Short story I wrote in English! Pretty much unedited so please don't mind the mistakes >~<
drop…
drop…
drop…
The rain was bucketing down, heavy and suffocating. Acheron’s shoes dragged, the tops scuffed and the leather peeling away to reveal the soft insides. The streetlamps flickered, dull, unable to provide any sort of meaningful light. They glowed in small, red, slits, and seemed to shine only on his arms and thighs. The teen, though he looked closer to a child than a man, had his shoulders hunched. Mostly to protect him from the rain, one would assume, but they were small and rounded as though they’d never been flexed or stretched. His stature did nothing to help his child-like appearance, thin and stick-like. The only remotely mature thing about him was his face, gaunt and set in a permanent grimace. As though the world itself was upsetting.
He lifted his arm to try and shield him from the rain, his sleeve pulling back. The bandages wrapped around his arm began to collect drops of water on the surface, looking like they were purposely dotted in a pattern. He hurriedly pulled his sleeve back into place, and resigned himself to just getting soaked.
The pavement was already flooded, lapping at the edge of his shoes with each step. Soon, he realised, his shoes would be considered more wet than dry. He grimaced, more than his resting face usually did, then sighed, just trying to move past it. Mouldy leather didn’t sound fun, but maybe it was avoidable? Maybe he could dry them somehow? It wasn’t like his shoes wouldn’t match the rest of him, not bringing an umbrella had been an awful idea. It wasn’t just going to be light rain, like he’d thought. He should’ve asked for someone to drive him.
…would they, anyway?
Even if they wouldn’t have, he still regretted not asking. He was soaked, and it was cold, and he felt awful. A little anxiety was probably worth not shivering throughout the whole session. Ugh. The session. He didn’t need therapy, he didn’t! He was coping fine. Well, subpar, probably, but he felt fine. He was fine.
Everything was okay.
Still, he shivered as the rain continued to hit him. His shoulders hunched even more, trying to contain what warmth he could. This was almost worse than when he had to deliver papers when it was raining. Though, the bike was more likely to slip on the wet pavement and give him a head injury. He’d managed to skin his knees through his jeans a couple of times when that happened, he could still feel the dull burn whenever he bent them.
Someone had offered to drive him, he realised dully. In fact, both of his parents had, but he had brushed them off and said he would walk.
“Are you sure?” his mother had asked, her voice that same, oversold level of concern. Surely she couldn’t care that much. He was a handful, and a
miserable one at that.
“I could drive you, Ach.” His father had offered, voice stuck on that sickly proud tone. There wasn’t anything to be proud of, in him. There was no need for an affectionate nickname, a subtle, proud, smile. He didn’t need those. He didn’t deserve those. He didn’t deserve those when all he was being was a pain.
Acheron’s phone started to ring, the same default tone he’d always had it set to playing softly from his pocket. Well, he set it to the default recently. A couple of months ago he had made a custom one with his father, with him playing a guitar riff, and his father on the drums.
He missed it.
But he couldn’t afford to miss things, he didn’t need to miss things. He was fine.
He took his phone out, shielding it from the rain with a hand. Not bothering to look at the contact, he answered, “mhm?”
“Ach, hey, it’s raining pretty hard,” again, there was no need for that nickname. He didn’t need such an affectionate nickname, “do you want to get under cover and I can come drive you the rest of the way?” That sounded overly bothersome for his dad, and overly bothersome for himself. He shook his head, before remembering he needed to talk.
“I’m fine, don’t bother.” He said, voice somewhat soft from disuse.
His shoes were much less tapping as he walked, now more sloshing. They really needed to unclog the gutters here. He would like a ride, actually. He really would. His chest almost felt like it was aching to say yes, but he didn’t. He kicked himself mentally, continuing to walk as he waited for a
response. A tone more worried than he would’ve liked met his ears,
“Really, Acheron?”
Oh. He didn’t like the nickname, it was much too soft for a person like him, but full name was so, so much worse.
“…yes?” he answered, somewhat hesitantly. He didn’t know why that had made his chest tighten so much more. Maybe the subtle disbelief in his father’s tone, or maybe it was the even more subtle disappointment.
He heard a sigh, and checked off a, bad reaction, on his mental checklist.
He then heard a deep breath, and checked off another, bad reaction, on his mental checklist.
Then he heard defiance, “I’m coming to pick you up, Ach. Find a overhang or something to stand under for a tick. I am getting you. And you will wait. Okay?”
He felt the words were overly harsh, for the situation. It wasn’t like the rain was so much he was going to drown in it, he was fine.
He suppressed a sigh, and mumbled a, “yes.” Before hanging up.
There were no overhangs that he could see to stand under, and he sighed, just leaning against a pole.
He felt babied, and cold, and upset, but he couldn’t deny the subtle amount of care he felt from the actions as well.
He didn’t need to feel care.
It was so unfair, the minute he decided that he didn’t need love, he didn’t need care, he didn’t need support, everyone seemed to rush him with it.
It wasn’t fair.
After only 30 seconds of waiting, his father pulled up to the curb. He could see, even through the rain-splattered windows, that his father’s expression wasn’t upset, like he thought it was going to be.
It was concerned.
He felt an emotion bubble up in his chest.
He couldn’t quite tell what it was, whether it was anger, or if it was an overwhelming amount of sadness.
Maybe it was both.
Concern shouldn’t be wasted on him, it should be directed at someone else.
He got into the car, wiping his face off under the lieu of it just being wet from the rain, trying to ignore how his eyes were welling with tears.
The car was warm, and safe, and he realised that the walk had been more miserable than he thought.
His father presented him with a towel, rubbing it over his hair for him before properly handing it to him. His father began the drive to the therapy
centre after making sure that he was buckled in, eyes focused on the road.
Even though eye contact wasn’t made, he could still feel the overwhelming amount of worry in his tone,
“You need to ask for help more often, Ach.”
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