breathing hard. She stumbled past me and up to her room in silence, not sparing a single look at me. "Mommy?" I walked into her bedroom and watched as she looked up from the baby doll in her hands and made eye contact with me, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Patrick." Her voice cracked and I frowned, kneeling beside her. "Why would you do it? How could you be such a monster?" "What do you mean...?" My throat constricted. "Patrick." She walked over and grabbed my wrists. "You know what you did." She said through gritted teeth, staring down at me in both disgust and anger. "You murdered your brother. You killed Avery!" She broke down again and yelled at me. I shook my head vigorously. "No I didn't!" I yelled back and she shook her head, laughing mirthlessly. "Why didn't you cry? Are you that sick that you were happy when your baby brother died?!" She screamed, tightening her grasp on my wrist and out of impulse I started crying like my mother was. I tried desperately to fight her grasp on me, attempting to block the slaps she directed at my face, but the harder I struggled the harder she squeezed me, making me gasp for breath as she continued to shout and cry at me. Finally she stopped for a moment, breathing heavily while staring at me with angry red eyes, shaking her head. It was like she had become other person in that moment. "Mom?" I said through tears and she stayed silent as she sat me in front of her vanity and began brushing my bangs away from my forehead. Her fingers brushed my skin softly as they pulled my hair aside, exposing the bruise beneath my hairline from one of her other breakdowns. She stayed silent, walking over to her bed and laying down. I was going to leave to give her the much needed space, but she seemed to want me to stay. "I'm a terrible mother." She whispered. "I'm so sorry baby." She looked up at me in the doorway and put her hand out. "Come to mommy Patrick, don't be afraid." I couldn't help it so I just obliged, cautiously making my way over to lay beside her. "Mommy loves you very much Patrick. I'll never dare hurt you ever again." She placed a kiss to my head and fell asleep, coddling me in her arms.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
HENRY POV It was kinda absurd the amount of times I though about Patrick since our last...private meeting. I did NOT want to think of another man, let alone Patrick in any context. Especially if that thinking is about sex. Like I'm sure that I'm not gay. I mean my dad would murder me if I was and also I'd rather die than have sex with another guy. Especially that weirdo Patrick. With his weirdly long, oily black hair, his piercing blue-greyish eyes, his stupid white smile, the way his lips stretch into an annoying smirk, and his slim build that he seems to take pride in showing off. Ok besides the point, even if I did like guys, he's not my type, I can assure you that much. It's just a sexual thing. I only want him for sexual gratification and nothing else...right? God the fact I even cared to ask myself these questions is ridiculous...I must be getting sick of all of this shit. Maybe I should stop talking to him so much. It's starting to affect me on multiple levels. Not only am I constantly thinking of this psycho, I'm dreaming about him twenty four fucking seven. Probably just frustration. I sat on my desk and looked at my computer, hovering my finger over the send button. 'U FREE?' God is that too direct? Not that I fucking care. I just was bored and wanted to hang out with him since Moose was with his girl, Gordon was at some tutoring, Belch was at work and Vic was studying. Patrick is probably the only other person I know that isn't busy currently or doing something important, which is probably why my fingers just typed his name without a second thought. I stared at the message and reread it once more until I was positive I hadn't somehow said anything crazy in the simple two word message. Enough stressing, I quickly hit 'send'. My heartbeat accelerated and my hands were sweating. I closed my eyes for a couple seconds to calm myself down from whatever I was feeling. I shouldn't be this nervous about a message, yet, I'm this giddy from waiting from a message back from Patrick. I was nervous as hell but at the same time excited as hell to finally see him. I waited for his response and suddenly a notification popped up. I blinked, staring at my computer confused. 'yh wat up?' Oh my god he actually answered! My stomach flipped and I grinned like an idiot. Because I was bored and I was happy someone was free, nothing else. 'park?? bring drinks.' The seconds passed as Patrick read my message and replied within seconds. 'see u in 10' He responded. Fuck I'm smiling so hard. No more cheesing though, I need to get ready. I opened my closet door and slipped on a pair of blue jeans and a red tank, checking myself up before exiting the room. I was planning to just walk out without any questioning, and luckily my dad was asleep. Couldn't say the same for my step mother. "Henry! Where you off to so late?" She asked, stepping in front of me, stopping me from leaving the house. "Just a little out for a walk." "A walk? At night?" "Yes, please get off my ass for a second." I told her and moved to walk past her and towards the front door. "Are you going to drink with your friends again?" "No? Even if I fucking was, that isn't your business." I snapped, grabbing my keys. "I want you home before eleven tonight, do I make myself clear?" She told me sternly, crossing her arm across her chest as she faced me. My eyebrows furrowed together as I turned to face my mother. "You’re not my fucking parent!" I spat at her and stormed out of her house without looking behind me. Not getting into that, just on my way to go hang with Patrick. I arrived at the park and saw Patrick sitting on top of a bench, his long thin legs stretched out in front of him, his backpack sat in-between them, his slender fingers holding a fag, his face was slightly turned to look at the sky, the moon shining bright enough to make the stars visible, illuminating the whole sky. His hair was messed up, his eyes were dim, and his thin nose and weird mouth were covered by his frail hands as he lit the fag with a lighter. He wore a hoodie and a pair of jeans. As soon as he noticed me, he smiled widely. I gave him a nasty look back and sat on the bench, taking a can from the pack he had brought with him. We sat in silence for a minute and after I finished drinking, I leaned back, resting my head back on the bench and closing my eyes. I didn't realise how tired I was because I haven't had a nap in quite a few days. Patrick took a gulp from his beer before placing it on top of the ledge between us. I sighed softly, opening my eyes to stare at the stars. "Why'd you ask me to hang out?" Patrick looked at me. "Don't get the wrong idea." I snarled at him. "You're the only one who was free." "Could've just chosen to hang out alone." "Like a loser? Fuck no." "What happened to 'come near me and you're dead', hm?" "I said, 'come near me tomorrow and you're dead', it's the next week, I'm fine now." He chuckled and smirked at me and shook his head slowly, rolling his eyes. "Whatever." Silence fell over us again. I looked over at him, catching his eye briefly before quickly averting my gaze. What the fuck am I even doing here? Why did I come here? Why am I even bothering to talk to him? The question rang endlessly in my mind while I kept my eyes focused on the sky in front of me. I don't even understand what is happening right now. I guess I'm still trying to process everything that's happened. The only thing I really know is that I don't want this day to end. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard rustles above me. Looking up, I saw Patrick with a bong in hand. How he got that out without me noticing? I don't know. Was kinda curious. I've not really smoked before, I'm more of a drinking person. My curiosity started to eat away at me. Was he gonna share? Would he share with me? Would he even offer a hit? I kinda wanted to try. "Stoner?" I asked, turning to him. He nodded as he took another hit, the bong shaking in his hands. When he made eye contact with me, I couldn't deny, he looked kinda good with red eyes. A light scent tickled my nose as the breeze blew gently. It felt amazing here. We sat there for what seemed like ages. I drank and Patrick smoked. We didn't even have to talk, It was relaxing to just sit next to each other, listening to just the crickets in the long grass and the occasional humming from Patrick. It was nice. It was comfortable. For once my heart wasn't hammering in my chest and it felt good. I couldn't even explain it. But I just wanted this moment to last forever. "Want a drag?" He finally offered me a hit and I was hesitant. "I'm not some stoner, I've never even properly smoked." "I can ease it to you if you want." "Ease? I mean yeah ok." What the fuck do I mean 'yeah'? What is easing?! "You have to promise not to get mad at me for this." He said seriously. "Sure." I agreed reluctantly. "Let's go to my car for this." He took my hand and his bag, dragging me over to the backseat of his car. I still had no idea what he was going to do, I was scared, what if he was going to like shove the bong down my throat or something? "You have to promise not to get mad. And make sure to inhale. "Already said sure! How bad is it going to be anyways." I grumbled and watched as he lighted the thing again, inhaling the smoke, his cheeks puffing up as he did so. He didn't really say anything more as he crawled up to me, straddling himself on my waist. How the fuck am I just getting what he's about to do. He leaned closer and let the smoke trickle out of his mouth as I inhaled what I fucking could. Hard to stay focused when Patrick Hockstetter is sat on you like this, and it seems like he wants to kiss you all too. I swallowed hard and bit my bottom lip as I tried to control my breathing. Patrick stopped breathing and slowly pulled away from me. God this silence was insufferable. He looked so good. I raised a hand up, resting it against his cheek, my thumb running lightly over it. He stared down at our hands as my hand rested on his cheek and I lowered my head slowly, leaning forward and pressing my lips against his out of instinct. This felt better than I expected. Maybe this wasn't such a big deal, maybe this was good. Just two guys kissing, no harm done right?Except for the fact we didn't move for a couple of seconds as my brain slowly caught up with my mouth. Our lips parted as I looked up at him, watching his face carefully as he stared down at mine with a strange look in his eyes. "Patrick..." I was ready to push him off and semi apologise, but Patrick's lips pressed back against mine before I could finish. One hand reached up to cup my jaw as he pulled me even closer to him. Our lips moved in sync for what felt ages until he pulled away, breathing hard and his lips slightly bruised from our kiss. It felt better than I expected. Like we fit perfectly together, and his lips were intoxicatingly delicious. I ran my hands through his soft black hair and suddenly I felt something warm being pushed inside my shirt, grazing the soft skin of my stomach. "Pat." I breathed as he trailed kisses down my neck. He looked at me with those grey eyes and smirked. His hands slid underneath the shirt, caressing my skin. His touch was featherlight. I shivered under his hand and he pulled the shirt off, letting my bare torso show to him, his lips grazing across my collarbones, biting gently at my skin, then kissing my chest lightly before he kissed his way up my ribs. I gripped the blanket tightly as I tried to keep my balance. He reached the top of my chest, moving slowly, coming back to my lips after chuckling. It's been a very long time since I've kissed anyone, or even made out with someone, especially a guy, so this was new. I hate to say I loved it. I loved every single second of it. It wasn't rushed, it wasn't hurried, it just felt perfect. Everything we did felt perfect. I pulled away slightly and rested our foreheads together, both of us panting and grinning like fools. Patrick laughed softly and rested his forehead against mine. "What happened to not wanting to do gay shit with me?" He smirked, brushing his lips against mine. "Shut up, one time thing." I snarled and put my shirt back on. "Just admit you want me Henry." Patrick laughed. "Fuck you." I mumbled and looked away angrily. "I'm just drunk." "Totally. You're telling me you don't wanna fuck me? What makes you think I don't wanna fuck you either?" He placed his arms around my neck, pulling me close to him. "Because you already know my intentions." I rolled my eyes and looked back at him. I knew what he was trying to do yet I was easily swayed by him. Fuck. "Can't blame you, I bet I feel amazing on you..." I embarrassingly blushed, looking down at him. "You're disgusting." "But you like that, don't you?" He chuckled and grabbed the hem of my tank top. "Fuck off." I chuckled and slapped his arm, pushing him away. "Stop it...stop fucking teasing me." I whispered. He looked up at me and gave me a small smirk. "Not so mouthy all of a sudden Henry?" He smirked. "Not even gonna punch me? Bit disappointing, was hoping you did." He teased. I rolled my eyes and diverted my eyes away from him. "God are you some kind of freak? Begging for me to beat you up?" "Henry I want you to have me in a way no one else could ever dream of having me. Now stop denying it." He smiled softly and cupped my cheek, caressing my cheekbone and bringing my eyes back up to his once more. "Jesus fuck I hate you." I stared at Patrick and he grinned in response. "I want you too."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
'I want you too.'
Those words repeated themselves in my head. Patrick's words. The words he told me whenever we spent any alone time together and I decided to insult him. Patrick wanted me to take him as far as possible, to his fucking limits. I don't know why he thought I would do that. Hell if I remember I'm pretty sure I told him I'm straight and that I'm only talking to him for my sexual gratification. Why would he even want me in any way. And it's weird, he clearly likes me enough to do whatever I asked of him, no matter how deranged. Maybe a lot further. Fuck. I wonder how far I could take it. I'm not really an asshole if he likes it.
Anyways, as mentioned, we've been hanging out one on one a bit more now and he always asks me out despite how shit i was to him. He doesn't give up that easily. We haven't really had sex yet but acts similar to it. It was constant and he'll even go as far as telling me he loves me during. It makes my heart race just thinking about it, it's so irritating. I guess I really do...tolerate him, I've known him for a few months but I didn't really know what love feels like, I had just assumed it was anger and pain. I mean it had to be to an extent. I know that cause of my dad, he just wants the best. But I guess Patrick somewhat taught me that wasn't true? I mean he made me feel things I never thought I could feel and they were different from anything I had ever felt. They were so foreign to me and I was terrified. He made me feel... happy. Borderline calm. He made me forget the shit I went through at home. He made me feel wanted and seen. My heart hurt and I hated myself for it in a way for that all. It was against everything I knew. But It was like at this point I didn't care. I wanted him. I needed him. He can't ever leave me or I'll fucking kill him. I need him more than he needs me.
"Hen? Henry? You good?" Belch waved a hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my thoughts. I looked up at him and nodded quickly.
"Yeah, sorry. Wasn't listening. I'm just tired." I sighed.
"Oh well, we should be heading back. We still have school tomorrow. And we actually have to go if we don't wanna go to summer camp" Belch sighed and rubbed the back of his neck before standing up. He offered me a hand which I took, allowing him to pull me up along with him.
"What's so bad with camp?" I questioned as I followed him towards his car.
"The snotty kids who actually want to be there." He replied.
"That's the best part! In under a day they'll be doing all the work for me." I winked at him and he rolled his eyes before leaning on the door of his side of the car, lighting his fag. "And you'll be begging me for answers." I added and jumped into his car.
"Fuck off!" He laughed and climbed in behind the wheel.
I started to get bored and sat back in the seat, tapping my fingers against the window, staring down the street we had stopped outside. It was dark now, the moon casting a pale glow onto everything, illuminating the streets and shops around us, making them seem much brighter than they usually seemed when you were parked here in the middle of nowhere. It was late night, possibly around midnight, but I couldn't tell anymore, time felt completely lost to me now. There was no sign of people anymore, no music playing, no sounds of cars, nothing. The only sound being the heavy rain from outside. It was noisy, but not as fucking loud as my thoughts. My thoughts on Patrick. He was the last person I wanted to think of right now. Even when Belch had dropped me at mine and I was in my bed, attempting to sleep for once, just to be bombarded with thoughts of him. He's all I could think of. It was like I was restless without him. Fuck. I'm gonna hate myself for this.
PATRICK POV
Who the fuck is knocking at this time of night. The rain was already jarring. I groaned slightly, stretching and throwing on some underwear before taking off the sheets and walking out of the bedroom. I crawled downstairs, opening the door. "Who is it?" I yawned and squinted at the man standing in front of me. "Oh, Henry?"
"Hey." Henry mumbled with a grin.
"Jesus, how did you get here?" I pulled him into the house and stared him down. Fuck he was soaked and shivering. "Did you walk?"
"Yeah. I just...I just wanted to see you."
"Henry Bowers wants to see me? That's new."
"Don't flatter yourself." He rolled his eyes. "Can I stay over?"
"Of course Henry. But I think I'd suggest a shower before you do anything."
"Yeah, cheers." He said sarcastically and I let out a sigh, walking past him, grabbing him a towel before leading him upstairs. Once we were both inside of my room, I let him take over my shower as I chilled on my bed and waited for him.
When he came out I immediately handed him a pair of shorts. "Put those on." I hummed and gave him some privacy as he got dressed.
"So where am I sleeping?" Henry asked.
"Next to me." I collapsed onto my bed and he paused, staring at my bed and back at me.
"Funny." He chuckled but I kept a serious expression. "You're not joking are you."
"Why would I be?"
"That's the gayest thing ever no fucking way!"
"And me sucking you off isn't?" I asked and he didn't say anything, laying next to me.
We laid in silence for a while, just letting the darkness consume our bodies. It was peaceful. So comfortable. I turned my head towards him to stare at his face, observing every one of his features; his eyes, his nose, his lips, his jawline. Just how he looked so handsome. His eyebrows creased and furrowed every once in a while and his mouth twitched with each exhale. His hair was ruffled slightly by the water falling from his head and onto the pillow. He was so close, it would just take a slight movement of my hands and I would be able to reach out and touch him and hold him and kiss him and just please him. But then again I knew he wouldn't allow that. I sighed lightly and closed my eyes, trying to drift off to sleep. But I was interrupted by Henry's voice.
"Pat." He rolled over to face me on his side and I hummed. "How...how did you know you liked me." He muttered quietly.
"It was when we went to the barrens," I responded. "I was taking photos and snapped one of you. It was like the world stopped around me for a second and I was sweating like crazy. I mean it was a mix of lust and love. I just knew I wanted you to have me at that point."
"Fair." He hummed. "I think I want you Patrick."
"Bit late to fuck right now Hen."
"No, not like that you fucker." He lightly kicked me with his foot and took a deep breath. "Romantically. I think I want you, romantically. Like boyfriend and...boyfriend."
I finally opened my eyes and stared at him in confusion, not expecting him to say that to me. He rarely says anything that sentimental, so of course it was a shock when he said he wanted me. "Are you sure?" I asked slowly as though I was afraid he was just messing with me.
"Yes. For whatever reason, you make me feel something Pat. I've just known I needed you since I first laid eyes on you." He smiled gently at me before caressing my cheek softly. I leaned into the touch feeling my stomach do flips in response to his touch, I wanted him so badly. He kissed my forehead before pulling away and looking at me seriously. "Patrick, I like you and I want you to tell me when you're ready." He spoke quietly.
"I think I'm already ready." I smiled at him.
"Knew you wouldn't be able to resist me."
"Get off of your high horse, before I retract that statement."
"Goodnight. I love you Patrick."
