ganymede montague ; d8 cb

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The knife shakes where it's clenched between his fingers. There's pressure against his scalp, the bite of silver. It falls like confetti, sticking to the porcelain sink in jagged clumps. The bathroom lock rattles, he recognizes his mother's heaving breaths as she tries to force her way in. His hands are sweaty - the hair sticks to his palms and he swallows a gag as he takes the knife to his nape once again.

Blunted strands tickle the back of his neck and it's euphoria. The first time he's ever seen the shadow of the boy he's been chasing for as long as he can remember. His mothers knuckles bite themselves purple as she slams them against the bathroom door. His father call out, begging for the daughter they'd never had. The daughter they thought they were owed.

The bathroom has a window. It's tight and jagged as it digs into his chest. Eventually he falls, unceremoniously, into the mud and grinds it between his teeth to keep from calling out. Warmth crawls down his chin, blood staining the collar of his t-shirt as he forces himself to his feet and starts at a sprint.

He's been running since.