floratic:

YOU  NEED  TO  LEAVE .  oh , only  if  the  solution  was  as  easy  as  the  statement ,  breathed  out  in  a  cautious  feather  of  breath  by  parrish .  he  hardly  bears  a  flinch  when  his  wrist  is  tugged  out  free ,  and  beneath  the  dimming  sunlight ,  he  too ,  finally  examines  the  colors  battered  deep  into  his  flesh  like  bruised  plums .  parrish’s  gaze  stung ,  a  form  of  guilt  prodding  angrily  against  his  heart  as  the  boy  turns  his  distressed  eyes  against  him .  it’s  not  fair ,  he  almost  wishes  to  say .      ❝ just  leave ,  huh . ❞   the  words  fall  more  colder  than  he  expects  it  to ,  but  the  weight  sinks  like  drowned   stones   against   the  steep  silence  between  them .  

 ❝ first ,  you’re  not  going  anywhere  near  him .  second ,  leaving ,  that’s  just  a  pipe-dream .  ❞  if  he  left ,  the  beast  would  spin  its  way  around  his  mother ,  tear  her  to  empty  pieces ,  her  bones  picked  clean ,  flesh  torn  until  there  would  be  nothing  to  destroy .  that  was  only  how  the  system  had  worked  itself  to  this  point :  elliot ,  the  self - made  barrier  between  his  father  and  mother ,  a  self - established  role  since  the  terrible  age  of  13 .  

  ❝ —- i  can’t .  not  now .  ❞   his  voice  finally  drops  the  tense  blade - edge ,  and  expression  sinks  back  to  a  softer  twitch  of  something  like  remorse .  and  he  slowly  snags  the  wrist  back  towards  himself ,  pressing  a  careful  thumb  over  the  bruise ,  as  if  the  action  could  erase  the  color .  he  keeps  his  finger  pressed ,  wonders  why  parrish  was  so  desperate  to  keep  him  afloat .  often ,  his  words  meant  the  key  to  the  bird - cage ,  his  offers  the  climbing  ladder  from  the  sunken  ditch  that  he’d   successfully  cornered  himself  down  to .  again ,  that  was  his  defense  mechanism

 sometimes ,  he  was  certain  that  if  he  searched  hard  enough ,  dug  through  the  dirt  viciously  enough ,  the  10 - year  old  boy  would  be  found  again ,  crouched  and  quietly  breathing  the  words  of  ‘ please don’t ,  i’m  sorry .’  in  a  mantra ,  as  if  they  were  the  saving  grace .  but  it  was  different  now .  he’d  long  chosen  to  leave  the  boy  behind ,  kept  him  buried  beneath  the  dirt  as  he  pushed  forward  towards  life .  to  live ,  to  live ,  it  was  to  forget ,  and  become  a  different  creature  for  him .  it  was  the  only  way  at  the  time .     ❝ i  wouldn’t  stab  with  the  scapel , i  would  dig  it  into  his  throat .  hard  enough  to  kill him  , ❞

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His heart sinks like a stone in his chest, listening to Elliot’s voice, focusing hard on the darkened edges of his tone that had Parrish cringing. The way he exhibited little reaction from having been touched so forcefully sent shock waves down his spine. Hes giving up, hes giving up isnt he? It was always all or nothing with him, his black-and-white mind often unable to truly understand the demons with which Elliot grappled, the intricacies of his familial ties that he could never dream of having to deal with. His father was long dead; a brute, sure, but now just a corpse buried underneath six feet of dirt.

Elliot’s father, though, was alive and breathing, and had pushed his son so far to the cliff’s edge that he was now speaking of jamming a blade into his paternal figure’s throat.

 He felt a spike in his blood when Elliot’s warning hit his ears. Youre not going anywhere near him.

“What, do you think I wouldn’t take him out right here and now if he was here? I have half a mind to go knocking on your door and tearing into him.” But he knew he would never, could never, go that far. It was all talk, as much as he wanted to deny that. He wasn’t Elliot, this wasn’t his fight, as much as he wanted it to be; wasn’t aggressive enough, wasn’t strong enough, supposed he wasn’t man enough to deal with this problem on his own (maybe dear old dad was right about me and my weaknesses all along).

“Well, look, would you at least come by and let my mom patch you up a little? I can see some cuts on your hands, and I know for a fact you don’t have any Neosporin in your medicine cabinet.” He lied about the cuts,but he couldn’t help it; he just needed to get any excuse to keep Elliot out of that house, if only for today, if only a few hours. He just hoped to god Elliot couldn’t notice the transparency of his fib, and he knew how unlikely that would be.

He tries to crack a smile, in turn attempting to put a crack through the tenseness of their situation. “If you get an infection and lose your hands, I’ll never forgive you. How’re you gonna hug me without any hands?” His voice lowered a bit as he added, staring into Elliot’s eyes that darted back in the direction of his home in a close to frantic fashion, “I know how much you care about your mother and her safety, I do. But I care about you, and you can’t protect your mom if you’re half-dead. I know it, you know it – don’t overestimate your strength, El. You can’t save her if you can’t even muster the will to save yourself.”

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