"Love you too Hen." I kissed his cheek before turning back over and closing my eyes.
Fuck, I was his.
HENRY POV
Jackpot. Who knew I was this good at acting?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Wow, Henry, gay? You don’t hear that every day.” Vic’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but his wide-eyed expression showed his genuine surprise. He and Belch stared at me and Patrick as if we were some twisted sideshow attraction.
I nodded, keeping my face stone-cold, as Patrick stood next to me, his smug grin barely contained.
“What, you got a problem?” I spat at Vic, daring him to say something smart. My nerves were already fried, and the last thing I needed was one of Vic’s usual jokes at my expense.
Vic raised his hands, shaking his head. “No problem here. I’d be a big hypocrite if I had a problem.” His eyes flicked over to Belch, then back to me, disbelief still clear in his voice. “Just surprised. You? Self-proclaimed ‘fag hunter,’ Henry?”
“Yeah, well, I’m a new person,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
Vic snorted. “Henry, that was a week ago. When the hell did you two even start... dating?” He almost choked on the word.
“A week ago,” I said, my jaw tightening as Patrick leaned in, almost like he was proud of it.
“Jesus Christ.” Vic pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly struggling to process this new reality. “I need a fag. Reggie snagged the last one.” He pushed himself to his feet, looking like he needed a breather from the sheer weirdness of the situation.
I glanced over at Vic and sighed, feeling the weight of the charade pressing down on me. “Don’t fret,” I said. Then, turning to Patrick, I gave him a tight smile. “Pat, could you snag some fags for us?”
Patrick blinked, a bit thrown by the sudden request, but quickly nodded. “Uh, yeah. How many packs?”
“Three. Make it one for you guys, though. I’m sticking with my beer.” I gave him a quick peck on the lips, just for show, and the instant his back was turned, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and spit on the ground. “Ugh. Fuck, that was gross.”
Belch burst out laughing, shaking his head. “What happened to ‘homo Henry’ like ten seconds ago?”
“Fuck those fags,” I snarled, digging into my back pocket and tossing a pack of cigarettes to Vic. “I only made him leave so I can explain some shit to you guys.”
Vic and Belch exchanged puzzled looks, clearly waiting for the punchline. “Please do,” Vic said, lighting his cigarette. “I’m very confused.”
I sighed, leaning back against the wall, cracking open a beer as I stared at the ground. “You didn’t think I actually liked him, did you?”
“Well, no,” Belch said, scratching his head. “You’re the last person I expected to be even a little queer.”
“Yeah, and I never will be,” I muttered, taking a long swig of my beer. “Patrick’s, like, obsessed with me. Don’t fucking tell anyone, but we’ve had some drunk ‘sessions,’ alright? He always talks about how much he wants me, how he’d do anything for me. So, I wanted to test that out. You know? See how far I could push him. So, I asked him out. It’s been a week, and I’m still being all lovey-dovey, only asking for small shit. But starting tomorrow, I’m pushing my limits.”
Vic stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head. “Wow, you’re an asshole.”
I shrugged, taking another sip. “Yeah, well. I’ve realised.”
The air between us grew heavy, the weight of what I was saying settling in. Belch and Vic didn’t say anything at first, but their expressions told me they weren’t sure what to make of it. They’d known me long enough to know when something was off, but they also knew better than to question me when I was in one of these moods — wired, jittery, and fuming with pent-up aggression.
Vic broke the silence first. “What’s the plan, then?” He flicked the ash from his cigarette, his voice cautious. “You and Patrick. How far are you really gonna take this?”
I stared at the ground, the question gnawing at me. I didn’t have a plan. Hell, I didn’t even know how this whole thing had spiralled out of control so fast. It started as a joke, a sick game to see how far I could push Patrick. But with every kiss, every touch, something was changing inside me.
I didn’t like it.
“Does it matter?” I finally said, flicking my cigarette to the ground and grinding it under my boot. “He’s easy to control. Let him think we’re a couple for a while. He’ll do anything I ask.”
Vic raised an eyebrow, scepticism in his eyes. “Just don’t let him get too attached. Guys like him… they’re unpredictable. You don’t want this blowing up in your face.”
“Don’t worry about me, Vic,” I muttered, a surge of irritation flaring up. “I’ve got it handled. If he starts acting up, I’ll remind him who’s in charge.”
Belch snorted, shaking his head. “Sure, but what happens when you start losing control?”
I turned to him, my eyes narrowing. “What the hell does that mean?”
Belch shrugged, unfazed by my growing anger. “You’re acting like you’ve got all the power, Henry, but from where I’m standing, it looks like Patrick’s the one getting under your skin. Especially from the weeks before you were ‘dating.’ You were always going on about him.”
My jaw clenched, a flash of irritation sparking through me. Belch wasn’t wrong, and that pissed me off even more. Patrick had been on my mind constantly, even before I roped him into this twisted game. He’d gotten under my skin, and I hated it. Hated him for it.
“He’s just a distraction,” I snapped, more to convince myself than anyone else. “That’s all.”
Vic and Belch exchanged glances but didn’t push it further. They could sense the tension building, the way I was teetering on the edge of something I couldn’t quite control. I wasn’t sure if I believed my own words anymore, and from the looks on their faces, they didn’t either.
As the minutes ticked by, the weight of the situation began to suffocate me. The longer Patrick was gone, the more my thoughts churned, spiralling into a mess of conflicting emotions. What had started as a way to mess with his head was slowly turning into something darker, something I couldn’t escape from. And the worst part? I didn’t know if I wanted to.
Finally, Patrick returned, three packs of cigarettes in hand, his ever-present smug grin stretching across his face. He handed me the leftover cash from the purchase, his eyes lingering on me like he could see right through the mask I’d been wearing.
“You okay?” Patrick asked, his voice softer than usual, concern flickering in those blue-grey eyes of his.
For a moment, I almost broke. The tension that had been gnawing at me for days nearly boiled over, threatening to explode. I could feel the pull — that sick urge to lash out, to remind him I was in charge, to hurt him just to see how much he’d take.
But I couldn’t do it. Not yet.
“Fine,” I muttered, grabbing another beer and turning away, desperate to put distance between us.
As I walked away, leaving Patrick, Vic, and Belch in the dimly lit lot, I could feel my grip slipping. The control I’d prided myself on was fading, and with every passing day, Patrick was crawling deeper under my skin.
And the scariest part?
I didn’t know if I wanted him to leave.
Patrick was like a drug—one I didn’t know how to quit. The more time I spent with him, the more my mind twisted into something darker, something I couldn’t explain. What had started as a game was becoming something far more sinister. I told myself it was all about control, that I was just pushing him to see how far he'd go, but deep down, I knew that wasn't the whole truth. Something was changing, and I wasn’t sure I liked what I was becoming.
When Patrick leaned in to kiss me again, that smug, eager look plastered on his face, I barely kept from flinching. His lips brushed against mine, soft but possessive, and my stomach twisted in disgust. Not at him—well, maybe a little—but mostly at myself. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want him. Yet, here I was, letting him hang on every fake affection, watching him feed off the scraps I threw him like a starved dog.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning my face, waiting for approval. I didn’t give him any. I just wiped my mouth and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke in his direction like it was the only thing keeping me from tearing the whole situation apart.
“You don’t need to do that, y’know,” Patrick said after a pause, a nervous smile creeping onto his face as he watched me. “You don’t have to act tough all the time.”
I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that cut through the tension. “Who said I was acting?” My voice was colder than I meant it to be, but I couldn’t stop it. “You think this is a game, don’t you? Like some fucking rom-com where we ride off into the sunset?” I spat on the ground again, the taste of the situation souring on my tongue. “You don’t know shit, Patrick.”
His face fell slightly, but he quickly recovered, that doe-eyed look of devotion returning. “I know you, Henry. Better than you think.” He said it with such conviction, it was almost pathetic.
I took another drag from my cigarette, rolling my eyes. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.” The words came out harsher than intended, but I didn’t care. He needed to understand this wasn’t about him. This was about control, about proving that I could make anyone do anything if I wanted to. And Patrick? He was just the easiest target.
But Patrick didn’t flinch, didn’t back away like I expected him to. Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing against mine in this soft, tentative way, like he thought I might break if he touched me too hard.
It pissed me off.
I yanked my hand away, my teeth clenched so hard I thought they might crack. “Don’t touch me unless I say so,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous. I saw no flicker of emotion in his eyes, but he just nodded, swallowing hard like he always did when I pushed him too far.
And yet, he never left. No matter how hard I pushed, how cruel I was, Patrick kept coming back. Like a moth to a flame. He craved the attention, the twisted affection I offered, and it only made me hate him more for it. But at the same time, it fed this sick part of me that enjoyed watching him squirm, watching him hurt. It was power. Pure, unadulterated power.
I could feel Vic and Belch’s eyes on me as I stood there, tension crackling in the air. They weren’t stupid—they could see what was happening, but they didn’t say anything. Not out loud, anyway. Vic had always been the mouthy one, but even he seemed hesitant to poke the bear this time.
Finally, Belch broke the silence, his voice low. “You sure you got this under control, man?”
I shot him a glare, one that told him to shut the hell up. “I’m fine,” I snapped, though I wasn’t convinced by the words anymore.
Patrick glanced between us, a hint of confusion in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. He never did when it came to the cracks forming in the façade I kept around everyone but him. It was like he didn’t care how much I pushed him away, as long as I kept him close enough to feel wanted.
And I hated him for it. I didn’t want his pity, or his admiration, or any other bullshit he tried to sell to me.
The others continued to talk amongst themselves, unaware of my thoughts. Patrick watched me carefully, his expression growing serious the longer I stared into space. I was beginning to realise he knew exactly who I was, the things I was capable of, and he wasn’t afraid of me. That infuriated me to no end, because I wasn’t afraid of him. Of course I wasn’t afraid of him…he was nothing compared to the people I’d fought alongside. I couldn’t let fear dictate my actions, and while I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that craved his respect…it was an illusion that wouldn’t last forever.
With a scoff, I turned towards Vic and Belch and watched them leave the bar before turning back to Patrick. His gaze remained fixed on me
Later that night, after the others had left and it was just me and Patrick walking down some backstreet, the moon casting long shadows over the cracked pavement, he tried to grab my hand. I let him, but my fingers barely twitched in response. It was like my whole body was rebelling against the idea of this.
He looked over at me, his expression softer now, like he was trying to figure out what was going on in my head. “I know this isn’t easy for you.” He said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t care what you do, just, I don’t know, I don’t wanna hide.”
I stopped walking, yanking my hand out of his grip. My heart was racing, not because of what he said, but because of the raw vulnerability in his voice. He actually thought this was something more than it was. He really thought there could be a future here, like we were just some regular couple working through the usual bullshit.
“Patrick,” I said slowly, turning to face him, my voice dripping with venom. “You’re simply just... convenient. You’re here because I let you be here. Nothing more.”
Patrick blinked, a flicker of confusion and hurt crossing his usually blank face, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out for mine again. “You don’t mean that,” he whispered. “I know you’re scared. You don’t have to push me away—”
I grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against the nearest wall before I even knew what I was doing. “Don’t fucking tell me what I feel!” I snarled, my face inches from his. “You don’t know anything about me. You’re nothing to me, Patrick. Do you get that? Nothing.”
He didn’t fight back. He didn’t even flinch. He just stared at me with those wide, lifeless eyes as he nodded. “Okay,” he whispered, barely audible. “Okay, Henry.”
I held him there for a moment longer, my chest heaving with anger, my hands trembling. But instead of letting the rage take over completely, I shoved him away, turning on my heel and storming off, leaving him behind in the alley. I could hear him scrambling to catch up, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. If I stayed any longer, I wasn’t sure what I’d do.
Patrick’s footsteps eventually fell into step behind mine, always following, always close enough to remind me that he was still there, still waiting for whatever scraps I threw his way. And despite everything, despite the disgust and the anger boiling inside me, I couldn’t shake him. I couldn’t walk away.
Because in some sick, twisted way, I needed him too.
Needed the power. The control.
Even if it was tearing me apart.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Patrick's POV
I watched Henry walk ahead of me, his shoulders tense and fists clenched. I knew I should have left. The logical part of my brain surprisingly yelled at me to run, to put as much distance between us as possible before he finally messed me up completely. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not when I’d invested so much of myself into him. I knew what he was doing—using me, manipulating me for his own gain. But it didn’t matter. He was mine, in whatever capacity I could have him, and that was enough.
I’d never been good at controlling my emotions, and with Henry, everything felt heightened—every look, every touch, every cruel word. It all burned into my skin, seeping into the cracks of my already fractured psyche. But as long as I had him, even just a small part of him, I could keep going. I could survive.
I caught up to him, our footsteps loud in the empty street. He didn’t look at me, didn’t even acknowledge my presence, but I stayed close. I always stayed close. He needed me, even if he didn’t want to admit it. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way he tensed whenever we were apart for too long. He was just as trapped as I was, in his own way.
"Henry," I called, my voice barely audible over the sound of our footsteps.
He didn’t respond, just kept walking, his back rigid with anger. I could feel the tension between us, thick and suffocating, but I didn’t care. I needed him to hear me, to understand that no matter how hard he tried to push me away, I wasn’t going anywhere.
"Henry," I tried again, my voice cracking slightly. I’ve never felt emotions like this, it was new and shocking to me. My voice cracking? Over some creation?
Finally, he stopped. His back still turned to me, he let out a long, shaky breath. "What, Patrick?" His voice was cold, detached, but I could hear the underlying strain. He was close to breaking, and part of me wanted to see it happen. To see him fall apart the way I had so many times because of him.
"Can’t you just..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "Can’t you just try? You know, act like we’re actually together."
He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that cut me. "Try what, Patrick? What the fuck do you think this is? Some kind of fairytale?" He turned around to face me, his eyes cold and unfeeling. "I told you already—you’re nothing to me. Just something I can use when it’s convenient."
The words stung, like they always did, but I didn’t let them break me. Not this time. I’d heard them too many times before to let them have the same impact. Instead, I stepped closer, ignoring the way his eyes flashed with warning.
"I don’t believe you," I said quietly, my voice steady despite the opposed feelings inside me. "You can say whatever you want, Henry, but I know you. I know how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I know you feel something, even if you’re too scared to admit it."
He scoffed, shaking his head. "You’re delusional, Pat. Just because I look at you doesn’t mean I give a shit. How many times must I say this, you’re convenient, that’s all."
"Then why haven’t you left?" I challenged, my heart racing as I stepped even closer. "Why haven’t you walked away, Henry? If I mean nothing to you, then why are you still here?"
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His eyes flickered, just for a second, with something I couldn’t quite place. Anger? Fear? Maybe both. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced with that familiar cold detachment.
"I told you," He muttered, his voice tight. "You’re easy to mess with."
I swallowed the lump in my throat, my chest aching with the weight of his words. But I didn’t back down. Not this time. "I don’t care if you’re using me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t care what you do, Henry. I just want you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted since I met you.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I could feel the tension between us, thick and suffocating, but I didn’t care. I was laying myself bare for him, giving him everything I had, and if he didn’t want it... well, I didn’t know what I’d do.
Finally, he looked away, his jaw clenched tight. "You’re pathetic," he muttered, but there was no bite to his words. They felt hollow, empty, like he was trying to convince himself more than me.
I took a deep breath, stepping back slightly to give him space. "Maybe I am," I admitted, my voice soft. "But that doesn’t change the fact that I love you, Henry. And I’m not going anywhere."
For a moment, I thought he might actually say something. His eyes flickered with something—pain, maybe?—but before I could figure it out, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving me standing there alone.
But I didn’t follow him this time.
I let him go, because no matter how much I loved him, I couldn’t keep chasing him forever. And maybe, just maybe, he needed to realise that for himself.
Henry’s POV
Fuck.
I walked away from Patrick, my mind spinning. His words—those stupid, clingy, desperate words—hammered in my head, bouncing around like an annoying fucking buzz I couldn’t shake. He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand how this was supposed to work. He was supposed to be obsessed with me, yes, but he wasn’t supposed to love me. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Love? What the hell did that even mean?
I wasn’t sure. I’d never cared enough to find out. But Patrick... he said it like it meant something. Like it was real. And it pissed me off, because part of me wanted to believe him. Part of me wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, someone could actually feel that way about me. But that was impossible. No one could love me. Not really.
I kept walking, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, trying to shake off the feeling of Patrick’s eyes on me. The way he looked at me, like I was something worth saving, something worth loving—it made me sick.
But what if he was right? What if he wasn’t just convenient? What if I needed him?
No. That was ridiculous. I didn’t need anyone. I was Henry fucking Bowers. I didn’t rely on anyone, least of all some lovesick, delusional freak like Patrick.
And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the way his eyes softened when he looked at me, about the way he never flinched when I pushed him too far. About the way he kept coming back, no matter how hard I tried to drive him away.
It was infuriating. It was confusing. It was... something I didn’t know how to handle.
I stopped walking, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. My hands were shaking again, the way they always did when I was losing control. I needed to calm down, to get a grip before I did something I’d regret. But the more I thought about Patrick, the more I felt that familiar, sickening anger bubbling up inside me.
Why couldn’t he just leave? Why couldn’t he make this easier for both of us?
Before I knew what I was doing, I turned around and started walking back toward where I’d left him. My heart was racing, my thoughts spinning out of control. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I found him, but I knew I couldn’t just leave it like this. I couldn’t let him think he’d won.
When I found him, he was still standing in the same spot, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he stared at the ground. He didn’t even look up when I approached, like he knew I’d come back.
"Patrick," I growled, my voice low and dangerous.
He looked up, his eyes wide and hopeful, but he didn’t say anything. He just waited, like he always did, for me to make the first move.
I grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close until our faces were inches apart. "You don’t get to say shit like that," I snarled, my grip tightening on his shirt. "You don’t get to tell me you love me. Someone like you probably don’t even know what that means."
