When I wake up, I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place
When I wake up, I'm afraid, somebody else might end up being me

—The Neighbourhood : Afraid

Strike.

Blood was running down his spine, and he could feel his own voice growing hoarse as he screamed once again, the leather of the belt cutting across his skin and breaking apart his flesh. He buried his face in the pillow—no, he sank his head into it, forcing his temples to dig into the soft material, biting into it in hopes of distracting the pain on his back away.

Go away, go away. Stop. Stop.

Hot tears were running in flecks onto his cheek and he shrieked for all his worth, begging his abuser to stop. His nails raked against the walls as he felt the belt lash against the back of his knee: it was painful. But he couldn’t even put up a fight anymore; his small fists were skinned and bruised, and if he were to run, he’d damage his legs further. He begged and pleaded for him to stop, crying out for his long-gone mother, when he felt a fat fist grabbed a handful of his hair.

“Stop! Stop it, it hurts! It hurts!” he tried to claw away at the wrist that grabbed his hair, but he felt a boot suddenly jam into his stomach and he uproariously coughed with blood, his throat gagging at the sudden thick liquid that filled his lungs and dripping down his chin. Like a ragdoll, he could feel himself being dragged across the floor, resulting in dragged blood tracks on the tiles, and across the long garden grass—the grass that had once been beautifully trimmed by his mother, before a monster let it grow wild like a gnarly, tangled beast.

The long blades of grass were cutting into his thighs, but he still kicked and fought for his life, even if he couldn’t scream anymore. His teeth was snapping at imaginary monsters in the air—but the real monster was dragging him up the old treehouse by his skinny helpless arms.

“I hate you! I hope you rot in hell, bastard!” he said once his mouth was completely disposed of blood; but the liquid was spattered everywhere like freckles across his face, and like a paint splatter on his mouth. The same boot now rammed against his ribs and he fell backwards into the wooden floor of the treehouse, and he felt his head jerk back in response—his eyes were rolling towards the back of his head. The boot pressed into his skinned cheek and he felt an immeasurable pressure on his jaw, and he felt something being tied and looped around his neck.

“If you can’t behave like a human, then I’ll treat you like a dog.” was the sentence that was hissed onto his ear. He spat on the monster’s face—a hateful spit, mixed in with his blood and saliva. If it were to be the last thing he did, then he was sure proud of himself—the monster got angrier.

Then the monster tied the other end of the rope on a branch, and simply left and locked the door. The monster’s victim roared angrily and tried to free himself of the thing that was bound into his neck, and he rammed the door with his shoulders repeatedly again and again.

Then the hinges gave its last cry and popped, and the door burst open. Though the boy hadn’t had time to steady himself and he slipped against the tree trunk—and, although the rope wasn’t long and the distance wasn’t enough to snap his neck, what the next-door neighbour saw was a skinny bloody boy hanging limply on a rope by his neck, gently rocking back and forth in the breezy wind of the early spring.

Chanyeol woke up in a half-empty bed, occupied by only himself.

For a moment, he thought that he was back in his own home, and his knees automatically shot up and bent in fear, his long fingers grabbing the sheets, a cold sweat running down his brow. But as his vision grew clear and he realised that he was still in Baekhyun’s limited household, his body relaxed and he let out a sigh of relief.

Though… where was the master of the house himself?

“B… Baekhyun?” Chanyeol called out in a groggy voice, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. When no monotonous voice of Baekhyun’s replied back to him, he shot up and looked under the blankets to see if he was curled up really small—but the bed was empty, with only one occupant: himself.

Fear and panic struck a chord into his head, and Chanyeol dizzily tried to find him. He went around the garden to see if he was lying down there having a joint (though it was clearly impossible—the snow grew into two feet thick overnight), checked up on the rooftops and even went through the whole house itself, seeing if Baekhyun had taken a fancy to stroll around the rotting unused rooms. But there was no trace of him anywhere.

Chanyeol checked if Baekhyun left a note for him at all, seeing if he had overlooked things. But Baekhyun made no note at all, and if he had gone out of the house, the snow had covered his footprints.

Worry surged through Chanyeol’s veins, and images flashed across his head. What if Baekhyun got kidnapped? What if Baekhyun got himself into trouble? What if he was caught stealing something? What if—

. . .

…Oh… no…

He let out a small yelp at this. Frustrated, he held his head and tried not to overthink the situation. Baekhyun—where could Baekhyun have gone? He probably went to the swimming pool to have a shower. He probably went around to the dumping grounds to collect somethings. He probably went around the shops to steal a few things. He could be—

He could probably be lying dead somewhere with a needle still stuck in his arm, overdosed.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Chanyeol roared, jamming his feet onto his sneakers and pulling on his coat. He burst through the door and ran through the garden to the front of the house, his legs swinging wildly as he ran, the December wind biting back into his skin. He halted into a turn and burst through the swimming centre, stopping short at the confused receptionist.

“H-Hi, there—“ he gasped, leaning on the marble table of the reception. “B-By any chance, did you see—h-hahh… uh, a short male coming over here? H-He’s got dark hair with the same colour eyes, h-he’s pretty skinny—and… and he has a scar around his neck… H-He’s called Baekhyun?”

The receptionist looked rather wacked for a second, before his eyes widened.

“O-Oh—was that your friend that you always come here with?”
“Y-Yeah, that one! H-Has he came by here?”
“No, I don’t think so… I’ve been in shift here since morning and I haven’t seen him—sir?”

Before he could even finish, Chanyeol was already exiting the building, calling out Baekhyun’s name, hoarsely shouting it on top of his lungs. He searched in through every shops and round through the park, asking a several few people had seen him…

Then there was a familiar figure—but not the one he was looking for. But he ran up to him anyways, running madly up to him—

“Tao! Tao!”

“Ooh, I quite like that one, that’s pretty cute…”
“Hey baby—I think someone’s calling you.”

Chanyeol just skidded in halt in time to avoid bumping into Tao—and somebody else, taller than him, whom Chanyeol assumed was his fiancé Kris. He bent down and gasped for breath, recollecting his senses.

“Up for a morning jog, Chanyeol?” Tao chuckled, nudging his fiancé, whom he had linked arms with. Chanyeol straig