But Each Dayâs Another Fight DAY SIX: June 1: Daddy Issues | Home Life School Life | Birthdays and Childhood
Characters: Connor Murphy, Larry Murphy, Cynthia Murphy, Zoe Murphy, Jared Kleinman (no Evan because Iâm scared to write him).
Doesnât follow cannon plot, but sticks with basic character personalities and such.
Summary:Â Why didnât they see that he was trying. Itâs not like he wanted to be a fucking failure. That was just him and youâd think they would have gotten the memo by now, but nope. Another day another disappointment.
But Each Dayâs Another Fight
 The chill of the March wind bit into his skin through his thin jacket, sending a shiver down his spine. He was cold, but he didnât slow his walking. Because what was new about being cold? He was always cold. Even on the hottest day, he was cold. The kind of cold you couldnât shake, the kind that rested in your bones and festered there.
âWasnât that just fucking melodramatic.â He was fucking pathetic, and everyone knew it. Thatâs why he was walking alone down a backstreet at 3am in the middle of March.
No one was looking for him, not a single buzz of his phone where it sat, stagnant in his back pocket, nothing. His family was likely still asleep, not having noticed him slip out the window. Still, he didnât expect a rescue party even if they did eventually realize he was missing. Theyâd probably just be glad to be rid of him for a while.
With a small huff he pulled a half empty pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, followed by a lighter. As the first pull of smoke filled his lungs he felt his shoulders relax infinitesimally; it wasnât enough, but it would have to do for now. As the cigarette continued to shrink he felt his body warming slightly, a momentsâ reprieve from the harsh air. He had no particular destination, or so he told himself, just needed to get away from the bullshit for a while.
When he found himself on the old bridge he wasnât particularly surprised. It was a place he had been many times as a child, back when his dad still had hope for him being the perfect little carbon copy son he always wanted. His dad would take him fishing there every Sunday. Except every Sunday he would inevitably abandon the rod and instead opt to throw pebbles at his sister as she tried to play with the fish in the stream. And thatâs how he would find himself pouting in his bed at the end of each week, while his family ate super downstairs without him, the sound of his motherâs soft voice consoling his sister drifting up to him.
He was broken from his reverie by a stinging in his hand. His smoke was now burnt down to the filter, heat lapping at his fingertips. He swore, tossing the glowing butt to the ground and stomping it out with the toe of his boot. He hunched his shoulders against the sharp breeze that rippled across the water, hand reaching back into his pocket, fumbling with the pack of cigarettes. His too cold fingers shook as he brought the second cigarette up to his lips, thumb slipping on the lighter, taking three tries for it to light. He took a long pull of smoke and tried to convince himself that the cold was really all that was behind his quaking hands. He took another drag, and again, the smoke doing nothing to calm him only thickening the fog in his head.
He took one more frustrated lung-full before cursing, flinging the glowing nub into the black water below. Hands coming up to tangle in his unruly hair, he let out a guttural noise that ripped its way out of his chest. He sucked in a ragged breath, the chill of the air a shock to his lungs. He tried his best to ignore the prickling moisture that had started up behind his eyes, face falling into a hard mask as he combed through his pockets for something stronger. Numb fingers finally closed around the small rectangular tin, his hand re-emerging from his pocket. With a sigh he slid into the ground, the chill of frozen metal seeping into the backs of his legs as he let them hang over the edge. For the third time that night he fished his lighter out from its place in his too thin jacket. Cracking the lid of the tin, he pulled out a hastily rolled joint that he had put together during second period when he was meant to be in Calc. He brought the filter to his lips, flicking the flame across the tip until it caught. His eyes slid closed as the familiar prickle filled his chest. Taking another lung-full, he settled back, laying his thin frame across the cold metal. Relishing in the tingling that was seeping into his fingertips. He smoked until the joint became merely a stump, snuffing it out beside him. His limbs felt heavy, like the darkness below him was pulling at them, wanting him to come down and join it. Some sick part of his brain sort of liked the sound of that. He let himself sink into the feeling, muscles going lax. The frigid air forgotten in the momentary assisted calm.Â
By the time the sun was starting to peek up over the horizon, he was crawling back through his bedroom window and shucking the evidence of his excursion; tossing it into a pile in the corner. He fell back onto his bed, finding refuge in the thick covers and locked door (a âprivilegeâ he had only recently regained after months of not having even a handle to give the illusion of privacy). He picked at his fingers where they had become swollen from prolonged exposure to the March air, but aside from a little puffiness, he was no worse for wear. Breathing deeply, he settled back onto the pillow, hoping he could catch an hour or so rest before there was banging at his door and someone dragging him to that hell-hole of a school.