He didn’t fight back. He never did. He just looked at me, his eyes soft and pleading. "I know what it means, Henry," he whispered, his voice steady. "It means I’m not going to leave you. No matter what you do."
That broke something in me. I don’t know what it was—anger, frustration, fear—but I couldn’t hold it back anymore. Before I knew what I was doing, I slammed him against the nearest wall, my hands shaking with the effort of holding myself back.
"Don’t you get it?" I hissed, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want you. I don’t need you."
His eyes flickered with something—pain, maybe?—but he didn’t back down. He never did. "Yes, you do," he said softly, his voice calm despite the situation. "You need me just as much as I need you."
And for the first time, I didn’t know how to respond.
Because deep down, I knew he was right.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I stared at Patrick, my hands still fisted in his shirt, the tension between us thick enough to choke on. His words echoed in my mind, over and over, like a broken record. ‘You need me just as much as I need you.’ It pissed me off how calm he was, how sure of himself. He stood there, like he knew something I didn’t, like he understood me better than I understood myself. The worst part was, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Patrick was the only constant in my life—someone I could count on to be there, to take whatever I threw at him and never walk away. No matter how hard I tried to push him, he always came back. Like a goddamn parasite I couldn’t get rid of. But that didn’t mean I liked him. That didn’t mean I needed him. I didn’t need anyone. "You’re delusional," I spat, shoving him hard against the wall again. I saw the flash of pain in his eyes, but as always, he didn’t fight back. He just looked at me with that stupid, soft expression, like I was something worth saving. God, I hated it. Hated how much I didn’t hate it. I pulled away, my hands trembling as I tried to steady my breathing. Patrick stayed where he was, his back pressed against the wall, watching me with those calm, knowing eyes. He wasn’t scared of me. He was never scared of me. And that made me feel even more out of control. "Don’t look at me like that," I growled, stepping back to put some space between us. "You don’t know me, Patrick. You don’t know anything about me." He tilted his head, his expression softening even more. "I know enough." I clenched my fists, my vision blurring with rage. Why wouldn’t he just stop? Why couldn’t he get it through his thick skull that I didn’t want him, that I didn’t need anyone? That I couldn’t need anyone? "You’re so fucking pathetic," I snapped, my voice louder than I intended. "You think this means something? You think just because you hang around like a fucking lost puppy that it’ll change anything? You’re a joke, Patrick." He flinched—just barely, just for a second. But it was enough. Enough for me to see the hint of vulnerability he always tried so hard to hide. For a split second, I felt a rush of power. He wasn’t invincible. He could break, just like everyone else. The thought made something dark curl inside my chest. "Why don’t you just leave?" I continued, my voice dripping with venom. "Why do you keep coming back, huh? What’s wrong with you? Is this really all you have? Me? Some asshole who doesn’t even care about you?" Patrick’s eyes flickered again, the pain more visible now. But still, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t defend himself. He just stood there, taking it all, like he always did. And for the first time, it didn’t make me feel better. It made me feel worse. I hated this. Hated him. Hated how he made me feel—confused, angry, out of control. He was ruining everything, making me question things I didn’t want to question, making me feel things I didn’t want to feel. I wanted to hurt him. I needed to hurt him. Maybe if I hurt him enough, he’d finally leave. Maybe if I pushed him far enough, he’d stop looking at me like that. Like I was someone worth loving. NEXT DAY The next day, I was with the guys—Belch, Vic, Moose, Gordon, and Hockstetter. It was the usual routine: hanging out at the quarry, skipping stones, smoking, bullshitting. Belch was telling some dumb story about a prank he pulled on his neighbour, and everyone was laughing, but I couldn’t focus. My head was still buzzing from what happened with Patrick the night before. He was sitting on the edge of the quarry, not too far from me, quiet like he usually was around the others. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, didn’t care if anyone noticed him. But I noticed him. I always did. And it pissed me off. Maybe it was the way he was sitting there, so fucking calm, like everything was normal. Like nothing had happened. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at me before, with that quiet understanding that I couldn’t shake. Whatever it was, something snapped inside me. "Hey, Pat," I called, my voice cutting through the chatter. He looked up, his expression blank as always. "Yeah?" "Why don’t you do something useful for once?" I sneered. "Get us some more drinks." The guys laughed, thinking it was just another one of my usual taunts. Patrick’s lips twitched, like he was going to smile, but there was something uneasy in his eyes. "I don’t have any," he said quietly. I stood up, my body tense with the need to release this building pressure inside me. "Then go get some," I said, my voice low and as dangerous as I could make it. Belch and the others were watching now, sensing the shift in the air. They knew me well enough to recognise when I was about to go off. But none of them said anything. They never did. They just watched, like they always did. Patrick stood up slowly, not wanting to escalate things. But it was too late for that. I was already on edge, already spiraling. "Where the fuck do you think you’re going?" I snarled, stepping toward him. He froze, his eyes locking on mine. For the first time, I saw it—a flicker of something in his eyes. Some random emotion. And it only made me angrier. "You think you can just walk away from me?" I growled, shoving him hard in the chest. He stumbled back, but didn’t fall. He never fought back. That’s what drove me crazy. "Henry, come on," Vic muttered, trying to break the tension. "It’s not a big deal—" "Shut up," I snapped, my eyes never leaving Patrick’s. "He thinks he can get away with it. He thinks he can just stand there and not listen to what we tell him, like he’s better than us." Patrick didn’t say anything. He never did when I got like this. But there was something different in his eyes now. Something I hadn’t seen before. Something undistinguishable. Vulnerability? I couldn’t tell. And for the first time, I hesitated. I clenched my fists, trying to get control of myself, but the anger was too strong. I needed to hurt him. I needed to break him. Without thinking, I grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward, slamming him hard into the ground. He hit the dirt with a thud, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. The others were dead silent now, the tension in the air thick and heavy. Patrick lay there for a moment, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with shock. And then, slowly, he looked up at me. And for the first time, I saw it clearly. Fear Not the quiet acceptance I was used to. Not the calm, detached expression he always wore. Real, raw fear. And it made something inside me twist. Not with satisfaction, like I thought it would. But with guilt. I stepped back, my hands shaking. What the fuck was I doing? The others were watching me, waiting for me to make the next move. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even look at Patrick anymore. He slowly got to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine. His lip was bleeding, a dark bruise already forming on his cheek where he’d hit the ground. And for the first time, I saw him for what he really was. Fragile. And I hated myself for it. I hated how I felt in that moment—weak, guilty, scared. But most of all, I hated how much I didn’t want to see that fear in his eyes. Not from him. Not from Patrick. Because deep down, I knew that no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I did need him. I needed him more than I wanted to admit. And I’d just hurt him in front of everyone. I finally gave him one last shove, punching him hard in the face as hard as I could, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone beneath my fist. Then I turned, away from him, facing the others, not caring about how stupid I was being. Because if he couldn’t handle my threats, if he couldn’t take punishment for his mistakes, what good did I even have?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
I couldn't shake the image of Patrick on the ground, bruised and bleeding because of me. The sound of his body hitting the dirt echoed in my ears long after I stepped back. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t catch my breath, but it wasn’t from the fight—or whatever you’d call that. It was something deeper, something I didn’t want to name. I glanced at the others. They were quiet, waiting for me to laugh it off, to tell them it was no big deal, just another round of messing with Patrick. But I couldn’t find the words. Vic looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth shut. Good. None of them understood what was really happening. Hell, I didn’t even understand it. I just knew I had gone too far. Patrick stood up slowly, his hand brushing dirt off his jacket. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He wasn’t looking at anyone. His usual calm had been replaced with something new, something fragile. His lip was split, and a dark bruise was already spreading across his cheek, but he didn’t say a word. He just... stood there, waiting. For what? For me to hit him again? God, despite everything, I hated how quiet he was. How he never fought back. It made me feel like a monster every time. But worse than that, it made me feel powerless. Like no matter what I did to him, he would just... accept it. And I didn’t know why that terrified me more than anything else. “Patrick…” The word came out before I could stop it, quieter than I meant. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even look at me. But I saw it—the way his shoulders tensed just slightly. He was waiting for me to finish it, to hit him with another insult or throw another punch. But I couldn’t. Not now. Not with that bruise forming on his cheek, the blood drying on his lip. I opened my mouth to say something—an insult, an apology, anything—but nothing came out. I felt everybody's eyes on me, expectant. They always watched me like that when things went too far, like they were waiting for me to pull back, to stop before the damage became real. They just stood, awkward and silent, unsure what to make of the tension that had settled. “Go home, Patrick.” The words came out rough, harsher than I intended. I didn’t wait for him to respond, didn’t wait to see what he would do. I just turned on my heel and started walking toward the edge of the quarry, my back to him. I needed space. Space from him. From everyone. But as I walked, I couldn’t get rid of that sick feeling in my gut, the one telling me that I had just crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. Patrick's POV The bruise on my cheek throbbed, but the pain didn’t really register. It was nothing compared to the weight sitting on my chest, the heaviness that settled in every time Henry’s anger turned on me. He had shoved me, hit me, thrown me down in front of the others—but none of that hurt as much as the look in his eyes. Fear. I hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Henry Bowers wasn’t supposed to be afraid of anything, least of all me. But when he looked down at me, lying in the dirt, bleeding and broken, there it was—clear as day. He hated himself in that moment, and for the first time, I saw it. I saw how much he hated the control I had over him, even if neither of us ever talked about it. And I knew, deep down, that was why he kept lashing out. I stayed on the ground longer than I needed to, long enough for him to feel like he’d won something. But when I finally got up, I didn’t look at him. I didn’t say anything. Because the truth was, I wasn’t afraid of Henry—not in the way everyone else was. The bruises didn’t matter. The blood didn’t matter. He could shove me, punch me, kick me—none of that could touch what was really between us. I looked up at him, standing at the edge of the quarry, his back to me. He was trying to shake it off, trying to regain control, but I knew better. I’d seen it in his eyes. That flicker of something he didn’t want to admit. He needed me, just like I needed him. But he’d never say it. Not in front of the others. Not ever. I touched my cheek lightly, wincing at the sharp sting. My lip was still bleeding, but I didn’t care. This was part of it, part of what it meant to love someone like Henry. He could tear me apart, but I’d always come back. Because I saw through the anger, the violence, the need to push everyone away. He couldn’t hide from me. I took one last look at Henry, then turned and walked away. I didn’t need to say anything. He’d come after me eventually. He always did. And when he did, I’d still be there. Waiting. I walked home in silence, the pain radiating from my cheek and ribs, but the physical hurt was nothing compared to the ache spreading through my chest. Henry had broken something in me today—something delicate that had been holding on despite all the cruelty, all the degradation. I’d told myself I could handle it, that I needed him so badly I’d take whatever scraps he offered, but today felt different. When he’d looked at me before slamming me into the dirt, I’d seen something in his eyes that made everything worse. It wasn’t just rage or hatred. It was something more primal. Fear. He was scared of needing me, of feeling anything. And maybe that’s why it hurt more this time—because I wasn’t the only one breaking. I wanted to believe that fear meant something, that it might lead to something real. But as I trudged up the cracked steps of my house, the familiar dread set in. I couldn’t think about Henry right now. I had my own demons to face. I fumbled with the key, my fingers shaking. When I finally got the door open, I was greeted by the suffocating stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer. The TV in the living room blared some old sitcom, the laugh track grating on my nerves. My dad was passed out on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. He’d probably been there all day, not bothering to move except to refill his glass. I stepped inside quietly, hoping to make it to my room without incident, but as soon as I shut the door behind me, I heard my mother’s voice. “Patrick?” Her voice was thin, laced with the perpetual strain that she adopted since her diagnosis. She was in one of her better phases, but that didn’t mean much. Every good day came with the risk of a bad one just around the corner. I walked into the kitchen, the dim light casting long shadows across the cluttered table. She was sitting there, hunched over a cup of cold coffee, her face pale and drawn. She looked up at me, her eyes flicking to my bruised face before narrowing in suspicion. “What happened to your face?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Nothing, Mom,” I mumbled, trying to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. “Just a fight. It’s not a big deal.” “A fight?” She slammed her cup down on the table, her expression darkening. “What the hell were you doing getting into fights? Do you think this is what we need right now? More problems? Like your father isn’t enough?” I winced, the guilt gnawing at me. It was always like this—my mom could flip so quickly, like a switch had been thrown. One moment she’d be lucid and reasonable, and the next she’d be spiralling, her anger and bitterness spilling out uncontrollably. “I didn’t—” I started, but she cut me off. “You’re just like him, you know that?” she spat, her voice rising. “You’re just like your father. Useless. You’ll never amount to anything. You couldn’t even save your brother.” The mention of my brother hit me like a punch to the gut. Especially after what just happened. Why did she always bring him up when she was angry, as if losing him had been my fault, as if I hadn’t been just a child myself when it happened. It felt weird, I suddenly felt the tears prickling behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. Crying only made things worse, it’s something I’ve done once and regretted since. I took a step back, trying to retreat, but my mother stood up, her frail body shaking with anger. “You think you can just stand there and feel sorry for yourself?” She screamed. “It should’ve been you! You should’ve died, not him Avery!” It was hard to find a reaction to that. I’d heard those word before, countless times, but they still hurt just as much. My father stirred on the couch but didn’t wake up, his snoring filling the silence that followed my mother’s outburst. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking. She didn’t respond, just collapsed back into her chair, her energy spent. I stood there for a moment, waiting for her to say something else, but she just stared blankly ahead, lost in whatever hell her mind was trapped in. I turned and headed to my room, sat on the edge of my bed, my body aching from the bruises, but my mind... it was drowning. Honestly, it was all too much. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm the now raging storm inside me. But all I could think about was Henry. His face, his anger, the way he’d looked at me today with something close to regret. Maybe he didn’t hate me as much as he said. Maybe I could still fix it. Maybe... But then I thought of the bruise forming on my cheek and the sharp pain in my ribs, and I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Henry’s POV
When I got home, the sun had already dipped, casting the neighbourhood in an eerie light. I walked up the driveway slowly, the weight of what I’d done clinging to me like a second skin. I’d hurt Patrick. That wasn’t shocking news, it happens all the time. But it’s just the look he gave me. I could see it in his eyes, the way he’d looked at me like...the same look my mother had gave my father when she was alive…like I was my father. I pushed the thought away, clenching my fists as I stepped inside. The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer hit me immediately, mixing with the greasy odor of whatever Mary had thrown together for dinner. He was sitting in his usual spot at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of bourbon next to his plate. His eyes flicked to me as I entered, narrowing with that familiar disdain. “Where the hell have you been?” he grunted, taking a swig from his glass. “Out,” I muttered, heading for the stairs. “Out?” he repeated, his voice rising. “That’s all you got to say? Out? You think you can just come and go as you please?” “I was dealing with someone.” “What, that pansy you’ve been hanging out with?” I froze on the bottom step, my hands tightening into fists at my sides. I could feel his eyes burning into my back, waiting for me to slip up, to give him a reason. “Leave him alone,” Mary’s voice cut through the tension. She was sitting across from my dad, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes tired but kind. “He’s a teenager, Butch. Let him be.” My dad sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “Stay out of this,” he growled, but she didn’t flinch. I turned, meeting her gaze briefly. She knew. She always knew when something was off. She didn’t say much about it, but there was a quiet understanding between us. She knew about Patrick, even if we never talked about it directly. And I could see it in her eyes—the disappointment. She knew what I’d done. She could see it on my face, in the way I couldn’t meet her gaze for more than a second. “You’re just like him,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. I felt the sting of her words, but I pushed it down. I wasn’t like him. I wasn’t. My dad slammed his glass down on the table, his eyes flashing with rage. “Like who?” he demanded. “What the hell are you talking about?” Mary shook her head, not meeting his gaze. “Nothing,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. I turned and walked up the stairs, ignoring my dad’s curses as I went. Upstairs, my room was dark and quiet, the only place in this house that felt even remotely mine. I shut the door behind me, sinking onto the edge of my bed. My hands were still shaking, the adrenaline from earlier finally wearing off. I couldn’t get Patrick’s face out of my head.
