Actions

Work Header

Fight For Me

Work Text:

Connor sat on the couch, the police car out front driving away slowly. His mom sat right next to him, her eyes burning a hole into the side of his head. The cops had told her everything , and now there was nothing to hide. The fear and disappointment were obvious in her posture and face, and as the snow fell down outside, tears fell down as well. Connor knew she was going to look at his wrists, and he wasn’t prepared for the pity she’d give him. The pain was too much. Why did he say anything? Why was he so stupid he couldn’t even get this right?

 

“Honey, I need you to look at me.” He didn’t respond. “Connor, what is going on with you? First, you start acting weird and so… distant , and then this? The cops arriving at our house to tell me that you were going to kill yourself? What the fuck?!” She yelled.

 

Connor flinched and began telling her everything. The pain. Except, he didn’t actually tell her that. He wanted to. But he didn’t. He just sat there and cried, his mouth seemingly sewn shut with thread made out of vibranium. After thirty minutes of crying, he ripped through the stitches and managed to say something. 

 

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked as a timer in the kitchen began to go off, the dinner that Mom was once cooking reminding us of how the two of them had thought everything would be okay that night. She walked him to the kitchen, his keys on the table in front of where he sat. Maybe, just maybe, he could slit my wrists open with this- 

 

Mom grabbed the keys and put them in a white cabinet located across the room, and while she stirred the pot of casserole in the oven, she looked over at Connor every few minutes to make sure he wasn’t doing anything. He knew he could out-run her. He knew he could burst out of that door and take off, getting away and finishing it. But he did nothing. Connor just sat there, staring at the table as Mom threw dishes around in her anger.

 

He didn’t know what to do, anxiety churning in his stomach. She picked up her phone and in an instant, he knew who she was calling. Dad. Dad couldn’t know, he didn’t want him to think any less of me. Things would be so awkward. Why was she making such a big deal out of this? Every teenager did it. Had some troubling thoughts and got over it. None of them wanted their mentor to know. The person they’ve looked up to for the entirety of their life. This wasn’t fair. He just wanted a way out. He needed some escape. 

 

Without a second thought, he ran down the hall into his room and grabbed his backpack. It had everything he’d need in it, and he’d already disabled the trackers so Dad couldn’t find him. He opened the window with a loud screech and practically flew down the fire escape, the rust and peeling paint following him. He could hear Mom yelling his name in a frantic shout as Connor rushed down the street, running at an abnormally fast speed. This was all he had left. He just had to get to the orchard open the bottle. And, for the last time in his life, Connor ran.

 

He ran past the bridge, past red and white walk signals, until he fell and hit the ground near people’s feet. No-one stopped to ask if he was okay until a casted arm came into his vision. He looked up, startled, and scooted back from the arm, staring at the person who offered to help him up. Sandy short hair that sprung up in random spaces and anxious eyes stared down at him as a boy in a blue striped shirt and khakis smiled at him, honestly, which was the best thing he’d seen in a long while.

 

“H-hi. Do you need any h-help?” The boy asked cautiously.

 

Connor took his hand and lifted himself up, eyes brimming red with unfallen tears. 

 

“Hi,” Connor whispered. And that was when everything in his life changed.