But of course the Gods were elsewhere occupied and barely fifty minutes later he was wrenched awake by the pounding of Zoeâs fist against his already abused door. Her voice pierced the air, claiming dibs on the bathroom, before scurrying away. Only once he heard her soft footfalls disappear down the hall did he emerge from under the rumpled sheets, groaning as his exhausted body protested every movement. As he found his feet he became aware of the pressure in his bladder. Knowing Zoe wouldnât be out of the bathroom any time soon, he trudged his way over to the window and pried it open. The cool morning breeze greeted him, making him shiver. Pulling aside his boxers he smirked at the thought that his piss might hit Larryâs precious car in the driveway below. With any luck, he had left the sunroof open. That basted deserved far worse, but one has to take what opportunities he can get.
When he finished he slid the window shut and pulled on yesterday's jeans, loose around the knees from wear. After grabbing some old band shirt and his black hoodie, he raked his hands through his matted hair for a few seconds before giving up and yanking it into a knot on the top of his head. He pulled the tin and his lighter from last nightâs jacket and shoved them into his pocket before shouldering his bag and trudging out of his room. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, he held his breath while he listened to his mom and Larryâs voices drifting up from the dining room. Sighing, he started towards the kitchen, hoping to grab some coffee and bypass the lovely family chitchat. Instinctually his fingers found the tin in his pocket; he was going to have to roll another joint or two before school because there was no way he was going to make it through the day sober. Unfortunately, the fates were once again against him. He dropped his bag quietly at the bottom of the stairs, turning to the kitchen, before stopping in his tracks as he came face to face with his mother holding a pitcher of orange juice.Â
âOh! Connor, honey, come eat breakfast.â
Her voice was cheerful but he could still hear the tentativeness. It stung but he knew he deserved it. She was right to be afraid of him; hell, he was afraid of him too. He knew he should probably just push past her and retreat to his room to avoid the inevitable blowout that always came when he and Larry were in the same vicinity, but somehow he couldnât bring himself to. Something in him didnât want to crush that last spark of hope in her eyes that she had been holding onto for so long. Gritting his teeth, he followed a few steps behind as his mother walked to the dining room.Â
âLarry, why donât you put away the laptop for a few minutes and have breakfast with your family. The emails can wait."Â
"These emails are important Cynthia.â
Larryâs tone was bitter but he slid the laptop closed and bushed his glasses onto the top of his head. Connor rather wished his mom had just let Larry busy himself with his emails because now he could feel eyes boring into him from across the table. From under his lashes, he saw Larry's eyes flick to his hair. Larry scowled and muttered disapprovingly under his breath. Connor felt a tight smirk pull at his lips, anger bubbling in his throat. The standoff was interrupted by Zoe bounding down the stairs, book bag in hand. Dropping her things by Connorâs she plopped down in the empty seat and started pouring herself a glass of juice. The presence of his youngest child didnât seem to deter Larry long however and within a couple seconds, his eyes were back to picking apart his son. Connorâs skin crawled under his gaze. Fiddling with his sleeves, Connor slipped his thumbs in and out of the holes he had cut into the cuffs.Â
âWhy do you insist on that hair. It looks like a rat has built a nest on your head. We should have shaved it over the summer when we had the chance.â
âLarry!â Cynthia chided her husband from her place at the table.