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Patrick’s POV The ceiling in my room was the same as it had always been—chipped white paint, tiny cracks running across it like spider webs. I stared at it, letting my eyes blur until the lines and cracks swam together into a dull haze. The bruise on my cheek pulsed with every beat of my heart, a constant reminder of the mess my life had become. Of who had done this to me. I touched the sore spot gingerly, flinching as the pain flared again. My fingers brushed the swelling along my ribs, wincing as I pressed against them. They weren’t broken, I was pretty sure. Just bruised, like everything else. I tried to think of something else, anything that wasn’t Henry or my mother or the constant pit of guilt and shame that gnawed at my insides. But it was like quicksand—the more I struggled to pull myself out, the deeper I sank. My mind kept going back to Henry. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, about how things had gone so wrong between us. I sat at my computer, swiping through old messages between us. There weren’t many. Henry didn’t mail me unless he had to. Everything was done in person—quick, harsh exchanges in hallways, stolen glances when no one else was looking. I stared at the last mail he’d sent me two days ago. ‘cme to the quarry alone n bring drinks’ That was it. No explanation, no emotion. But I’d gone anyway. I always went. Like the strays in the town, waiting for scraps, hoping for just a little bit of something that would make the hunger go away for a while. But there hadn’t been any warmth that day. Just anger. So much anger. I remembered the way his hands had felt as he shoved me, the sneer on his face, the venom in his voice. Henry always had this switch in him—one second, he’d be distant and cold, and the next, he’d be explosive, like he couldn’t control the rage that simmered just beneath the surface. Why did I keep doing this to myself? Why couldn’t I walk away? I lay back on the bed, my cell dropping beside me. The weight in my chest made it hard to breathe. I could feel it pressing down, suffocating me, but I didn’t move. It was easier to let the pain wash over me than to fight it. I’d gotten used to it by now. A knock on the door broke through my thoughts. I froze, my heart racing. The door creaked, and I sat up quickly, wiping the remnants of tears from my cheeks. I didn't want to face her right now, but she was persistent. “Patrick?” My mother’s voice came through the door again, tinged with a softness that felt almost foreign. I didn’t respond. I wasn’t ready to deal with her. Not after everything that had happened earlier with Henry. She opened the door slowly, stepping inside with her usual weariness. There was a certain heaviness in the air, like the weight of our shared silence pressed against my chest. I could see the concern etched across her features, her brow furrowed, eyes searching mine for something—understanding, forgiveness, maybe even love. “Are you alright?” she asked, hesitantly sitting on the edge of my bed. “Just tired,” I muttered, looking away. I didn’t want to discuss the bruise on my cheek or the blood drying on my lip. The pain wasn’t just physical; it was the relentless reminder of Henry’s rage and how easily it could turn from something casual into something violent. “I saw you with your little friend today,” she said, her voice low, almost hesitant. I stiffened, feeling the familiar knot of anxiety twist in my stomach. “It’s nothing, Mom. Just a fight.” “A fight,” she echoed, her tone a mix of disbelief and pity. “You know, I worry about you, Patrick. You’re too good for this.” I laughed, a bitter, humourless sound that echoed in the silence of my room. “Good? What does that even mean? Good people don’t get punched in the face, Mom.” She flinched at my words, the truth in them cutting deeper than any blow Henry could deliver. She opened her mouth to respond but hesitated, her expression shifting to something more sorrowful. “Your father...” she began, but I interrupted. “Don’t.” The word came out sharp, laced with years of resentment and hurt. “Don’t bring him into this. He’s not worth it.” She recoiled slightly, as if I had physically struck her. Her eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, I felt a pang of guilt. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I was so tired of feeling trapped by the weight of our shared pain. “I just want you to be safe,” she finally said, her voice trembling. “You deserve to be treated better.” “Then why don’t you?” I shot back, my frustration boiling over. “You act like you care, but you don’t see what’s right in front of you! I’m not a child anymore.” The moment hung between us, thick with unsaid words and unacknowledged feelings. She looked away, blinking rapidly as if trying to gather herself. “Maybe I’m just scared,” she whispered. “I don’t want to lose you like I lost your brother.” The mention of Avery continuously hit me like a punch to the gut. I had spent so many years trying to escape his shadow, and still, after this death, I'm not seen for me, but just as him. doesn’t help that the guilt wrapped tightly around my heart, and yet here we were, trapped in the same cycle of grief and anger. “Maybe you should be scared,” I said finally, my voice quieter now. “Because I’m not the one you should be worrying about.” She stood, her disappointment radiating from her like a cold wave. “I’m trying, Patrick. I’m trying to be better.” But I didn’t believe her. Not anymore. I had spent years hoping she would change, but the truth was, she was just as lost as I was. “Just leave me alone, Mom,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue. She nodded slowly, turning away. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” I heard the door click shut behind her, and I was left alone again, staring at the ceiling, where the cracks seemed to deepen with every passing second. I didn’t want to feel this way, didn’t want to drown in the darkness that surrounded me. But then there was Henry. His face loomed in my mind, the anger, the pain, and beneath it all, a flicker of something that felt dangerously like hope.
Henry’s POV
I stared up at the ceiling in my room, feeling the weight of the house pressing in on me. The sounds of my dad yelling downstairs echoed up through the floorboards. It wasn’t directed at me this time—he was taking it out on Mary, as usual. She didn’t yell back, didn’t argue. She never did. She’d just sit there, taking his insults, his cruelty, until he got bored or tired or drunk enough to pass out. I should have been used to it by now, but every time it happened, something inside me twisted. I wasn’t stupid—I knew exactly what kind of man my father was. And I knew, deep down, that I was becoming like him. Maybe I’d already become him. I rolled over in bed, trying to block out the sounds, trying to push the memories of earlier out of my head. But Patrick’s face kept flashing behind my eyes—his wide, terrified eyes as I’d grabbed him, shoved him, hurt him. He’d looked at me like I was a monster, and maybe that’s what I was. I didn’t mean for things to go that far today. I didn’t plan on hurting him. But something about the way he’d looked at me, something in his voice when he’d asked why, had set me off. I could see the fear in him, the same fear I used to feel around my dad. The thought made me sick. But at the same time… it made me feel powerful. Like, for once, I wasn’t the one cowering. And that scared me more than anything. Downstairs, my dad’s yelling got louder. I could hear Mary’s soft murmurs, her attempts to calm him down, but it wouldn’t work. It never worked. My cell buzzed beside me, pulling me out of the dark spiral. I grabbed it, hoping for a distraction. It was a message from one of my friends—just some stupid shit, asking me if I was ok, nothing important. I tossed the phone aside, but my mind went back to Patrick. He hadn’t texted me since I left him there, bruised and bleeding. And why would he? Why would he want anything to do with me after the way I’d treated him? There was a darkness in me, a rage I couldn’t contain, and every time I took it out on him, I felt a little more lost. A little more broken. Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. I sat up, heart racing. “Henry?” It was Mary, my stepmother, her voice soft and gentle. “What?” I snapped, the harshness in my tone surprising even me. “Can I come in?” I hesitated but then nodded, not trusting my voice to speak. She stepped inside, the light from the hallway spilling into my dark room. She looked at me, her expression a mix of concern and resignation. “I saw you with Patrick today,” she said quietly, her eyes searching mine. “What happened?” “Nothing,” I replied, shrugging. “Just a little fight.” “Henry…” she began, but I cut her off. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” But deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. I couldn’t handle it. None of it. I hated myself for what I had done, but I couldn’t admit that. I couldn’t show weakness, not to anyone. “You can’t keep doing this,” she said softly. “You need to talk to someone. I’ve seen your behaviour get worse as the days go, you’re spiraling, and I’m scared for you. I’m scared for both of you.” “Why do you care?” I snapped, anger bubbling up again. “You don’t know anything about me. Or him.” “I care because I see the pain you’re both in,” she said, her voice steady. “I see it every time I look at you, every time I see your friend. You’re both so lost, and I don’t know how to help.” I looked away, my heart racing. She didn’t get it. None of them did. The only thing I felt was anger. Anger at Patrick for being so weak, and anger at myself for needing him in the first place. “I don’t need your help,” I said finally, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “I don’t need anyone.” She shook her head, her expression pained. “You do, Henry. You need to let someone in. You can’t keep pushing everyone away.” “Maybe I want to,” I shot back, my voice rising. “Maybe I like being alone.” “Do you?” she asked, her gaze piercing through the darkness. “Is that really what you want?” In that moment, I felt exposed, like she could see right through me. I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want to admit that the truth was far more complicated than just wanting to be alone. “I don’t have to listen to this,” I finally said, my tone dismissive. “Just go, Mary.” Her eyes softened with disappointment, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she turned and left, closing the door behind her. I lay back down, staring at the ceiling again, trying to block out the pain swirling inside me. But it wouldn’t go. I could hear the faint echoes of laughter from the living room booming from the tv my dad watched. It was a twisted contrast to the darkness inside my room. It felt so far removed from the chaos in my mind. I picked up my cell, scrolling through my messages again, landing on Patrick’s name. The last text I’d sent him. ‘cme to the quarry alone n bring drinks.’ It had felt so innocent back then, a mere invitation to hang out. But it hadn’t been innocent. Nothing about us ever was. I knew that now. And I hated it. Mary Bowers’ POV I sat on the couch, the weight of the evening pressing heavily on my chest. I’ve been doing some snooping ever since Henry started acting out more than he’s had in the past. From what I’ve seen, it links to his friend Patrick. I was around the quarry long and close enough to hear and witness the argument. I could still hear the echoes of Henry and Patrick’s confrontation in my mind, the violence lingering in the air long after they had left the quarry. I sighed, staring into the flickering television screen, but the images blurred together, my thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm. I didn’t know how to help them; I felt powerless, watching them spiral into darkness while I stood on the sidelines, screaming silently. I’ve seen their exact relationship before, and I’m not proud to say it reflects mine. As I sat there, a familiar feeling washed over me, the anxiety creeping back in. I felt like I was stuck in a never-ending cycle, watching helplessly as they tore each other apart. I remembered the first time I met Patrick, the shy boy with calm eyes and a gentle spirit. He had captured my heart immediately, a child who was kind enough to bring a drunk Henry home. And then there was Henry, so fierce and protective, yet so easily consumed by his own demons. The two of them together were a storm, a volatile mixture of passion and pain, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they would ever find their way back to each other. I sat at the kitchen table, my fingers tracing the patterns of the worn wood as I listened to Butch in the living room, his laughter ringing hollow in the silence of the house. It was the same routine every evening—he’d come home, and I would brace myself for whatever mood he was in. Butch walked into the kitchen, his presence filling the space with an uncomfortable energy. “What are you doing, Mary?” he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. “Just waiting for dinner to finish cooking,” I replied, keeping my gaze focused on the simmering pot on the stove. “Looks like you’re just sitting there, wasting time.” I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my heart racing as I tried to keep my voice steady. “I’m just—” “Just what?” he interrupted, stepping closer, invading my space. “You’re not the only one who works around here, you know.” “I know, Butch. I’m sorry. I’ll be done soon,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. But he wasn’t having it. “You need to get your priorities straight. You think this is easy for me?” I swallowed hard, the memories of our past rushing back like a flood. “I never said it was easy,” I whispered, my voice trembling. Butch’s gaze darkened, and before I knew it, he was leaning in closer, his breath hot against my face. “You need to remember who runs this house, Mary.” The threat lingered in the air, suffocating and heavy. I had tried so hard to make this work, to be the perfect wife, but the darkness of his control was a weight I couldn’t bear. “I know, Butch,” I murmured, my heart racing. “I won’t forget.” But deep down, I felt the anger rising, the desire to break free from the chains he had wrapped around me. “Good,” he said, stepping back, the anger simmering beneath his surface. “Now finish dinner. I want my food ready when I get back.” I nodded, watching as he walked out of the room, the door slamming behind him. As I stood there, my heart racing, I couldn’t help but think of Henry. He was slipping into that same darkness, reflecting the very man I had tried to escape.
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I FELT LIKE I SHOULD MAKE AN UPDATE FOR THIS 💔 I promise im not quitting this fic alongside my other one, it’s more a fact of writing an abundance for this one so I can post like 1-2 parts a week and not have to worry about the next, and acc plotting out the rest of this fic THERE WILL BE A POST COMING OUT TODAY, JUST FELT THE NEED TO CLARIFY I WILL NOT BE STOPPING ANYTIME SOON i have many plans for Henry and Patrick 😈😈
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HENRY POV
Everything was muffled, but it grated on my nerves. The sound didn’t belong in this house, not when everything inside it felt so fractured, so utterly broken. My fist clenched against the sheets, the urge to scream building in my chest. But what would it matter? Nobody here would care. I rolled over, shoving my pillow over my head, trying to smother the noise. But it didn’t drown out the other sounds—the memories. Patrick’s voice pleading, the way he had looked at me today when I’d hit him, like I was a stranger. Maybe I was. The person I was when I was around him didn’t feel like me anymore. Or maybe it was the most honest version of me. I hated how much he mattered. How much I wanted him to forgive me even when I didn’t deserve it. But what I hated more was knowing that he would. He always did. That was the worst part of it—the cycle. The inevitability of it. I’d feel bad for a while, maybe even try to make it right, and then it would happen all over again. And Patrick, he never walked away. I couldn’t figure out if that made me hate him or hate myself more.
PATRICK POV
My room felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in. My mom’s words echoed in his head, heavy and cutting. ‘It should’ve been you. You should’ve died, not him, Avery.’ She’d said it so many times that it felt less like a statement and more like a curse etched into my skin. I sat at the edge of my bed, the old computer screen still glowing faintly from when I checked Henry’s email again. I didn’t know why I tortured himself like this, rereading the same curt messages, the same empty commands. The quarry. That place had become our meeting spot, but it wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a battleground. A place where Henry’s anger and my guilt collided, where accusations and stupid shit exchanged instead of any real understanding. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I wanted to reply to Henry, to say something—anything—that would help whatever was happening. But what was the point? Words didn’t fix things. They never had when it came to Henry.
AUTHOR POV
Henry’s cell buzzed on the nightstand, jolting him out of his thoughts. It wasn’t Patrick. It was one of his classmates, someone asking about a party next week. He ignored it, letting the message disappear into the void. Instead, he stood and walked over to his window, staring out at the darkened street below. The streetlights cast long, eerie shadows on the pavement, and for a moment, he thought about running. Just grabbing his jacket, slipping out the door, and leaving everything behind. But where would he go? The bruises on his ribs throbbed with every breath, a dull, persistent ache. He touched them lightly, wincing. The physical pain was easier to deal with than the emotional kind. At least it was tangible, something he could understand. Henry’s cell buzzed again, this time on the floor where he’d thrown it earlier. He groaned, sitting up and grabbing it. The screen glared in the darkness, illuminating a new message from Patrick: ‘We need to talk.’ It was just three words, but they felt heavier than anything Patrick had ever said to him. Henry stared at the screen, his mind racing. What could Patrick possibly want to talk about? Hadn’t they already said everything there was to say, even if most of it had been shouted or screamed? He started typing a reply, his fingers shaking slightly. ‘Why? What’s there to talk about?’ He hovered over the send button, then deleted it. He tried again. ‘Fine. Where?’ That felt safer, less vulnerable. He hit send before he could second-guess himself. Patrick saw the message pop up almost immediately. His chest tightened as he read it. Henry’s response was as cold and indifferent as he’d expected, but it still stung. He bit his lip, typing back quickly. ‘Anywhere but the quarry.’ The seconds stretched into minutes before Henry’s reply came. ‘Your place. Tomorrow.’ Patrick stared at the words, the pit in his stomach growing. The thought of Henry in his house, with his mom lurking around and his dad passed out on the couch, was almost too much to bear. But he nodded to himself. It had to happen. ‘Okay.’ He didn’t send anything else. He just closed the phone and lay back on his bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling again. His chest ached, his ribs throbbed, and his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Tomorrow. Whatever happened tomorrow, it couldn’t be worse than today. Could it?
PATRICK POV
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the TV blaring from the living room. My ribs ached as I sat up, the bruises from yesterday sharp and unrelenting. I moved slowly, testing my body for new pains, trying to decide if the soreness was worse than usual. It wasn’t. It was the same as always. The house was quiet, aside from the muffled voice of some news anchor droning on about the weather. My mom must have already gone to work, which was a relief. I didn’t have the energy to face her this morning, to deal with her subtle looks of disappointment or the way she’d tiptoe around my injuries like they weren’t there. Like I wasn’t sitting here with bruises blooming across my skin, a silent reminder of Henry. Henry. The thought of him made my stomach twist. I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to text him, to check if he was okay, even though I was the one left broken and hurting. The other part of me—the part that had been told time and time again by people like my mom and my teachers that I deserved better—knew I should stay away. But I couldn’t. I never could. I grabbed my flip phone off the nightstand, the cracked screen lighting up dimly as I scrolled through the sparse messages. There was nothing from Henry, but I hadn’t expected there to be. He never reached out unless he wanted something. Still, my fingers hovered over the keypad. Should I text him? Apologize? For what, I wasn’t sure. For upsetting him? For being too weak to stop him? I hated myself for even considering it, but the silence between us felt unbearable. I typed out a quick message: ‘Are you okay?’ The words stared back at me, small and pitiful on the screen. My thumb hovered over the send button, hesitating. I could already hear his voice in my head, mocking me, calling me pathetic for worrying about him. But I hit send anyway. It only took a minute for my phone to vibrate in my hand. ‘Fine. Why?’ That was all he said. No apology, no acknowledgment of what he’d done. Just a single word, like it didn’t even matter. Like I didn’t matter. I clenched my jaw, my fingers tightening around the phone. For a second, I thought about not replying, about letting the conversation die there. But the idea of him being angry with me, of him cutting me out completely, was too much to bear. ‘No reason. Just wanted to check.’ The response was instant. ‘Don’t need you checking on me. Stop being so dramatic.’ The words hit harder than they should have, but I didn’t respond. There was no point. I tossed the cell onto my bed, letting it bounce onto the crumpled sheets as I sank back into the mattress. Why did I keep doing this to myself? Why did I let him treat me like this? Because you deserve it, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered. I swallowed hard, my throat tight as I stared at the cracked paint on the ceiling. Maybe that voice was right.
Henry’s POV
I tossed my phone onto the kitchen counter, the faint sound of Patrick’s message still playing in my head. Are you okay? Jesus, as if I was the one who got hurt yesterday. As if I needed him worrying about me. I hated that he did that. I hated that he cared so much, that he couldn’t just leave things alone. It made me feel… trapped. Like no matter what I did, no matter how many times I pushed him away, he’d always come crawling back, desperate for my attention. And I hated myself even more for the way I always let him. I poured myself a cup of coffee, the bitter scent filling the small kitchen. My dad was passed out in his chair in the living room, the empty bottle of bourbon still clutched in his hand. Mary was nowhere to be seen—probably at work or running errands. She was always doing something to avoid being here. I couldn’t blame her. I leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the overcast sky. The light drizzle tapping against the glass matched the rhythm of my thoughts, slow and relentless. Patrick’s face flashed in my mind, the way he’d looked at me yesterday, hurt and confused but still… there. Always there. I didn’t understand why he put up with me. Why he didn’t fight back or walk away. Most people would have given up by now, but not Patrick. It was pathetic, really. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. My phone buzzed on the counter, pulling me out of my thoughts. I grabbed it, half-expecting another message from him, but it wasn’t. Just a group text from some guys at school about meeting up later. I ignored it, tossing the phone back down. My gaze drifted back to the window, and before I realized what I was doing, I was pulling on my jacket and heading out the door.
