Chapter 8

There is this weird poking sensation that keeps jabbing him on his side. At first he thinks he is dreaming, but it only grows to be more and more vivid. He turns a bit and when he opens his eyes, he finds himself facing the devil herself. Gasping, even if it is all blurry without his glasses, he sits up and backs away. But that doesn't stop her from pulling him right into her hands. 

“Did you think you could get away from me?” The voice of meance says as she continues to rattle him by his collar, and he shakes his head in an attempt to remove her tight grasp. Eventually, she throws his weak body onto the floor. “You think it's fair to have us suffer and you come out clean? I don't think so.” Her hair is all disheveled and she wreaks of alcohol. And as she comes closer and closer towards him, he backs further and further away from her. 

“Get a-away from me!” His lips quiver as he tries to stand back up, and it enters his mind that they are not alone; there are more people in the house. Witnesses! She pulls him by the hem of his shirt and he begins to shout, “Help! Somebody please help! T-Tao!” He shouts and shouts, but the only thing he can hear in return is the snickers from the demented blonde.

“Do you think they're here?” She snickers meancingly, “Cry some more, no one will come and save you. Ever.” She grabs a hand full of his hair and begins to pull and tug until he can only see liquid substances in his eyes. He cries for her to stop and he tries to pull the opposite way, but it only sends more pain straggering into his system. 

Everything is so hazy in his teary eyes as she slaps his face one second then punches it the next. “You should just kill yourself! Worthless! Useless!” 

Worthless

Useless

These words are ringing inside his head with each kick, each punch, and each slap she sends him. Maybe thats what he has been all along.  A punching bag, a pin cushion, something worthless and useless.

You should just kill yourself.

He wants to stop refuting and just sit there, to serve as his purpose of nullity. 

She grabs him by his hand and jerks him harshly towards the dark dresser, clashing whatever is left of his boney stomach into the hard wood. And the side of his head bumps jarringly with the fridgid mirror, pushing him backwards onto the floor. He winces at the collosion and the only thing he can see is the blurryness of Martha's figure holding a belt in her hand, before he closes his eyes. He doesn't wish to lay his eyes upon all of this maltreatment, all of the objects around him, everything would only remind him that he belongs on the floor. Worthless and useless. 

He can hear her feet pounding towards him and he clenches his fist as he begins to count down.

3

2

And he shouts before the number is seen in his mind, as the feeling of the belt whipping his sore skin overtakes his being. He shakes his head with his eyes lidded, but it doesn't prevent the overwhelming stings that rush into his veins. 

Your only human.

His eyes slowly begin to reveal themselves at the recurrence and even though he feels as though he has gone numb, that voice sparks something within him, sends him reassurance, covers the slate back up and attempting to bring his mind out of the gutter. 

Suddenly, Martha bolts out of the room and Baekhyun thinks it's over and he can go dash to the bathroom to empty whatever he had consumed the night before, but all is against his favor when the devil returns with a cup in her rotten hand. She jerks it towards his bloody form and he lazily looks at the cup. “Drink it.” She mutters and his nose picks up the scent of the detergent and consequently, it only leads to the furrow of his brows, and a forecfull shake to his head. “Drink it!” 

She grabs his chin and forces the bleach down his throat, some spilling down the exterior of his throat and it burns as he tries to hold it in, but he gulps it down to no avail as it piles up in his mouth. 

He writhers and finally escapes her burning grasp, only to have himself jerk to the left to throw up the substance all over the bedroom floor.

It's just a bad day, not a bad life.

He holds onto his stomach tightly as everything spills out and he can feel his intestines clench together wrenchingly. And as he falls apart even more than he already has, he struggles to believe the mantra replying in his mind.

_______________________

He would laugh at himself for thinking that he would actually leave that house in one peice, but his jaw feels so insensible and inert to mock himself. How is he to believe that life is supposed to be filled with laughter and such with all these emotions that display the complete opposite? He feels the win