âWhat, Cynthia? Look at him! He looks homeless. He should have more respect for himself; for this family!â
Connor gritted his teeth as he felt something snap inside him. Fuck. He felt it bubble over and there was no going back. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood at his full height.
âHA! Respect! Thatâs pretty fuckinâ funny there Larry considering youâve never once shown an ounce of respect towards me or what I want, or feel, or any of that bullshit! So donât you DARE talk to ME about FUCKING RESPECT!â
Connor flung the apple he had been rolling in his hands, not watching as it smashed against the white wall.
Connor huffed out a ragged breath as he pushed his way out of the room and down the hall, he yanked his bag onto his shoulder, tugging on his boots before slamming the front door behind him.
He barely made it a few steps before he collapsed onto the curb, anger draining and being replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion. He tugged a cigarette out and lit it as he rolled back, resting his head on the sidewalk. There was no use in moving, he had to wait for Zoe anyway; Larry had taken his keys back in June and he still wasnât any closer to getting them back. So instead he just took another drag and tried to clear his head enough to get through the day. He wasnât much closer to success when Zoe marched out the door with a sour look on her face. She strode over to where Connor was laying and yanked his messenger bag off of the ground beside him, before turning on her heel towards the car. Connor took that as a cue to snuff out his cigarette and peel himself off the cement before she left without him. As he fell into the seat and shut the door he could already feel the thumping ache in the back of his skull beginning. Shutting his eyes, he let his head fall back against the window and prayed to whatever deity that Zoe was pissed off enough to maintain the silence until they made it to school.
âWhy do you have to be like that with him? Heâs just trying to help.â
Connor gritted his teeth, not lifting his head at Zoeâs words.
âOh yeah, because treating me like some shit on the bottom of his shoe is help.â
âWell, you havenât exactly made it easy. Youâre not all peaches and cream to be around either, Connor.â
At this Connorâs lips curled and he glared daggers at his sister who stared forward through the windshield.Â
Connor dropped his eyes again. This wasnât a new dialogue but it still made his hands shake and his jaw clench. Why didnât they see that he was trying? Itâs not like he wanted to be a fucking failure. That was just him and youâd think they would have gotten the memo by now, but nope. Another day another disappointment.
By the time the cracked parking lot came into view the dull ache had become a splitting migraine and Connorâs stomach churned against the sensation. Once Zoe had put the car into park Connor was out the door, grabbing his bag from the back, and across the lot in .25 seconds. He ducked back behind the edge of the school and settled into the small rock alcove that housed the mouth of a runoff pipe for the townâs main river. Although it wasnât far from the building few people came back here because of the mud and the uneven ground. Connor, however, found it in his first year and now took refuge here most days. He pulled the tin from his back pocket and a small bottle from his bag. Pouring out about a half a dozen pills, he downed them dry and shoved the little bottle back in its place. Opening the tin, he set to rolling a joint before first bell. Normally he wouldnât bother with homeroom, or class for that matter, but heâd already skipped the majority of yesterday and although he knew it wouldnât do much good he didnât want to add any more fuel to Larryâs fire today. So instead he packed a couple joints and shoved the tin back into his bag. Lighting a cigarette he made his way back to the front of the school as the first bell rang. After a few long pulls, he snuffed out the glowing butt and shouldered the doors open, shoving through the dwindling stream of students. He tucked his head, missing the usual curtain of hair that would normally cover is face with the motion. As it was, only a small strand that had come loose hung in his eyes. An unsettling prickling had started up on the back of his neck as he felt eyes trailing him as he moved. Of course this wasnât new, he was the schools resident psycho after all. But there was something about having his hair tied back that gave him an uneasy feeling of vulnerability, and that was something Connor didnât take too kindly to. Pushing out a noise of frustration, Connorâs finger came up to tangle in his hair. With a sharp tug he ripped out the elastic and sent his hair sprawling out across his shoulders. He raked his hands through it, busying them as he tried to settle the odd discomfort that had risen up in his gut. He know he looked like shit, but it didnât really matter, itâs not like he had anyone to impress.