Patrick’s POV
The knock on my door was sharp and sudden, echoing through the empty house. I froze, my heart racing as I glanced toward the hallway. My mom wouldn’t be back for hours, and no one else ever came here. Except Henry. I stood slowly, every part of me screaming to stay where I was, to pretend I wasn’t home. But my feet moved on their own, carrying me to the door. I hesitated for a moment, my hand hovering over the doorknob, before finally pulling it open. There he was. He stood on the porch, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his hair damp from the drizzle outside. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… there was something in them that made my chest tighten. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and casual, like nothing had happened. “Hey,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. He shifted his weight, glancing past me into the house. “You gonna let me in, or what?” I hesitated, my fingers gripping the edge of the door. I knew I should say no. I knew letting him in would only lead to more pain, more bruises, more of the same endless cycle. But I stepped aside anyway. Because that’s what I always did. Henry brushed past me as he stepped inside, the faint smell of rain and cigarettes clinging to his jacket. He didn’t bother to wait for an invitation to sit down, dropping onto the couch like he owned the place. I stayed near the door for a moment, unsure if I should close it or let the cold air from outside fill the space between us. He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “You just gonna stand there?” I swallowed hard and closed the door. The sound of the latch clicking shut felt heavier than it should have. “What are you doing here this early? We planned for later.” Henry leaned back, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “What, I can’t stop by to see my boyfriend?” The way he said “boyfriend” made my chest tighten. It wasn’t affection—it was a reminder. A reminder that, no matter how much he hurt me, I’d always let him stay. “You didn’t answer my question,” I said quietly. He shrugged, his eyes scanning the room like he was looking for something to criticize. “Just felt like coming over. Got a problem with that?” I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t do this anymore, that I couldn’t keep pretending things were normal between us when every interaction left me feeling smaller and more broken than before. But the words caught in my throat. “No,” I said instead, my voice barely audible. Henry smirked, leaning forward to grab the remote off the table. He turned on the TV, flipping through channels without a care in the world. It was like yesterday hadn’t happened, like he hadn’t left me bruised and hurting and questioning why I ever let him into my life. I stood there, frozen, watching him like I was waiting for some sign of acknowledgment, some small gesture that he regretted what he’d done. But I knew better. “Sit down,” he said, not looking at me. It wasn’t a suggestion—it was an order. I hesitated, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. For once, I wanted to say no. I wanted to stand up for myself, to demand an explanation or an apology or anything that proved he saw me as more than just something to take his anger out on. But instead, I sat down. Because that’s what I always did. The room was silent except for the hum of the TV. I kept my eyes on the screen, not really watching whatever show he’d landed on. I could feel Henry’s presence beside me, too close and too familiar. “You’re quiet today,” he said suddenly, his tone light but with an edge that made my stomach twist. I shrugged, not trusting myself to speak. He reached over, his hand gripping my chin and forcing me to look at him. His touch wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either. “What’s wrong? You mad at me or something?” His gaze pinned me in place, sharp and searching. I wanted to tell him the truth, to let all the anger and hurt I’d been holding back pour out of me. But I couldn’t. “I’m not mad,” I said softly, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. Henry’s lips curved into a smirk, and he let go of my chin, leaning back like he’d just won some unspoken battle. “Good. Hate it when you get all mopey on me.” I stared at him, trying to understand how he could act like this—like everything was fine, like I didn’t have a dozen bruises hidden under my shirt because of him. But I knew better than to ask. Instead, I just nodded, letting the moment pass. Henry flicked through the channels with a lazy hand, stopping on some trashy sitcom that neither of us cared about. His smirk widened, almost predatory, and I knew that look. He was gearing up for something, though I couldn’t tell if it was another jab or some manipulative favor he’d demand from me. I shifted uneasily on the couch, stealing a glance at him. His jawline was sharp, set in that same way his dad’s always was when he barked orders in public like a drill sergeant. Henry hated his father—or so he claimed—but I couldn’t help noticing the similarities more and more lately. The way he carried himself, the anger simmering just under the surface, the casual cruelty. “You hear about Sally Mueller’s party?” he asked suddenly, not looking at me. I blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. She mentioned it to me yesterday.” “Figures.” He snorted, leaning back with that smug air that made my stomach churn and twist in ways I hated admitting to. “She’s always running her mouth. Surprised she didn’t invite me herself.” “She… she kind of did,” I said, my voice cautious. “She told me to bring whoever I wanted.” Henry turned his head slowly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Whoever you wanted, huh? And you didn’t think to tell me?” I hesitated, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.” “Rich girl party? Free booze? Greta Bowie drooling all over me? Sounds like a blast,” he said, laughing darkly. I flinched at Greta’s name, biting back the twinge of jealousy that bubbled up. Greta was always throwing herself at Henry, her giggles high-pitched and forced whenever he so much as looked in her direction. She had no idea we were… whatever this was. No one did. And that was how Henry liked it. “Maybe we should go,” I said, trying to sound casual. “It could be fun.” He raised an eyebrow, his smirk shifting into something crueler. “What, you wanna watch me flirt with Greta all night? Or you planning to follow me around like a lost puppy?” My stomach twisted, but instead of shrinking away, I let myself smirk back at him. I don’t know why I did it—maybe because I liked the way his eyes narrowed when I did, the way he leaned in closer like he was daring me to push further. “Maybe I’ll flirt with her,” I said, my tone teasing. Henry’s smirk vanished, his expression darkening. “Yeah, right. Like you’d know what to do with a girl like Greta.” I leaned back, shrugging. “Maybe I don’t want to know. Girls are… overrated.” The room went still for a second, the tension so thick I could feel it pressing against my skin. Henry’s eyes flicked to mine, a flash of something—anger? Fear?—crossing his face before he shoved it down. “Don’t start with that shit,” he said sharply, his voice low. “Relax,” I muttered, though my pulse quickened. I knew better than to push him too far, especially when it came to that. Henry turned back to the TV, but his grip on the remote was tighter now, his knuckles white. “Whatever. We’ll go to the party. But don’t get any ideas, got it? You’re there for one reason—to make me look good. So don’t embarrass me.” I nodded quickly, feeling a strange thrill at his commanding tone, even as shame curled in my gut. “Oh, and if Greta starts coming onto me, don’t be a little bitch about it,” he added, smirking again. “Not my fault everyone likes me better.” I couldn’t help myself—I smirked back, my stomach flipping at his cruel taunts. “Don’t worry, Henry. You can do whatever you want. I won’t get in the way.” “Damn right, you won’t,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied grin. But as he stared at the TV, his jaw tightened again, and for a brief second, he looked… uneasy. Like he was fighting something he couldn’t quite name. I didn’t say anything. I just watched him, wondering how long it would take before he realized he hated himself as much as he hated me. The silence stretched between us, only the dull hum of the TV filling the air. Henry didn’t look at me, but I could tell by the way he was gripping the remote that something was eating at him. Probably the usual—his dad, the pressure to keep up this tough-guy act, or the gnawing discomfort of what we were doing behind closed doors. He suddenly threw the remote onto the couch with a force that made me flinch, even though I tried not to show it. “Get your ass up. We’re going to Sally’s now,” he barked, standing up. “It’s not even dark yet,” I said, even though I was already moving to grab my jacket. Henry rolled his eyes. “So what? I’m not sitting here with your creepy ass all day.” I froze for a second, the jab hitting a little harder than usual. But I didn’t let it show. Instead, I shrugged and muttered, “Whatever you say, boss.” He grabbed his flip phone from the coffee table, flipping it open and pressing a few buttons. “I’ll text Greta. Tell her to save us a couple of drinks.” “Right. Greta,” I said under my breath. Henry shot me a look, sharp and warning. “What? You jealous of her or something?” “Why would I be jealous of Greta?” I said, feigning nonchalance. “She’s just another one of your groupies.” “Yeah, well, at least she’s not a freak,” he snapped, but there was a flicker of something in his tone, almost defensive. I didn’t respond, just followed him out the door. That was how it always was with us—him throwing jabs, me taking them and pretending not to care. But the thing that always threw me off was the way he looked at me sometimes, like he was waiting for me to crack. By the time we got to Sally Mueller’s house, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over her sprawling front yard. Sally’s place was practically a mansion, the kind of house that screamed old money. A couple of kids were already loitering on the front lawn, red plastic cups in hand, laughing too loudly. Henry adjusted his leather jacket, smirking as he took in the scene. “See? Told you this would be worth it.” “Yeah, sure,” I muttered, trailing behind him as we headed up the driveway. The door swung open before we could knock, and there was Sally herself, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. Her blond hair was perfect, her makeup flawless. “Henry!” she squealed, her eyes lighting up. “Hey, Sally,” Henry said, flashing her a grin that made her melt on the spot. I stayed silent, half-hoping she wouldn’t even notice me. But, of course, she did. “Oh, Patrick! Glad you could make it too,” she said, her tone polite but distant. Before I could respond, Greta Bowie appeared behind her, her gaze immediately locking onto Henry. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she gave him the kind of smile that was way too eager. “Henry,” she said breathlessly. “You made it.” Henry smirked, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Wouldn’t miss it. Heard you’ve got the good stuff tonight.” “Always,” Greta said, practically vibrating with excitement. As they fawned over him, I felt myself fading into the background. Not that I minded—it was easier that way. But then Henry glanced back at me, his smirk widening like he could sense how uncomfortable I was. “You’re awfully quiet, Patrick,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t tell me you’re too scared to hang out with the cool kids.” I flushed, but before I could respond, Greta giggled and said, “Oh, Patrick’s fine. He’s just… you know, Patrick.” The way she said it made my stomach churn, but Henry laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Yeah, he’s just Patrick,” Henry repeated, slinging an arm around my shoulders in a mock-friendly gesture that felt more like a leash. “But don’t worry. I’ll keep him in line.” I forced a smile, even as something dark twisted in my chest. This was the game we played—him humiliating me, me letting him, and both of us pretending it didn’t mean anything. But as we stepped into the house, the sound of laughter and music swallowed us up. The air inside Sally’s house was thick with the smell of booze and stale cologne. The music was pounding so loudly that it vibrated through my bones, making my head ache. But Henry was in his element, slinging back drinks with his gang and laughing like he owned the place. I didn’t mind being invisible for the most part, but that didn’t stop the occasional glance from the others. Vic Criss and Belch Huggins were already at the bar, their shoulders close as they whispered to each other in a way that made it clear their friendship was more than just that. They weren’t loud about it, though, keeping their hands to themselves and their heads down—at least when the others were looking. But their chemistry was impossible to ignore. Vic caught my eye for a split second, giving me a half-smile before returning his focus to Belch. Belch, meanwhile, had barely noticed me, too busy giving Vic a look that made something twist uncomfortably in my stomach. Moose Sadler, towering over most of the room, was with Marcia Fadden, the two of them laughing about something that wasn’t funny to anyone else. Marcia was all smiles, her dark hair framing her face in waves as she leaned into Moose. He didn’t even seem to notice how out of place I felt. Of course, he didn’t. They were in their little world. And then there was Henry, of course, completely unaware of or just too damn indifferent to the effect he had on everyone around him. He was talking to Gordon, an imposing guy with a permanent scowl, who didn’t say much but was just as much of a presence as Henry. I wasn’t sure where I fit in among them. Then I saw her. At first, I thought I was imagining things, but no—there she was. A girl sitting at the edge of the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room with an air of familiarity. Something about her looked out of place in a room full of people trying too hard to be somebody they weren’t. I knew her. It was weird, though. I couldn’t place her face, but there was something about the way she carried herself that seemed so familiar. Maybe it was the way she watched the others—too detached, too aware of everything around her. She wasn’t drinking, wasn’t laughing. Just sitting there, observing. But when she caught me staring, her lips curled into a slight, almost knowing smile. That was the moment I realized she wasn’t a stranger. She had been in my life before, maybe a long time ago, but where? Before I could think too much about it, Henry’s voice cut through the noise. “Hey, don’t stand there looking like a loser, Patrick,” he called from across the room, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. “Come get me a drink.” I swallowed, pushing the mystery girl out of my mind for the moment, and walked over to him. “What do you want?” I asked, trying to ignore the heavy silence she left in her wake. “Whiskey. And don’t make it weak,” he said, barely looking at me. I could’ve easily ignored him, but the idea of him getting even more pissed off wasn’t something I wanted to deal with tonight. It wasn’t like I had a choice, anyway. I never really did. As I made my way toward the makeshift bar, I caught a glance of Greta and Sally chatting by the pool, their eyes occasionally drifting to Henry. It was obvious Greta was still hung up on him, her gaze lingering a little too long every time he passed. But I couldn’t help but notice how Sally’s eyes flickered to me, too—just for a second—like she was trying to figure out something about me. I had no idea what, but it made my skin crawl. Henry noticed it, of course. He always did. He caught up with me at the bar, leaning in with that too-close-for-comfort smirk of his. “What’s going on with Sally, huh? She looking at you funny or something?” I shot him a glance, but he was way too close, breathing down my neck. “Shut up,” I muttered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Henry just laughed, slapping me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. “Yeah, right. Whatever, man. You’re just mad because you don’t get the attention.” I didn’t respond. Instead, I focused on the drink in front of me. The sooner I got this over with, the sooner I could disappear back into the shadows. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her again. The girl. She was standing now, walking towards the door. Before I could stop myself, I followed her. By the time I made it outside, she was leaning against the railing of the pool, her arms crossed as she stared out into the yard. Her face was unreadable, but her posture said it all—she was waiting for something. “Hey,” I said, suddenly nervous. “You… you from around here?” She didn’t look at me at first. But then she turned her head, her lips quirking up in that same half-smile. “I think you know me better than you think, Patrick,” she said softly, her voice a bit too calm for the party atmosphere. That was when it hit me. She wasn’t a stranger at all. But what the hell was she doing here? And why was she so… important?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The girl’s gaze never wavered as she took a step closer, her eyes narrowing just slightly. The kind of look that made my stomach drop, like she knew everything about me. Or at least, everything I didn’t want anyone to know. “Do you remember, Patrick?” she asked, her voice suddenly sharp, cutting through the noise of the party. “Do you remember what you owe me?” I swallowed hard, trying to keep my cool. My heart was beating faster than usual now. Because, yeah, I remembered. I remembered all too well. The photos. It had been months since we first made the deal—months since I’d promised her that I’d get her the shots of Henry Bowers she wanted, in exchange for some cash. At first, it was just a stupid way to make a quick buck, taking photos of people from the shadows. But I wasn’t just taking pictures of anyone. She had wanted Henry, specifically. She was obsessed with him, or at least the idea of him. I never thought it would come to this, though. Henry was a walking disaster. And now here she was, demanding those pictures I’d promised her, pictures I’d been dragging my feet on. “I—look, I didn’t forget, alright?” I said, my voice wavering a little. “It’s just… it’s not as easy as it sounds.” Her lips curled into a snarl. “It doesn’t matter how hard it is, Patrick. You owe me those photos. You promised.” I shifted uncomfortably on my feet, wishing I hadn’t gotten myself into this. The plan had seemed simple at first. Sneak around, catch Henry doing something stupid. But he’d been more careful lately. The guy was smart enough to hide the stuff I thought would make a good shot. I never got the images I needed. “I’ll get them,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I was convincing myself or her. “Just give me more time.” She shook her head, her eyes cold. “Time’s up, Patrick. It’s been months. And now you think you can just waltz away from this? I don’t think so. You don’t get to just back out of a deal because you’re scared.” I could feel the pressure building. Her tone was sharp, demanding. And what I’d been avoiding for so long now felt too close, like it was all going to explode in my face. “I didn’t mean to—look, I was just busy,” I stammered, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’ll get you the shots, I swear.” Her eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? You think I don’t know how you’ve been keeping those photos to yourself?” I froze. She knew. “You’ve been hiding them, haven’t you?” she pressed. “You don’t want to give them to me because you’ve got something else planned. Maybe you think you can blackmail Henry with them instead.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I was screwed. She was right, of course. There were moments when I’d thought about holding onto those photos for myself. Something about having that kind of power over Henry—it made me feel like I had control for once. Maybe even enough control to make him stop pushing me around. But now? Now it was all going to come crashing down. “You’re not fooling me, Patrick,” she said, her voice low and dangerous now. “You either give me the photos, or I expose everything. You and your little photography business… the whole thing. I’ll make sure it gets out to everyone, and Henry will know exactly what you’ve been up to.” A cold chill ran down my spine at the thought of Henry finding out. I wasn’t just scared of him. I was terrified of what he’d do if he found out I had been spying on him, selling pictures for money. The thought of Henry’s anger was enough to make my skin crawl. I forced myself to speak. “Okay… okay, I’ll get them to you. Just… just give me some more time. I swear I’ll get them.” Her gaze stayed on me for a moment, studying me like she was trying to decide if she could trust me. Finally, she gave a small nod. “You have a week. That’s it. A week, Patrick. Get it done.” I nodded quickly, not daring to argue. “I’ll get them. I promise.” Her eyes flicked toward the door, like she was already losing interest in me. “Good. You’d better. Because I don’t think you want to see what happens if you don’t.” And with that, she turned and walked back into the house, disappearing into the chaos of the party. I stood there for a moment longer, my mind racing. I had a week. One week to get something I should’ve already had weeks ago. One week to decide if I wanted to keep this nightmare going or risk everything by crossing Henry. Either way, I was trapped. And there was no way out.I had spent the last few hours at the party, letting the noise, the laughter, and the general chaos blur around me. But none of it mattered. My mind kept circling back to the same thing: the photos. The girl. The ultimatum. And how Henry—that Henry—had no idea what was really going on with me. How I had been hiding this from him, even as we pretended like everything was fine. I needed a distraction. I needed to find him, vent a little, maybe shake off this shitty feeling that had been gnawing at me all night. I had a habit of looking for Henry when things weren’t going right, as if being near him would fix it. But part of me knew that was a terrible idea. After all, Henry was still… Henry. And he was always the last person who could actually make anything better. I pushed my way through the crowded house, the thumping bass from the stereo vibrating in my chest. My flip phone buzzed in my pocket, a reminder from the girl that I was on borrowed time. I ignored it. Finally, I spotted Henry’s familiar dark hair in the corner of the living room, but it wasn’t just him. It was Greta Bowie too—her blonde hair falling over her shoulders in messy waves. She was standing way too close to Henry, her hand on his chest, her lips just an inch from his. I froze, my stomach sinking. