Oh boy oh boy two in a row two in a row yeah it's just because I was really bored at a party don't get your hopes uP UwU
Same warnings as the last chapter, and also self harm whO0ops
I hate school more than most of my classmates.
It's a new school, so I obviously have no friends and no interest to make any. If a teacher calls on me, I reply with the least amount of words possible, and often text or sometimes call Makoto during breaks or lunches when they line up. I don't call him at home, for fear of angering my mother. I'm still in touch with Rin, and occasionally talk to Nagisa and Rei but other than that I just swim and do my homework. I have insane amounts of free time that I often just spend lying on my bed, sometimes drawing.
Mom seems to have calmed down a bit, and nearly every night invites me to go out for dinner or a movie. I agree. She seems happy that I'm spending more time with her. It hides the fact that I haven't broken up with Makoto yet.
With my free time, I decided to print out all of the photos Makoto took on my phone during the March Break and make a scrapbook for him. I feel like an old lady, but it's surprisingly therapeutic... don't judge me arts and crafts are fun okay? And it's better than doing nothing. I've always liked art, and at least this is productive. I might never give it to Makoto, but it makes me happy to remember the things we did. And I actually feel proud of something for one of the first times in my life. I feel like I've accomplished something.
I'm planning the next page in my mind as I walk home from school, and plan to head right up to my room as soon as I get back. But mom is waiting for me. Holding a very familiar, thick, green scrapbook.
"What the hell is this, Haruka?" She holds it up accusingly.
I hesitate and slowly make my way towards her, shutting the door carefully. "Just something I've been working on in my free time."
"Does it happen to be a gift for anybody in particular?" She says, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
"No. No it's not." I lunge to grab the scrapbook but she just swats my hand away so hard it stings after.
Mom opens the book, leafing through the pages. "Really? Because they seem to all be pictures of you with your little boy toy! Are you still dating that nervous wreck of a guy, Haru?"
"No, mom just give it back." I mumble, trying to get it back again.
She dodges out of the way again, grabs the book with both hands and hits me hard on the shoulder with it. "Are you fucking kidding me? Give this shit back? You disobeyed me, Haruka. I told you to break up with that little fuck almost a week ago and have you done it? I could've done it myself already! I'm being so considerate and letting you do it yourself. I take you out for dinner, for movies, I feed you and buy you clothes, I keep you in my house and this is how you repay me? You know what? This is what I think!" The last sentence, each word was punctuated with a hit with the book to the arm, shoulder, head.
She wrenches the book open again and begins tearing pages up, ripping them into tiny pieces. I watch helplessly as she completely destroys three pages before snapping back to reality and trying to get her to stop. I grab her arms but she just elbows me in the eye, knocking me back in pain and surprise. I'm frozen as she gathers the remnants of my work and dumps it into my lap.
"Break up with him, or I'll be forced to do something myself. And this shitty little scrapbook? Put this in the trash, where it belongs." She stalks back to her office, slamming the door unceremoniously behind her.
I go through the motions of throwing out the derelict scrapbook like a robot and head straight to my room afterward, not even bothering to check over the bruises I know are forming. I fish my phone off of my bedside table, and sit on my bed with a pillow on my lap. I know what has to happen. It's the least I can do for my mother. I blatantly disobeyed her. I disrespected her. She deserves better. Makoto deserves better.
Doesn't make it any easier.
I pull up my previous text messages with Makoto. A throwaway conversation about classes that happened today during lunch. I'll miss having company while I eat. I'll miss being able to hold him close as I fall asleep. I'll miss the feeling of his lips against mine.
I'll miss everything about him.
But I don't deserve him.
I stare down at the floor, my eye catching a certain green sweater. I toss my phone onto the pillow beside me and slip off of my bed, and pull the sweater on, breathing in the sweet scent of Mako still lingering on it. I made him wear it during the week to get it back, and yet it's still faint. I crawl back onto the bed, now hugging the pillow and pick up the phone.
I force my fingers to type out the sentence. I'm breaking up with you. No explanation. No fluff. He won't care. He'll be too relieved to be rid of me to bother with the story. But I can't persuade myself to hit send. I'm dimly aware of tears burning tracks down my cheeks, and my shoulders shaking with sobs.
This is for your own good, Haru. I think. For Makoto's own good.
I finally hit send and it delivers, and then I turn off my phone and throw it to the other side of the bed, finally acknowledging the fact that I'm crying. I palm tears off of my face, and bury my head in my pillow as my resolve completely snaps. I sob relentlessly into my pillow at the new absence in my heart.
I'm digging my nails into my arm and concentrate on the pain, and the tears clear away. Emotional pain ebbs away, replaced by physical pain that is different than the pain my mother gives to me. This one is my choice. This one has a purpose.
I glance over to my desk where my art supplies still are left from making the scrapbook, and walk over to it, picking up the scissors and examining them. Experimentally, I open the scissors and press one of the blades against my wrist, dragging it across my skin. It breaks skin and a thin ribbon of red emerges, and it's slightly fascinating how the red line expands slowly.
I collapse into the chair and do it again, pressing harder this time, cutting deeper this time, getting a larger red ribbon. I roll up my sleeve and continue down my forearm, making cuts of various sizes, some of them crisscrossing, some of them dripping a bit of blood into my lap. It doesn't even hurt that much, I'm mostly just numb by now. But numb hurts less than what I felt before.
A/N: Ahaha he's officially broken imsobadatangsttbhsendhel p
Yes this is from personal experience.. But in no way do I condone hurting oneself in any way. If you're struggling with self harm please seek help, maybe simply by reaching out to a friend. Creative outlets are always very helpful. Good luck *insert heart*
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