By this point, he was turning the corner to his homeroom where the teacher was reading over some announcement about a committee-or-other doing another fundraiser. He didnât bother to slow as he walked through the door, even as the teacher shot him a dirty look for the interruption. Instead, he just kept pace until he had made his way to the back, dropping unceremoniously into the seat in the far corner. He dropped his head into his arms, willing with all his might for the Advil to kick in faster. But this universe has no mercy and a short ten minutes later the piercing shriek of the bell cut through his still aching skull, forcing him out of his seat and into the swarming hallways. He kept his head down as he weaved through the chattering crowd, ducking his shoulders and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He climbed the stairs and dibbed into room 208. Slouching down into a seat, Connor pulled his worn notebook from his bag and dug out a pencil as Mr. Harrison began addressing the class.
He rolled the pad of his thumb across the sharp lead of his pencil, concentrating on the small biting pressure against his skin to distract him from the eyes that raked across his back. Itâs not that people were so much watching 'himâ, more watching as one would watch a dangerous animal, looking for fast movements or signs of imminent attack. It was the kind of ever-present watching that set his teeth on edge and started the boiling pot in his throat. 'If they would just stop staring at me maybe I wouldnât blow up at them. Idiots ever think of that, huh?â Connor presses down harder on the straining lead, furrowing his brows as he tried to boar a hole in his desk with his eyes. His fingers tightened on the pencil until his knuckles had gone a sickly white. Letting out a frustrated huff, Connor slammed his hands down with a loud thud. In a flash he was on his feet, cutting off whatever the teacher had been rambling about.
"Would you stop FUCKING STARING!? What!? Is this what youâre waiting for!? SOME BIG FUCKING BLOWOUT FROM THE CRAZY KID!? WELL, FUCKING CONGRATS!â
It was only once he had spun to grab is bag and storm out of the now silent classroom that he became aware of the stinging in his hand.
By the time he got to the bathroom the blood had begun to drip. Connor surveyed the empty stalls before leaning against the sink and flipping on the tap. The lead of his pencil had buried itself in the pad of his thumb and Connor gritted his teeth as he tried to get hold of what was still sticking out. After a few failed attempts it became clear that he wasnât going to get a grip on it anytime soon. Sighing he dropped his other hand, bringing the bleeding thumb to his mouth. Connor bit the end of the lead, gripping the sink with his good hand as he pulled. Connor spit the broken lead into the basin, repeating the action twice more to get the blood out of his mouth. Swishing some water in his mouth he ran his thumb under the tap, the bowl of the sink going pink. After a few minutes, the blood had ebbed. Flipping off the tap, Connor fished a small zipper pouch out of his messenger bag and pulled out a Band-Aid. Wapping his throbbing thumb he stalked out of the bathroom and toward the back doors.
Hands still shaking with adrenaline he shoved open the doors and pulled the tin from the pocket of his bag. At this point, he didnât give a shit if there was a TA, or hall monitor, or whatever the fuck milling about, he just needed to clear his head. Gripping his lighter in his left hand he lit the joint, pulling in a lung full of smoke as he crossed the school grounds to the culvert. Jumping the small stream of muddy water that leaked out the mouth, Connor climbed onto the far bank and sat back on a flat stone. He dropped his elbows to his knees, shoulders collapsing and head falling forward, a bone-weary sigh spilling from his lips. He wanted nothing more than just to disappear; to sleep and get stoned, and just not have to think about anything, about any of this bullshit. He took another drag off of the joint, letting his eyes fall closed as his muscles tried to relax.
Once he was down to the filter Connor flicked the spent joint into the stream and rolled back so he was splayed out across the rocks. Before he knew he had fallen asleep, Connor was being jarred awake by the shrill pealing of the bell. Startling, Connor jolted upright, the movement making his head spin.