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. I had no idea how long they’d been like this. But the sight of them together, Henry’s hand resting on her waist as if he were into it, made something bitter twist in my gut. I should’ve turned around right there, but instead, I stood frozen for a moment, watching, feeling something sharp pierce through me. Henry was supposed to be mine, even if no one knew it. We kept it quiet, hidden from everyone, like some dirty secret I wasn’t supposed to talk about. But I’d always known that Henry didn’t play by the same rules. He was an asshole, and he’d never truly given a shit about me. Hell, I was just another one of his stupid games, something to screw with when he got bored. But seeing him with Greta? That was… different. I didn’t like it. The way he looked at her, like she was the one he was actually interested in for once, made something inside me burn with jealousy. I hated how she was clinging to him like she had a shot at something real with him. I hated how she was playing the part of the cute, innocent girl when I knew exactly what she was—just another member of Henry’s fan club. I had no right to be mad. I had no claim on him. I knew that. Still, seeing Henry kiss her—his lips parting in a way that made my insides twist—felt like a slap in the face. I took a step back, but before I could leave, Greta’s eyes flicked over to me. Her smile was smug, like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Well, well,” she drawled, her tone sharp and mocking. “Look who’s here.” Henry pulled away from her slightly, glancing over, but the moment he saw me, he just shrugged, like he didn’t care. Like this wasn’t something that mattered to him. “You want something, Patrick?” he asked, his voice dripping with a kind of bored arrogance that always made me feel like I was beneath him. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I was too pissed off. Too hurt. Too confused by what was happening in front of me. “I’ll, uh, leave you two alone,” I muttered, turning on my heel to walk away, but Greta’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Didn’t know you had a thing for Henry too, Patrick,” she teased, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You want to join us?” I didn’t even respond to her. I couldn’t, because the idea of being part of whatever twisted game Henry was playing with her made me want to hurl. Instead, I walked away, my fists clenched so tight I could feel my nails digging into my palms. The night was already shit, and now it was worse. I was stuck in this mess, stuck with my stupid feelings and my stupid decisions. And as I made my way through the house, I couldn’t help but wonder: How much longer could I keep lying to myself about all this? How much longer could I pretend I wasn’t just another one of Henry’s victims, caught in his web? I didn’t have an answer. I stumbled out into the cool night air, feeling my breath catch in my chest. The chaos of the party faded behind me, but the buzz in my head only got louder. The bitter taste of jealousy still sat heavy on my tongue. But beneath that, something else was slowly starting to sink in. A realization that had been gnawing at the back of my mind for weeks—maybe longer. I was done. The way Henry had brushed me off tonight, the way he’d been with Greta, made it all click into place. This was the last straw. I had been so caught up in whatever sick game he was playing, too blinded by his manipulation and the stupid pull I still felt for him, that I hadn’t seen it for what it really was: a joke. I was a joke. A tool to him. Something he could use, toy with, and then discard when it was convenient. The thing that hurt the most was how easy it had been for him. How effortlessly he’d just moved on, like I never mattered in the first place. He’d always been like this—cruel, detached, playing his part as the bad boy, getting away with everything, leaving a trail of people like me who were stupid enough to fall for it. But tonight? Seeing him with Greta? That wasn’t just a wake-up call—it was a slap in the face. He was never going to change. He’d never care. He’d never really wanted me. The whole “us” thing, the quiet, secretive relationship we’d been having—if you could even call it that—was just another game to him, a way to keep me on the hook while he went off and did whatever he pleased. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep lying to myself, pretending that this was something real, pretending that this was something I could handle. I’d let myself get lost in this toxic mess for far too long, and it was finally time to face the truth: Henry Bowers wasn’t someone I could fix. And he wasn’t someone I should want to fix. I leaned back against the side of the house, the sharp edge of the brick digging into my back as I let out a shaky breath. My flip phone buzzed again, but I didn’t bother checking it. I didn’t care about the girl, or the photos, or anything else right now. I had a bigger mess to clean up—starting with myself. I’d given so much to Henry. Too much. But this was it. No more. No more letting him manipulate me, no more letting him walk all over me. No more trying to be the person he’d never let me be to him. I was angry. Angry at myself for letting it get this far. Angry at Henry for being such an asshole, for playing with me like this. But somewhere beneath the anger, something else was growing too—a kind of relief. It was like a weight was lifting off me. I didn’t have to do this anymore. I didn’t have to want him anymore. The truth was, I deserved better than this. Hell, anyone deserved better than this. And maybe I wasn’t going to change overnight, but at least I was done with Henry. Done with pretending this was ever anything close to love. I wiped my hand over my face, taking a deep breath, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I finally felt like I could breathe again. I fumbled with my flip phone, the keys feeling foreign in my hands as I scrolled through the contacts. Henry’s name was right at the top, like it always had been, and it made my stomach twist. But I didn’t hesitate. I pressed the button to open the text messages, and with a few swift movements, I blocked his number. It felt so final. So… freeing. I stared at the screen for a moment, as if expecting something to change, like maybe Henry would show up and apologize, or things would magically go back to the way they were. But that wasn’t going to happen. It never would. With a sigh, I snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into my pocket. I couldn’t stay here, lingering in the chaos, drowning in this mess any longer. My steps were quick as I turned away from the house, walking out of the party with my head held higher than I had when I’d arrived. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I had made my choice. The streetlights blurred in my vision as I walked home, each step feeling lighter than the one before. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew it would be without Henry Bowers. And that was enough. For the first time in a long while, I was going to be okay. It was done.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
HENRY POV
I don’t remember standing up. One second I was on the bed, staring at my phone like I could force it to ring. The next, I was grabbing my jacket, shoving my feet into my boots, my head roaring like a fucking storm had torn through my skull. Blocked me? Blocked me? Patrick thought he was smart. Thought he could just walk out. Thought he could decide when this was over. He was wrong. I slammed my way through the house, barely hearing my dad slurring some shit at me from the couch. The second I was outside, the cold air hit me like a slap to the face. Didn’t matter. I was already moving. Patrick’s house wasn’t far. I could walk it blindfolded. I’d been there enough times, slipping in through his window, laughing while he let me push him around, use him. But he thought he was gonna run from me? Hide? I almost laughed, except the sound that came out of me wasn’t anything human. It was this ugly, snarling thing, twisting out of my throat. The streets blurred past me, my hands twitching at my sides. I barely noticed my feet hitting the pavement, didn’t feel the cold biting at my skin. My head was boiling, thoughts smashing together like cars in a wreck. Patrick was mine. I owned him. He could block me, but he couldn’t fucking erase me. And he sure as hell couldn’t stop me from coming to get him. Patrick’s house was dark when I got there. That didn’t mean shit. His parents were practically ghosts, and he was a slippery little bastard. But I knew he was inside. Knew he was probably sitting in his room, thinking this was over. It wasn’t. I climbed over the side fence, landing hard in the patchy grass. My heart was hammering, my fingers twitching at my sides. I made my way to his window—just like I’d done a hundred times before—but this time, I wasn’t smirking. I wasn’t feeling that sick little thrill of making him jump. I was furious. I knocked. Not loud. Just enough. Nothing. I knocked again, harder. Still nothing. I clenched my teeth so tight my jaw ached. He thought if he ignored me, I’d go away? I tested the window, pressing my fingers against the bottom edge. Locked. I exhaled through my nose, my head pounding, my whole body vibrating with something ugly. I could break it. One hard shove, and the glass would crack. I could be inside in seconds, and then—then I could make him answer me. Make him listen. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, breathing heavy. Inside, the room was pitch black. “Patrick.” My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. I knocked again, slower this time. Nothing. I stared at my reflection, my own face barely visible in the dark glass. My hands were shaking. This wasn’t over. I stepped back, swallowing hard. I’d come back. He couldn’t hide forever.
PATRICK POV
I stayed perfectly still. I’d heard him. The second he landed in the yard, I knew he was there. The way he moved—heavy steps, breath all uneven like he’d just run a mile—there was no mistaking it. I sat on the floor by my bed, knees pulled up, phone clenched so tight in my fist my knuckles hurt. Not that it mattered. I chose to unblock him, hear him out for a second but it was no use. The damn thing had been vibrating nonstop for the past hour, over and over, his number flashing on the screen. I’d silenced it, but I still felt every single call. Every text.
Patrick.
Pick up.
Don’t ignore me.
I’m coming over.
Open your fucking window.
Patrick.
I didn’t move when he knocked. I didn’t move when he said my name. I barely let myself breathe when he pressed his forehead to the glass, so close I could hear it. Like he thought I’d let him in if he just stood there long enough. Like he thought he deserved that. And maybe the worst part? Some sick part of me still felt it—that stupid pull—like I should just let it happen. Like I should roll over and let him spit venom at me, tear me down, so he’d touch me after. So we’d go right back to how we always were. But I didn’t move. Not this time. After a long minute, I heard him step back. A breath. A muttered curse. Then footsteps fading toward the fence. I sat there for a long time after he was gone, the phone still buzzing in my hand. Then, finally, I turned it off. I stayed like that for a while—phone off, body stiff, just listening to nothing. No calls. No knocking. No Henry. For the first time in years, I was completely alone. And the strangest part? It didn’t feel bad. It didn’t feel like losing something. It felt like relief. I let out a breath and pushed myself up, joints stiff from sitting so long. My room was trashed—papers everywhere, clothes on the floor, drawers half-opened from when I’d gone looking for my camera batteries earlier. It looked like my brain felt. Messy. Chaotic. His. I wanted it gone. All of it. I crossed the room in a few steps, pulling open my desk drawer and yanking out the pile of photos stuffed inside. They were all Henry—candid shots, some half-blurry, some framed like an art piece, others grainy from being taken at night. Some from school, some from after, some I barely remembered taking. Months of him, caught in my lens. I should’ve gotten rid of them earlier. Should’ve burned them the second that girl at the party started getting pushy. But I didn’t. Because of course I didn’t. Because I’d wanted to keep them. I stared down at them, a tightness crawling up my throat. There was no point in pretending anymore—I hadn’t just taken them for the job. I hadn’t just taken them for her. I’d kept them because they were mine, because they were pieces of him I could hold onto, even when he wasn’t around. Because I was sick. Because I was a fucking idiot. But I wasn’t that idiot anymore. Not tonight. Not after this. I grabbed the whole stack and threw it onto my bed, then turned back to my desk, ripping through drawers for more. I found another envelope under some old notebooks. More of him. I added it to the pile. Then came the smaller stuff. Notes he’d passed me in class, some just one-word commands, others with dumb insults scribbled in the margins. His handwriting was burned into my brain. Pat, do my homework or I’ll break your nose.Hey dumbass, you left your lighter in my truck.Quit staring at me in the locker room, freak. That last one made my stomach twist. I crumpled it in my fist and threw it onto the pile. I grabbed more—his empty beer bottles from under my bed, a hoodie I’d “forgotten” to give back, a cheap metal lighter he’d left in my room once. All of it. Everything. By the time I was done, I was breathing hard. My bed looked like a goddamn shrine to him. It was humiliating. I grabbed my phone off the floor, flipped it open, and scrolled until I found the last text from her. The girl from the party. The one I owed the pictures to. I hadn’t wanted to give them up before. Hadn’t wanted to let go. Now? Now, I couldn’t get rid of them fast enough. I typed fast, no hesitation this time. ‘You still want them? I’ll give you everything.’ I hit send. And then, for the first time all night, I actually felt free.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The next day at school felt different. Not because anything looked different. The hallways were the same, packed with the same dumbass kids shoving past each other, the same teachers pretending to care. The same posters peeling off the walls, announcing some student council election no one gave a shit about. No, it was me that felt different. I moved through the halls like a ghost, ducking between bodies, keeping my head down. It wasn’t that hard—I’d spent my whole life being ignored when I wanted to be. And today? That’s all I wanted. Because if I saw him—if he found me—I didn’t know what would happen. I made it through first period. Then second. Then lunch. I sat with Sally’s group, keeping my mouth shut while they gossiped about the party, throwing each other knowing looks and giggling over shit I didn’t care about. I picked at my food, barely listening, feeling the seconds drag. It wasn’t until halfway through last period that I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck. That feeling you get when you know someone’s watching you. I didn’t turn around. Didn’t move. Just kept my eyes forward, jaw clenched. Then—thud. Something hit my desk. A folded-up piece of paper. I stared at it, stomach twisting. I already knew who it was from. Slowly, I unfolded it. We need to talk. My throat went dry. I could hear his voice in those words, low and sharp, like a warning. I didn’t respond. Didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Just sat there, gripping my pencil so tight I thought it might snap. The bell rang, and I was gone. I didn’t go to my locker. Didn’t stop to talk to anyone. Just bolted for the doors, shoving past people, my pulse hammering in my ears. If I could just get out—if I could make it to the parking lot, get to Sally’s car— A hand grabbed my arm. Yanked me back. And just like that, I was cornered. I didn’t have to look to know who it was. The grip was familiar. Tight. Bruising. I swallowed hard, keeping my face blank as I finally turned. Henry. And he looked—Jesus. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. His whole body was tense, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. He wasn’t just pissed. He was seething. I didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Not at first. Then, finally—he spoke. His voice was low. Dangerous. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Patrick?” For the first time in my life, I was actually scared of Henry Bowers. It wasn’t like before. Before, it was just part of the game—he’d shove me, call me names, dig his nails into my wrist just to see if I’d react. I liked it, most of the time. It was what we did. What we were. But this? This was different. His fingers tightened around my arm, so hard I swore I felt something pop. My breath hitched, but I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Henry’s voice was low, like he was holding something back, something that could snap at any second. I swallowed, trying to keep my face blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Wrong answer. Henry yanked me forward, dragging me out of the main hall and into the nearest empty classroom. My shoulder slammed into the doorframe, but he didn’t slow down, didn’t care. “Henry—” I tried, but he cut me off, shoving me back so hard I hit a desk. I barely caught myself before I fell. Henry was pacing, his breathing uneven. His hands flexed at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them. I should’ve left. Should’ve turned around and walked out. But I didn’t. Because some fucked-up part of me still wanted to see what he’d do. Henry stopped pacing, turned to me with a look I’d never seen before—something wild. “I called you,” he said. His voice was shaking with rage. “I called you, and you didn’t pick up.” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, Henry. That’s what people do when they don’t wanna talk to someone.” That was the wrong thing to say. In a flash, he was in front of me, grabbing the collar of my hoodie, yanking me so close I could feel his breath. I could smell the alcohol on him. “You don’t get to fucking ignore me.” His voice was a growl, something dark curling around the edges. My stomach twisted. My pulse pounded in my ears. And for the first time ever, I wasn’t enjoying it. For the first time ever, I wanted to leave. But I couldn’t. Because I was still me. Still the same idiot who’d let him treat me like shit for years. Still the same idiot who liked the way it felt when he got mean. But this? This wasn’t mean. This was dangerous. His grip tightened on my hoodie. “You think you can just fucking walk away from me?” His voice cracked at the end, and somehow, that made it worse. I forced a smirk, but it was shaky. “Looks like I already did.” His expression twisted into something unreadable. And then— He let go. Just dropped me. I stumbled back, chest heaving, watching him. Henry was shaking. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Leave.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper. I blinked. “What?” His head snapped up, eyes wild. “I said fucking leave!” he shouted, his voice breaking. Something in my chest cracked. I hesitated. Then—slowly—I turned, stepping toward the door. I felt his eyes on me the whole time. And still, I hesitated.
HENRY POV
I don’t even remember making the decision. One second, I was standing there, staring at the door he just walked out of, feeling like my skin didn’t fit right, like my whole body was too small to hold whatever the fuck was burning inside me. The next, I was moving. Fast. I barely even saw the hall, just flashes of color, kids turning their heads, whispers bubbling up as I tore through the crowd, pushing past anyone too slow to move. I knew exactly where he’d go—he always went the same way, cutting through the side hall toward the back exit. I knew it because I knew him. And sure enough—there he was. Patrick. Walking like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just fucking ruined everything. My breath came sharp, jagged. My hands curled into fists. He didn’t hear me coming. Not until it was too late. I slammed into him from behind, shoving him hard. His body lurched forward, arms flying up to catch himself as he staggered. He barely managed to turn around before I was on him. I don’t even know what I said. Something stupid. Something ugly. He smirked, of course. Always had to fucking smirk. And that’s when I hit him. Hard. His head snapped to the side, the sound sharp and satisfying. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close. I hit him again. And again. Felt my knuckles split, skin breaking against his cheekbone, his nose, his mouth. He made a sound—half laugh, half cough—but it barely registered. I shoved him back, sending him crashing into the lockers. He slid down, arms coming up too slow, too late. He wasn’t fighting back. He never fought back. “Think you’re funny, huh?” My voice was hoarse, shaking. “Think you can just fucking leave me?” He looked up at me, dazed, blood dripping from his nose. His mouth curled, slow and lazy. And he fucking smirked. I lost it. I grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, dragging him up just to slam him back down. His head hit the metal with a dull thud. Someone gasped. I barely noticed. Didn’t care. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to get it. I didn’t even realize we had an audience until hands were suddenly grabbing at me, pulling me back. “No—NO—GET OFF ME!” I thrashed, fought, but there were too many. I caught a glimpse of a teacher—What’s his face?—his face twisted in panic as he tried to hold me back. I could hear people yelling. A girl’s voice—Greta?—screaming something, but it was all muffled, like my head was underwater. Patrick didn’t move. Didn’t even try to get up. Just lay there, staring at me, his lip split open, blood pooling in his mouth. And then— He laughed. A quiet, breathy chuckle, barely there. But I heard it. Even through the ringing in my ears, I heard it. And somehow—that hurt worse than anything.
PATRICK POV
I don’t know why I laughed. Or maybe I did. Maybe it was because I’d won. I was still on the floor, my head against the cold metal of the lockers, blood filling my mouth, dripping down my chin. My whole body ached, my ribs screaming with every shallow breath. I probably had a black eye, my nose was a mess, and my lip was split wide open. But I didn’t care. None of it mattered. Because I’d finally done it. I’d broken Henry Bowers. He was still being held back, thrashing like a rabid dog, his face twisted into something monstrous. I’d never seen him like that before. Not when he was pissed at Vic or Belch, not when he was trying to prove something to his dad, not even when he was looking at himself in the mirror like he fucking hated what he saw. This was new. This was different. He wasn’t just angry—he was gone. And I did that. I made him lose it in front of everyone, made him throw his perfect, untouchable reputation into the dirt right along with me. That’s when I felt it. The laughter bubbling up, pushing past the blood and the pain, spilling out in short, breathy gasps. It was weak at first, barely there, but then it grew. A sharp, broken chuckle, then another, then another. My shoulders shook, and I couldn’t stop. “Patrick?” A hand on my arm. Marcia. I turned my head slightly, my vision swimming as I looked up at her. She was crouched beside me, her face pale, eyes wide with something like concern—real, genuine concern. That was new, too. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, not unkindly, just confused. “Why are you laughing?” I licked the blood from my lips, tasting iron and salt. My whole face hurt, but I just grinned, still breathless with laughter. “Because,” I muttered, voice hoarse, “he finally fucking lost.” She blinked at me, her brows furrowing. I could see the gears turning in her head, trying to make sense of it. But she didn’t get it. None of them did. They saw Henry Bowers as some unstoppable force, someone who never cracked, never slipped, never lost control. But I knew better. I knew him. And right now, in this moment, I knew I’d won. He was still shouting, still fighting against the teachers holding him back, but it didn’t matter. Nothing he did next would change the fact that everyone had seen him snap. The whole school had seen him lose his mind over me. And that’s when I knew. I was done. Not just done with the stupid game we played, the back-and-forth, the push-and-pull. No, I was done with him. With all of it. The sneaking around, the mind games, the way he’d look at me like I was nothing one second and then like I was everything the next. The way I let him use me, let him own me, because I thought it was what I wanted. Because I thought that was the closest I’d ever get to something real. But it wasn’t real. It was never real. It was just another one of his power trips, another way to keep me under his thumb. But not anymore. I let out one last breathy laugh before forcing myself to sit up. My body screamed in protest, my head spinning, but I ignored it. Marcia reached out like she was going to help me, but I waved her off. I didn’t need her pity. I glanced up at Henry one last time. His face was red, eyes wild, mouth twisted in a furious snarl. He was still trying to get to me, still pushing against the arms holding him back. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. And for the first time in my life, I pitied him. I spit blood onto the linoleum, wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, and finally—finally—looked away from him. Then I pushed myself to my feet and walked away.
HENRY POV
The clock on the wall was ticking too fucking loud. Every sharp click of the second hand drilled into my skull, over and over and over, like a goddamn hammer to the head. My fists clenched on my knees, knuckles white, dried blood crusted on my fingers. Not my blood. His. I should’ve finished the job. Should’ve kept swinging, kept pounding that smug fucking look off his face until there was nothing left but pulp. But no—no—I had to be pulled off him like some rabid animal, dragged away while he just sat there laughing at me. Laughing. Even now, even after everything, I could still hear it. That breathless, broken cackle rattling around in my head like a fucking echo. He thought he won. And maybe he did. I stared down at my hands, flexing my fingers, feeling the sting in my knuckles. The principal’s office smelled like old coffee and cheap air freshener, the kind that burned your nose and didn’t cover up shit. My head was pounding, my whole body was still buzzing, and I was pissed. Not just at him. Not just at myself. At everything. The door creaked open. I didn’t look up. Didn’t have to. I could smell her perfume before she even sat down—the sharp, sickly-sweet kind that clung to the back of your throat. Then the scrape of a chair against the floor, the soft rustling of fabric. “Henry.” Her voice was light. Almost careful. Like I was a child. I clenched my teeth. Didn’t answer. The principal, some balding prick in a stiff button-up, cleared his throat. He had that look on his face—like he didn’t want to deal with this, but he had to. Probably pissed that he had to call my stepmom instead of my old man. That was the last thing he wanted. Couldn’t blame him. “Mrs. Bowers,” he started, folding his hands on his desk, “I’m sure you understand why I called you here today.” My stepmom let out a soft sigh, shifting in her seat. “Of course.” She didn’t even sound surprised. I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had trouble with Henry,” the principal continued, his tone just short of frustrated, like he was trying real hard to keep it professional. “But this? This is serious. A violent, public altercation. In front of half the school.” I could feel him looking at me, waiting for me to say something. I didn’t. Just stared at the ugly-ass carpet, my jaw locked so tight it ached. “I understand,” my stepmom said, all polite and put-together. “And I’m so sorry about this. Truly. Henry knows better.” Her tone was light. Sweet. Fake as fuck. The principal let out a breath, like he wasn’t buying a word of it. “Your son is suspended for two weeks. Effective immediately.” That got me to look up. Two weeks? “What?” I snapped, my voice sharp, coming out before I could stop it. The principal narrowed his eyes at me. “You heard me, Bowers.” I gritted my teeth. Bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. Two weeks. Fuck. I didn’t even care about school, but this? This was bad. Dad was gonna lose his shit. “Now, under normal circumstances, I’d push for expulsion,” the principal continued. “But Patrick—” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “—has decided not to press charges.” I stiffened. Patrick. Not pressing charges. Why? After what I did—after I beat the shit out of him—he could’ve easily fucked me over. Gotten me kicked out, thrown in juvie, sent my whole goddamn life spiraling even more than it already was. But he didn’t. Why? My fingers curled into fists again, pressing into my knees. “I hope,” the principal went on, “you understand the severity of this, Henry. This is not how a young man should behave.” I didn’t answer. Just stared through him, the words barely registering. Patrick wasn’t pressing charges. He should’ve. He should’ve. My stepmom put a hand on my arm, her nails light against my sleeve. “Thank you, Mr. Allen,” she said smoothly. “I’ll make sure Henry understands the consequences of his actions.” The principal exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “I hope so, Mrs. Bowers.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Because next time? There won’t be any leniency.” I barely heard him. Patrick wasn’t pressing charges. And I didn’t know if that made me feel relieved. Or if it made me want to rip my own fucking skin off. The car felt suffocating. Rain tapped against the windshield in a steady rhythm, the wipers dragging across the glass, clearing it away just to be blurred again. The air smelled like damp pavement, and the heater hummed low, pushing out a warmth that made my skin itch. I kept my eyes forward, slouched low in the seat, my arms crossed so tight my fingers dug into my arms. My knuckles still ached from the fight, skin raw from where I’d split them against Patrick’s face. I flexed my hand, watching the way the bruises were already blooming, veins pulsing beneath the surface. She hadn’t said a word yet. That was worse than the alternative. I could feel it, the weight of her glances—soft, hesitant, like she was picking her moment. Like she actually thought there was a right moment to bring it up. I shifted, stretching my leg out and knocking my knee against the glove compartment, letting it slam shut louder than necessary. Just to cut through the silence. It didn’t work. She was still thinking. Still waiting. Still looking at me like I was something fragile instead of something dangerous. I clenched my teeth. The rain picked up. The streetlights blurred past in smears of gold, casting long shadows through the windows. I could hear her sigh, quiet, like she was exhaling a thought before it could turn into words. I wasn’t gonna be that lucky. “Henry.” I didn’t answer. She adjusted her grip on the wheel, fingers flexing, like she was steadying herself. “What happened today—” “Nothing.” She let that sit for a second. Then: “Henry.” I huffed, turning my head away, watching the rain streak the window. “What?” Another pause. She exhaled slowly, shifting lanes. “I’m worried about you.” I rolled my eyes. “Okay.” “I mean it.” “Yeah? That’s new.” Her fingers gripped the wheel tighter. She didn’t take the bait. “You’ve been different lately.” I didn’t respond. “You’re spiraling.” Her voice softened. “I see it.” I scoffed. “You don’t see shit.” “I see more than you think.” I turned to her then, finally looking her in the face. “Like what?” She hesitated. I saw the way she glanced at me from the corner of her eye, like she was afraid to push too far, but already knew she had to. “Like Patrick,” she said finally. My stomach twisted. I snapped my head back toward the window, shoving my hand into my pocket, feeling for my lighter before remembering I didn’t have it. I curled my fingers into a fist instead, nails pressing into my palm. She sighed again, softer this time. “I’m not blind, Henry.” I gritted my teeth. “I saw the way you were with him.” I clenched my jaw harder. She kept going, voice careful. “I saw the way you treated him. And the way he treated you.” I laughed dryly, shaking my head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She ignored that. “And now it’s over, isn’t it?” Something inside me lurched. I swallowed, staring hard at the rain-slick streets outside. My throat felt tight, like something was caught in it. “I don’t know what happened between you two,” she said, “but I know what it’s doing to you.” I felt my jaw tick. “Yeah? And what’s that?” She hesitated. “It’s making you into him.” I turned to her sharply, anger flaring up like a hot iron in my gut. “Shut up.” She inhaled sharply, but didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. That made it worse. “I’m serious, Henry,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road. “You’re getting worse. You’re angry all the time. You lash out, you hurt people—you hurt yourself.” I scoffed. “What the hell do you care?” Her knuckles whitened against the wheel. “Because I don’t want you to become him.” I swallowed hard. That name, that comparison, was like bile in my throat. “You’re better than this,” she continued, voice even. “Better than him. You don’t have to be like this.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah?” I turned to her, a sneer curling my lips. “What makes you so sure?” She pulled into the driveway then, shifting the car into park, but didn’t move to get out. She turned to me, eyes searching, soft but firm. “Because I’ve seen you before.” I stiffened. “I’ve seen this before,” she continued. “I’ve lived this before.” I looked away, staring hard at the dashboard. She hesitated, then reached out—slow, careful—like she thought I might snap if she moved too fast. “I know what it’s like,” she said softly. “To be stuck in something that eats you alive.” My breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to love someone who hurts you,” she whispered. “And to hurt someone because you love them.” I swallowed hard, my throat dry. She hesitated again, fingers curling in her lap. Then, even softer: “I know what it’s like to be afraid you’re turning into the person you hate the most.” The words sat between us, heavy and sharp. My fingers twitched. My stomach twisted. I gritted my teeth, hands curling into fists. I couldn’t listen to this. I wouldn’t. I shoved the door open and stepped out, slamming it behind me, storming toward the house. My heart was pounding too fast, my breath too shallow, my whole body buzzing like live wire. I heard her get out behind me, footsteps crunching against the gravel. “Henry—” “Leave me alone!” I barked, throwing the front door open so hard it smacked against the wall. I didn’t wait for her to answer. Didn’t wait for anything. I stormed upstairs, into my room, and slammed the door shut. And then I just stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched. I pulled my phone out, flipping it open with shaking hands. Nothing. No messages. No calls. Nothing. Patrick was really done. And I— I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I stood in the middle of my room, staring at the clutter around me. The walls were closing in like they always did when I felt like this—like there was too much noise in my head, too much pressure from every direction. Everything was too loud. Too much. Her words echoed through my mind like they’d been branded into my skull. “I’ve seen this before.” I rubbed my face hard with both hands, my fingers digging into my skin, as if I could wipe away the thoughts with enough force. But they stayed.
‘I’ve seen this before.’
I could almost hear her voice, so soft, yet clear, like a warning. Something in me had always known that she was watching, always knew she was waiting for me to change. Waiting for me to become something. But I didn’t know it would be like this—this bad. I didn’t know I’d end up like him. The thought was suffocating. My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I needed—what? An escape? A way out? There was nowhere left to go. I felt the sweat on my palms, my fingers twitching, my heart pounding, like I was on the verge of something breaking. I threw myself onto the bed, curling up in the dark. It was easier this way. Just staying in my own head, closing the world out. That was always easier than facing the truth. But now… now I couldn’t stop thinking about it. She was right, wasn’t she? She had to be. I wasn’t just turning into someone I hated, I already had. I was already him, and I didn’t even realize it. I grabbed my phone from the bed, opening it and staring at the blank screen. No calls. No texts. Nothing from Patrick. No nothing. I tried to remember the last time he’d looked at me like he cared. Maybe before it all fell apart. Maybe when he didn’t know how deep I had dragged him in. But that wasn’t even the point, was it? The point was that he left. And I didn’t stop him. I didn’t chase him down like I wanted to. I didn’t fix it. I let it go. I wasn’t just angry. I was scared. Scared of losing him, but also scared of what I’d become without him. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror anymore. I couldn’t. I wasn’t just angry—I hated myself. I wasn’t even mad at him anymore. What could I be? What was there to be mad at him about? He was right to leave. He was better than me. The thing was, I never thought he would actually do it. I never thought he would get away. Now I was trapped with this realization that I wasn’t enough for him, and he knew it. He knew what I was—what I was capable of. I took a breath, squeezing my eyes shut as the weight of the thought hit me like a fist to the gut. I wanted him back. And I hated that I couldn’t fix this. There was nothing left to fix, was there? I was already too far gone. I stared at the ceiling, trying to force my brain into stillness, but it was like trying to quiet a hurricane with a whisper. Every thought just spun faster, louder. Patrick. My stepmother’s words. The feeling in my chest that was too tight, too cold, to be anything but regret. My hands trembled, and I clenched them into fists, burying them under my pillow as if that would stop the storm inside me. I was suffocating on the memory of him—how I couldn’t hold him back, how he walked away without a single look back. I couldn’t even blame him, could I? What was I even holding onto? The relationship we’d had? What was left of it, really? I had been cruel to him. The anger I’d wrapped myself in had been so thick, so consuming, I didn’t even realize how much it was turning me into a person I couldn’t stand. A person who took, who controlled, who pushed until there was nothing left. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t even know if I wanted to be the person I had been before Patrick—before all of this. That was the worst part, wasn’t it? I didn’t know what I was anymore. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was late. Too late. My room was dark except for the faint glow from the streetlight outside the window. I hated it. I hated the silence. I hated the stillness. It made everything so much worse. I picked up my phone again, my fingers shaking as I scrolled through my contacts, stopping at Patrick’s name. I didn’t even have a clear thought in my mind when I pressed his contact. The phone rang once, twice, then straight to voicemail. I wanted to scream. I should have screamed. I should have begged him to pick up, but my pride—the same pride I hated myself for—stopped me. I couldn’t do this. Not like this. But the emptiness, the loneliness… it was crushing. I had pushed too far. He was never coming back. I knew that. But something—something—made me keep dialing. Maybe I wanted him to yell at me. Maybe I wanted him to say it to my face. To tell me how much I had ruined everything. But I didn’t hear his voice. I didn’t hear the sound of his anger or pain. I heard nothing. And that nothing was worse than anything he could’ve said. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to hear him yell at me. To say something. Anything. But it was silent. Completely silent. I threw my phone down on the bed and ran my hands through my hair, fighting the urge to slam my fist against the wall. How had it come to this? I kept asking myself that. And the answer was simple: I had chosen this. Every step, every moment, I had chosen to keep pushing. To keep taking. To keep making him feel like he was never enough for me. And now, I was here. Alone. And it felt worse than any punch. Worse than any fight. I had ruined everything. And I knew, deep down, that this was the moment it all came crashing down. No going back. I couldn’t stop thinking about what my stepmother had said. It was eating at me, digging under my skin, making everything feel even more suffocating. She had looked at me with those sad eyes, the ones that tried so hard to understand me, and I just shut it all out. She knew what I’d done to Patrick—she didn’t know everything, but she knew enough to see the cracks in me. And that was the part that made me furious. She saw through it. She saw through the act I’d been putting on, the hard shell I’d wrapped myself in to keep anyone from getting too close. It was all falling apart now, wasn’t it? And I was fucking helpless to stop it. I kept seeing Patrick’s face—the way his eyes had looked when I’d lost control, when I’d crossed that line. I’d been so caught up in my anger, in my need to be in control, I hadn’t even seen how it was destroying him. I hated how weak I felt now. Like I had let go of everything that kept me grounded. And what was worse was how fucking pathetic I felt about it. How badly I wanted to undo everything I’d done. But I knew I couldn’t. I lay back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling again, forcing my mind to clear. The anger wasn’t helping. The desperation wasn’t helping. I needed to figure this out. I needed to get a grip on myself before I really lost everything. I reached for my phone again, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I knew he wasn’t going to answer. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I wanted him to. But I sent the message anyway. A simple one. I’m sorry. It was all I could say. I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know how to make it right. But I had to try. I had to.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The message just sat there on my screen, glaring back at me, making me feel even more pathetic than before. I’m sorry. That was it. That was all I could come up with after everything I’d done? It was useless. He wasn’t going to answer. Patrick didn’t do apologies, not when they came from me. Not after what I’d put him through. And honestly? I didn’t blame him. I threw my phone onto my nightstand, face-down, and stared at the ceiling, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. I felt like a caged animal, like my own body was too fucking tight for me. I wanted to hit something, break something, just to feel like I had some kind of control. But I knew it wouldn’t fix anything. It never did. My stepmother’s words kept circling in my head like vultures, picking me apart piece by piece. ‘You’re turning into him.’ ‘I know what he did to you, Henry. I know what he did to me.” ‘Don’t let this destroy you.’ Like I had a fucking choice. I hated how much she’d seen, how much she understood. Because if she was right, if I really was turning into him… then what the fuck did that make me? I’d spent my whole life resenting that man, hating him for every bruise, every word, every goddamn lesson he tried to beat into me. And yet here I was. Acting just like him. I sat up too fast, my vision swimming for a second before settling. I couldn’t stay in here. I felt trapped, like the walls were pressing in, like I was being suffocated under the weight of my own thoughts. I needed to get out. Needed air. Grabbing my jacket, I stomped out of my room, down the stairs. My stepmother was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, but she didn’t say anything as I passed. Just looked at me, her face unreadable. I ignored her. I didn’t need another lecture. I needed to clear my head. The cold air hit me the second I stepped outside, sharp against my skin, but I didn’t care. I started walking, not even sure where I was going, just knowing I had to move. But my feet knew the way. Even before I could stop myself, I was heading toward Patrick’s neighborhood. My feet felt like they were moving on their own, like I had no real control over where I was going. But deep down, I knew. The second I stepped off my street and made the turn toward Patrick’s neighborhood, I knew exactly where I was headed. His house was dark except for the glow of a TV through the living room window. I hesitated at the curb, my breath clouding in the cold air. What the fuck was I even doing? I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know what I was gonna say. I just knew that I needed to see him. Before I could talk myself out of it, I walked up the porch steps and knocked. Three hard raps against the wood. My knuckles stung, but I didn’t move, didn’t back down. My pulse pounded in my ears as I waited. Nothing. I knocked again, louder this time. My jaw clenched, irritation crawling under my skin. He was home—I knew he was home. His bike was out front. His bedroom light had been on when I walked up. I knocked again, fist tightening. “Patrick.” My voice came out rough, strained. “Open the goddamn door.” Silence. Then, just barely, I heard something. The sound of movement inside. I leaned in slightly, my breath fogging against the door. “I know you’re in there, man.” My voice lowered, a little more desperate than I wanted it to be. “C’mon. Just—just talk to me.” Still nothing. My teeth ground together. “Fine,” I muttered, taking a step back. “Be a little bitch about it.” My hands curled into fists at my sides. I felt like I was gonna explode, like something inside me was coming apart at the seams. He was really gonna do this? Just act like I didn’t fucking exist? I kicked the bottom of the door, not enough to break it, just enough to rattle it in the frame. “You can’t just ignore me, Hockstetter,” I snapped, my voice rising. “You don’t get to fucking do that.” More silence. My breathing was heavy, my head buzzing with frustration. I turned away, pacing the porch, running a hand through my hair. My fingers were shaking. I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from this. From him. From the way he always knew exactly how to get under my skin. “Fuckin’ coward,” I muttered under my breath. And then, just as I was about to give up— The door unlocked. Patrick stood in the doorway, bathed in the flickering light from the TV behind him. His face was unreadable at first, half-shadowed, his eyes dark and narrowed like he was sizing me up. But then—then I really looked at him. He was staring at me like I was some kind of rabid animal. Like I was unpredictable, dangerous, something to be wary of. And for some reason, that look alone knocked the air out of my lungs. My whole body went rigid. My tough guy persona—the one I had perfected over the years, the one I wore like armor—suddenly felt flimsy, like a mask that had slipped just enough to expose what was underneath. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Patrick cocked his head slightly, arms folding over his chest, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see me. Like he knew I’d come crawling back eventually. “What,” he said, flatly. I swallowed. My throat was dry. “I—” I forced out, then stopped, because what the fuck was I even supposed to say? I didn’t mean to lose my shit on you in front of the whole school. I don’t know why I keep doing this, why I can’t let you go, why I feel like I’m unraveling every second you’re not around. I fucking hate you for making me feel like this. But I couldn’t say any of that. So I just scowled instead, shifting my weight, trying to force my usual smugness back into place. “You really weren’t gonna answer?” I muttered, as if I hadn’t just been standing outside his door like a pathetic idiot for the past five minutes. Patrick raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Why would I?” That stung more than it should have. I clenched my jaw. “Because I wanted to talk.” Patrick let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah? That’s new.” He shifted slightly, eyes dragging over me like he was peeling back layers of my bullshit. And then, in that soft, mocking tone that always made my blood boil, he said, “What, Henry? You gonna hit me again?” I froze. My fists curled at my sides, and for a split second, I wanted to. Not because I was mad, not because I actually wanted to hurt him, but because it would’ve been easier than standing here, feeling exposed, feeling like I was bleeding out under his gaze. He smirked, watching me. He fucking knew. Knew that I had no real power here. Knew that for the first time in our entire fucked-up thing, I was the one on the losing side. And I fucking hated him for it. Patrick’s smirk lingered, lazy and knowing, like he was enjoying this—like he was drinking in the sight of me standing here, fists clenched, jaw locked, absolutely seething but unable to do a damn thing about it. I should’ve been pissed. I should’ve swung. That’s what my dad would’ve done. That’s what I always did when I felt backed into a corner, when I felt like I was losing control. But this time, I didn’t. I just stood there, glaring, my pulse hammering so hard in my skull it drowned out the TV buzzing in the background. Patrick shifted, tilting his head slightly, the amusement never quite leaving his face. “You done?” I exhaled sharply through my nose. “I’m trying to talk, asshole.” His lips twitched like he wanted to laugh. “Yeah? Well, talk.” I ran a hand through my hair, dragging my fingers through the knots at the back of my skull. My skin felt hot, itchy, like I needed to move, needed to do something, needed to fix whatever the fuck this was before it completely slipped through my fingers. But I didn’t even know what I was trying to fix. Patrick leaned against the doorframe, all casual and unimpressed, like I hadn’t beat the shit out of him in front of everyone just yesterday. Like he wasn’t standing here with the faintest hint of bruising along his cheekbone, a tiny cut just above his eyebrow. I swallowed, but my throat still felt raw. “I—” My voice cracked slightly, and I immediately clenched my jaw to hide it. “I just…” Patrick raised his brows expectantly, waiting. And that was the worst fucking part. That he wasn’t angry. That he wasn’t scared. That he wasn’t even pushing me away. Because if he was, maybe this would’ve been easier. Maybe I could’ve just told myself he was a piece of shit like everyone else, that he deserved whatever I gave him, that I wasn’t the bad guy, he was. But he was just standing there. Watching. Waiting. Like he already knew exactly how this would go. Like he already knew me. I exhaled, trying to shake the sudden weight pressing against my ribs. “Look,” I muttered, voice tight, “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Patrick blinked. “I don’t want you to say anything.” I frowned, caught off guard. “What?” He shrugged one shoulder, lazy. “I don’t want anything from you, Henry.” His voice was light, but something about it felt off, felt final, like a door locking between us. And that was when it really hit me. I had already lost. I had lost the second I let him see me like this, the second I let myself care about whether or not he answered the door. Patrick had won. And the worst part? He wasn’t even fucking gloating about it. I let out a breath, stepping back onto the porch, suddenly feeling too big for my own skin. “Whatever,” I muttered, voice hollow. Patrick just nodded, barely even looking at me anymore. “Yeah. Whatever.” And then, before I could even think of something else to say, he shut the door in my face. The door clicked shut. I stood there for a second, staring at the chipped paint, at the spot where Patrick had just been. My hands curled into fists at my sides, then unclenched, like even my body didn’t know what the hell to do with itself. This was supposed to go differently. I don’t know how, exactly. I don’t know if I thought he’d let me in, or if we’d start arguing again, or if I’d just yell at him until something inside me finally felt normal again. But not this. Not him looking at me like I was just some wild animal scratching at his doorstep, like I wasn’t even worth being mad at anymore. My jaw tightened. I should leave. There was nothing left to do here. But my throat felt tight, like something was wedged deep down, something thick and fucking pathetic, and before I could stop myself, before I could shove it back down where it belonged, the words slipped out. “…I’m sorry.” It was barely more than a whisper, lost in the night air, swallowed up by the sound of distant cars and a barking dog down the street. But it was there. And it made me feel sick. I turned fast, practically stumbling down the porch steps like I could outrun whatever the fuck had just come over me. I shouldn’t have come here. Shouldn’t have tried. Shouldn’t have let him see me like this. Because he did see me. And that was the worst part of all. I walked fast, almost tripping over the cracks in the pavement, not stopping, not even thinking about stopping, until I was finally home. I pushed the front door open and the house was dark, quiet. My dad was passed out in his chair, TV still buzzing faintly. I didn’t bother waking him. Didn’t bother turning on a light. Just went straight to my room, locking the door behind me. I stood there for a second, breathing hard, my knuckles aching from clenching my fists too tight. Then I grabbed the nearest thing—a lamp—and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall, pieces scattering across the floor. But it didn’t make me feel any better. Nothing ever fucking did. I didn’t even hear her coming. One second, I was standing in the wreckage of my own mess, breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. The next, the door creaked open, just slightly, light from the hallway spilling into the dark. And there she was. She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me, looked at the broken lamp, the way my hands were shaking at my sides. Her expression was soft. Sad. Like she actually cared. That should’ve pissed me off. Should’ve made me snap at her, tell her to get out, that it wasn’t any of her business. But I just stood there, breathing through my teeth, trying to keep it together. “…Henry.” She stepped inside, careful, like she was approaching some wounded animal. And maybe that’s what I was. Some rabid dog foaming at the mouth, biting at the hands that tried to help it. She sighed, shutting the door behind her, but didn’t move closer. Didn’t push. “I know you don’t want to hear anything from me right now,” she said, her voice calm. “And that’s okay. But I couldn’t just ignore—” “I push everybody away.” It came out hoarse. Raw. I didn’t even know I was going to say it. Her brows pulled together. “Henry…” “I hurt everybody,” I said again, voice cracking. My breathing was shaky, and my hands were still curled into fists, nails digging into my palms. “I did it to Patrick, I do it to my own fucking friends. I—I did it to her.” I didn’t have to say who. We both knew. My mother. My mother, who I treated like shit. I looked away, staring hard at the broken lamp, at the mess I made, at anything but her face. “She tried,” I muttered. “She tried with me, and I—I just…” My throat felt tight, the words clogging up like a lump I couldn’t swallow down. “I was just like him to her.” I felt her move before I saw her, her arms wrapping around me, soft, warm. She smelled like something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or whatever perfume she always wore. It hit me hard, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I just let go. I didn’t fight it. Didn’t tell her to get off me, or shove her away, or pretend I wasn’t falling apart from the inside out. I just collapsed into her arms. And for the first time, I let myself break. I couldn’t stop it. The shaking, the burning in my throat, the way my whole body locked up before crumbling under the weight of everything I’d been shoving down for years. I barely even realized I was sobbing until she held me tighter, rubbing slow, steady circles into my back. My hands clenched in her sweater, desperate, like I needed to hold onto something real before I slipped through the cracks completely. I hated crying. Hated feeling like this, weak and open and exposed. But I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. “I—” My voice broke, ugly and raw, face buried in her shoulder. “I was like him. I was just like him—” “Henry, no,” she said firmly, pulling back just enough to cup my face in her hands. I tried to turn away, but she wouldn’t let me. Made me look at her. Her eyes were shining, filled with something I didn’t deserve. Love. Understanding. I shook my head. “She left, and I—” She pressed a hand against my cheek, warm, grounding. “Your mother didn’t leave you, Henry.” My breath hitched. “She loved you more than anything. It was your father she couldn’t stay with.” She brushed my hair back, gentle, like she actually cared about the kid I used to be. The one I stopped being a long time ago. I stared at her, my vision still blurry from the tears, my body still trembling from everything unraveling at once. “She never said that.” “Because she didn’t want you to feel like you had to pick sides.” She sighed, like she was carrying this weight too. “But I was there, Henry. I saw it. I knew her. She was my friend long before she was your mother.” I swallowed thickly, my hands still gripping the fabric of her sweater like a lifeline. “She used to tell me about you all the time,” she continued, voice softer now, distant. “Back when you were still little. She’d go on and on about how smart you were, how much trouble you’d get into—but in a funny way, not a bad one. She used to say you had this… spark in you.” A small, sad smile pulled at her lips. “She’d say, ‘Henry’s gonna be someone one day. He’s got that fire, you know? He’s gonna be something big.’” I clenched my jaw, squeezing my eyes shut. “Well, she was wrong.” “She wasn’t.” She shook her head, brushing her thumb over my cheek. “But your father wanted to put that fire out. And you let him.” That hit like a punch to the gut. I opened my mouth to argue, to deny it, but nothing came out. Because she was right. Every time I beat someone down, every time I lashed out, every time I let the rage in me fester and rot—I was turning into him. I thought about the way my father would scream, the way he’d look at me. Like I was a disappointment. Like I was just another thing to be broken, controlled. I thought about the way I’d always sworn I wouldn’t be like him. And then I thought about Patrick. About how I treated him like shit. About the way he looked at me, terrified for once, really scared, because he knew I’d lost it. And all I could see in my own reflection was him. I felt another sob choke its way out of my throat, and she just held me through it, whispering soft reassurances, like it wasn’t too late. Like I could still come back from this. But I didn’t know if I could. I didn’t know if I even deserved to. The room felt smaller, quieter, like the whole world had dimmed down to just the two of us. I sat there, still curled against her, my breathing uneven, face hot and sticky with dried tears. She hadn’t let go, hadn’t told me to pull myself together, hadn’t looked at me with disgust like my father would have. Instead, she just stayed. Just held me. It’d been so long since someone did that. I closed my eyes, leaning into the warmth of her. And for the first time in years, I thought about her. My mom. I thought about the way I used to run to her when I was little, throwing myself into her arms when things got bad. How she’d hush me, whisper that everything was okay even when I knew it wasn’t. She’d let me cry. Let me be weak. I remembered the way I’d wipe my tears on her shirt, little hands grabbing at her sleeves, desperate to make her stay. I remembered the way she’d stroke my hair, pressing soft kisses against my forehead even when her own face was bruised. I used to cry for her as much as I cried for myself. I’d watch my father knock her down and hate how small she looked, how helpless I was to stop it. I’d scream, try to put myself between them, but I was nothing to him. Just another thing to beat down. And when it was over, when she was curled up on the floor or gripping the counter to steady herself, I’d always grab onto her, burying my face in her stomach, choking on sobs. “Don’t go,” I used to whisper, again and again, clinging so hard I thought my fingers would snap. And she’d just press her hand against the back of my head, pulling me in. “I’m here, baby.” I swallowed, hard, forcing the memory back down. I hated thinking about her. Hated remembering what it felt like to lose her. She was gone for good, I knew that. She wasn’t here. Hadn’t been in years. I felt my stepmother shift slightly, probably thinking I was finally calming down. And maybe I was. Or maybe I was just exhausted. We sat there in silence, the weight of everything sitting heavy between us. It was strange. Being here like this, letting her hold me the way my mom used to. For a second, it almost felt real. Like she was really my mother, and I was really just some dumb kid who needed her. But the moment passed. And I wasn’t a kid anymore. I pulled back slowly, wiping my face on my sleeve, forcing myself to straighten up. She let me go, but her eyes stayed soft, searching mine like she could still see the mess of emotions swirling inside me. “You don’t have to say anything,” she murmured. “Not if you don’t want to.” I didn’t. I couldn’t. So I just nodded. She sighed but didn’t push. Instead, she reached out and squeezed my arm, grounding, familiar. “I’m not your mom. I know that. And I’m not trying to replace her.” A pause. “But I do care about you, Henry. Whether you like it or not.” Something in me tensed, gut twisting at the words. I didn’t like it. Didn’t like that she looked at me and saw someone worth caring about. Didn’t like that she still sat here with me, still treated me like I was salvageable when I knew damn well I wasn’t. But I didn’t tell her that. Because, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to push her away. The room had settled into silence again, thick and heavy like a storm cloud refusing to break. I could still feel the warmth of her touch lingering on my arm, even though she’d pulled away. She wasn’t looking at me like I was some kind of lost cause, like I was my father’s second coming. And I hated how much that got to me. I sat there, staring at my hands, tracing the bruised knuckles, the dried blood crusted in the creases of my skin. My hands shook a little, whether from exhaustion or something else, I didn’t know. I expected her to say something soft, something reassuring. Maybe even tell me she’d always be there for me or some other sickeningly sweet bullshit that I wouldn’t believe anyway. But she didn’t. Instead, she asked the one thing I hadn’t let myself think about. “Did you truly love Patrick?” The words sliced through the quiet like a knife. I stiffened, something cold gripping my chest. She didn’t sound accusing, didn’t sound disgusted. It wasn’t like how my father would’ve said it, like she was waiting for me to deny it, to spit and swear and act like it was the most ridiculous thing she could’ve asked. She just asked. Plain. Simple. Honest. I clenched my jaw, fists balling up in my lap. I wanted to say no. I needed to say no. I wanted to scoff, roll my eyes, call her crazy for even thinking that. But the words wouldn’t come. Because the second she asked, my mind went straight to him. Patrick. Patrick with his sharp grin and lazy drawl, the way he always looked at me like he knew something I didn’t. Patrick laughing, smirking, egging me on. Patrick pressed up against me, whispering things that should’ve made me shove him away but never did. Patrick took whatever I gave him, whether it was a punch to the ribs or a bruising kiss, like he was grateful for either. Patrick walked away. Blocking my number. Looking at me like I was some kind of rabid animal when I showed up at his door. I swallowed hard, throat tight. I had owned him. He was mine. I never had to think about loving him or not, because it didn’t matter. He was there. Always there. Until he wasn’t. I felt my stepmother’s eyes on me, waiting. I should’ve just lied. Should’ve told her no and shut this conversation down before it turned into something I couldn’t control. But I didn’t. I just sat there, gripping my knees so hard my knuckles went white, and said nothing.