He slowed his breathing, letting his head fall to his knees. 'Fuck this fucking day. Fuck this fucking school.â As Connor sat, ignoring the fact that second period was about to start, his mind began to wander. He knew he couldnât just ditch the whole day no matter how much he wanted to. Larry would fucking lay into him, and Cynthia would panic if he didnât come home with Zoe, so that meant avoiding him was out of the question. Connor let out his breath in a huff, pulling a cigarette from his dwindling pack. Laying back, he draped his arm over his eyes and tried to savor the calm while it lasted.
In what seemed like only seconds the bell signaling the end of class was echoing through the schoolyard. Connor peeled open his eyes, groaning as the light assaulted them. Packing up his shit he made his way back to the doors. Connor slipped into the swarm of students switching out textbooks and grabbing sweaters from lockers. He ducked his head as he felt wary eyes trailing him, whispers swirling through the crowd. He hated this part, Connor just wanted to get to class and hide out in a corner and ignore the world, was that too much to ask? As he slipped through the English hallway an obnoxiously loud voice stopped him.
âHey, Connor! Heard you went full psycho in Harrisonâs class. Whatâs the plan for tomorrow, Virginia Tech re-enactment?â
Connor bristled, gritting his teeth as he whipped around to face the grinning imbecile.
âBlow me, Kleinmen.â Connor mustered every ounce of hatred into the words, but Jaredâs stupid shit eating grin didnât falter.
âOh, Connor, I never knew you felt that way about me!â
Connor spun on his heel spitting out a bitter âFuck you.â as he turned away.
âIâm flattered, really! But I donât swing that way!â Â The words floated down the hall to Connor and he dug his nail into his injured thumb, willing himself not to turn around and deck Kleinman in his stupid fucking face. He didnât need to get into more shit today. The aching in his head was back with a vengeance (if it had ever really left) and all he wanted was to get through this shithole of a day so he could go home, lock himself in his room, and get stoned out of his mind.
When he got to his History class he took the rare opportunity of his early arrival to slip into the back corner and claim a spot where he wouldnât be bothered. Once the other students piled in, a buzz of chatter and murmuring filled the room. Connor kept his head down, nail still biting into the re-opened cut in his thumb as he tried to block out the world. The class was dull, and the teacher put some documentary on halfway through, so zoning out wasnât currently that difficult of a task.
Connor groaned as the lunch bell rang. He had become quite content with ignoring the world, isolated in his dark corner. Lunch meant he had to brave the swarm again and pray to the heavens he didnât bump into Zoe, or Kleinmen for that matter. The classroom had cleared out by the time Connor had pushed his way to his feet and gathered up his bag. He trudged out into the hall, intent on making it to the library without incident. The culvert had been ruled out as it had started raining halfway through last period and all Connor had on was a threadbare sweater.
Connor grimaced as Zoeâs voice echoed down the hall. He reached around his neck and tugged his headphones on, hoping the action would deter his sister. But of course he should have known better and within a couple of seconds, she rounded on him, long brown hair flipping out behind her as she blocked his path. Connorâs pace faltered and he sidestepped to avoid running into his her. He made to step around her but she blocked him again, folding her arms and setting her face in a mask of disapproval that reminded him all too much of their father. Sighing Connor lowered his headphones, leveling Zoe with a glare.
âWhy did I hear from Alana that you stormed out of English this morning and that you didnât show for second period?â
âHmm, maybe because sheâs a chronic gossip who canât mind her own damn business.â The ice in Connorâs voice matched his sisterâs
âIâm serious Connor, you canât keep doing this shit. Mom and dad are this fucking close to shipping you off again.â
âYeah, like that fucking clinic did so much good the first time.â He gritted his teeth, eyes flicking around the still full hall. âYou know what fuck off, Zoe. Itâs not like you give a shit what happens to me anyway, so just leave me the hell alone.â
He shoved past her, ducking his head again as he stalked off.
âConnor!â Zoe Called after him.
âWhat, Zoe!?â Connorâs voice was loud enough to make people turn to stare, as he rounded on his sister. âWhat!? What the fuck do you want!? Did Alana and her big mouth happen to mention how English wasnât even my fucking fault!? How those fucking assholes wouldnât stop staring at me like I was some kind of fucking freak!? Huh? Every think that maybe I donât mean to be a fuck-up!? That maybe it just fucking happens!? That maybe all these other asshats might have some fucking blame to take too!? That ever cross your little rose-tinted mind!? DID IT!?â
The crowd of people had gone silent around them and as Connor tried to steady his breathing he saw the tear tracks glistening on Zoeâs face. His breath hitched, chest pulling tight. âfuckâŚâ Connor spun, people moving out of his path as he barrelled down the hall. Reaching the Tech wing, he swung open the disabled access bathroom, locking the heavy door behind him. âFuckâŚâ
Connor felt his eyes sting and he slid down the door, curling in on himself. âFUCK!â He voice cracked, echoing off the tiled walls. His shoulders shook against the tears that were now rolling down his face.
He fucking hated this. He hated hurting her, hurting everyone. He was a fucking mess and everyone knew it. He contaminated everything within his reach. He didnât hate Zoe and he didnât want to keep doing shit like this to her, but every fucking time ended up with the same result. No wonder people looked at him like he was a monster.
He lashed out, fist colliding with the tiled wall beside him. His hand burned and he was sure he broke a knuckle, but he couldnât stop as he rammed his hand into the wall again coming away bloody. He was pretty sure he was screaming, but he couldnât focus on the sound. Tears still tracked their way down his cheeks, falling onto the linoleum, Connor curled back in on himself he clawed at his arms trying to focus on the stinging instead of aching in his chest.
Once he managed to get his breathing under control Connor opened his eyes, blinking to clear away the moister. His knuckles were cracked and swollen and his nails had blood caked under them from where he had scratched up his arms and pulled at old scabs. Connor hauled himself up, leaning into the sink as he flipped the tap. He rinsed the blood off his hands and arms and then scrubbed at his face in a futile attempt to make it look less puffy. He looked like a fucking mess, but there was no fixing that. He gingerly flexed his hand, testing the motion. Hot pain sprang up across his knuckles and he grimaced. He was going to have to wrap it when he got home. He tugged his sleeves down wincing as the fabric rubbed raw skin. He took one last glance at himself before he shouldered his bag and unlocked the door. Fuck if he didnât need a smoke.
His hand was useless now so it wasnât like he was going to get any notes taken in class even if he paid attention, so what was the point. Instead of veering right, towards the science labs, Connor staid on course, heading towards the door by the front stairs. Tugging his hood over his head, Connor shouldered open the door and braced himself against the blowing rain. It wasnât particularly cold, but the wind mixed with his sodden sweater made Connor shiver. He stalked out to the parking lot, praying Zoe had forgotten to check if he had locked the passenger side door. For once luck was on his side and the handle gave way under his fingers, the door swinging open. Connor chucked his bag inside, lowering himself onto the seat and leaving the door ajar. He dug in his bag and pulled out the last of the joints he rolled that morning, retrieving his lighter as well. Propping open the door with his foot Connor lit up, sucking in a lung-full of smoke.
As the joint began to shrink, Connor retrieved his phone from his bag. Tugging his headphones on, he scrolled through his music, finally giving up and just hitting shuffle. He leaned the seat back, letting his shoulders un-tense as he rested against the worn fabric.
He flicked the spent joint out the door and pulled it closed, wincing as the action pulled on his injured knuckles. He didnât want to have to deal with Zoe when classes finally ended, but he wasnât exactly in the best shape to walk home either. Groaning, he let his head fall back against the headrest.
The weed slowly working through his system helped numb the throbbing in his hand until it became mostly just an annoying background sensation and, as if knowing its cue, the rain began to pitter out until it was just a mildly inconvenient drizzle. Connor knew that if he walked home even in this he would be soaked through, but judging by his luck, it was also the best he was likely to get. With a groan he peeled himself from the seat, grabbing his bag with his good hand and swinging the door open. He flipped his hood back up over his headphones and started towards the road.
By the time he made it to the manicured lawns and crisp white paint of the culdesac his clothes were plastered to his thin frame and his feet sloshed in his boots. Connor grimaced as he saw Zoeâs car in the driveway âevidently, he hadnât made it home before school let out. Pushing the wet mattes of hair from his face he took a deep breath, readying himself for the yelling that he knew would follow his arrival. Â
His name hit his ears as soon as he broke the threshold. He sighed and toed off his sopping shoes. His socks left water marks as he hung his bag on the stair rail. Brushing his hair back he made his way to the living room where he knew his family would be waiting.
When he entered the doorway three sets of eyes turned to meet him, Zoeâs dropping quickly to the floor.
âConnor, Zoe said you never met her by the car after school, where were you?â Larryâs tone was measured, testing.
âI didnât feel like getting a ride so I walked. Itâs not a big deal.â
âYes, it is a big deal, you caused a scene at school and then you disappeared. How are we supposed to know youâre not out doing something reckless? How are we supposed to trust that you are safe if you canât even control yourself for eight hours, Connor?â Â Larry hadnât raised his voice, but his control seemed to be strained.
âIâm not some sort of hoodlum. I didnât start anything, they were goading me! All I did was tell them to stop! What do you want from me!?â
âWe want you to go to your classes and at least try to act like a civilized person! Why is that so difficult for you!?â
Connor gritted his teeth, running his hands through his hair and breathing heavily through his nose.
âOh! Connor, honey, what happened to your hand?â Cynthiaâs worried voice cut through the tense standoff, drawing all eyes to Connorâs hands where they were still locked in his hair. His right hand swollen, scabbed, and bruising quickly.
âItâs nothing.â Connor breathed in a dismissively.
âDid you get into a fight while you were out? Did you hurt someone!?â
That was it, Connor was done. âNo, Larry, I didnât fucking hurt someone! Is that what you think of me!? That Iâm some fucking monster that likes to beat on passers-by!? Really!?â Connor met Larryâs steely gaze, disbelief shinning in his eyes. âYou know what? Whatever. Fuck this.â With that Connor stormed out of the room grabbing his bag and scaling the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him.
Connor rammed his aching fist into the wall, letting out a frustrated cry. After a few minutes, Connor had gotten his breathing under control and started to shed his soaked clothes, opting for some baggy sweats and a faded tee-shirt. He shuffled over to his bed, pulling his makeshift first-aid kit out of the bedside table. He had just located the ace bandage and peroxide when he heard a soft creek. Fuck, he hadnât locked his door. When he looked up he met eyes with the one person he had least expected.
âOh my god, ConnorâŚâ Zoe looked panicked. Connor looked down at himself, bandages strewn around, knuckles swollen and mutilated, arms shredded. Yeah, he figured he wasnât a pretty sight.
Zoe rushed forward, coming to sit on the bed, and reached out a hand but Connor pulled back.
âItâs nothing. Besides, why do you care? I was an ass.â
âNo, Connor. Thatâs why Iâm here.â She met his gaze. â Youâre right. I canât just assume youâre always the bad guy. I mean youâre my brother, we are contractually obligated to fight, but thatâs not fair on you.â
Connor was at a loss for words. He stared down at his little sister with wide eyes, trying to ignore the gathering moisture. Instead of speaking he just held out his busted hand, allowing Zoe to wrap it.
âConnor, you canât keep doing this to yourself.â Her voice sounded watery, her eyes still focused on her task.
When Connor didnât respond after a minute or so she looked up. Connor was looking out the window, trying to hide his eyes, but she could see the tear tracks on his cheeks.
âI just feel stuckâŚâ he breathed out, after a long moment.
Zoe nodded, her heart clenching. She wanted to fix it, to make things good, but she didnât know how. So instead she finished wrapping his hand, clipping the bandage in place and setting the hand back in his lap.
And then she was out the door and Connor was alone again.
Thatâs how he found himself back at the bridge, looking out over the water, smoke in hand. He was alone, but maybe that was okay, because at least sometimes now he didnât have to be.
