Pebble

Rain pattered against glass. Burnt beans overtook the scent of  fresh bread. Voices overlapped as stories were shared and gossip was spilled. The game played on the tv, we were winning. The buzz in the air was almost intoxicating, even the rain couldn’t dull it. 

Grey stared at the brown liquid. Steam rose, collecting into beads of sweat as his face hovered over the cream colored mug. Blonde curls curtained flushed skin and bleeding lips as his teeth pulled at the delicate skin. He was in his own air, the buzz flowed around him. His ears were stuffed with the nectar of the past. It seeped out, dripped down his arm, burned through his skin, revealing scars that were hidden with years of neglect. 

Nails cracked as he dug into the wooden table. His mind swirled. The nectar was thick. It was creeping through the crevices of his head, consuming thoughts he pushed down and forcing him to face it. Metal filled his mouth as Grey bit down harder on his lips. Pain filled his face and the sob got stuck in his throat. Taking a deep breath he picked up the mug and took a sip of the bitter liquid. It stung at his bruised lips but the taste was welcome. 

A deep breath led to long sigh, releasing tension as he slumped over the table. 

“Pebble?”

He clinched his eyes closed as his mind flooded. The bricks of the dam slammed and slammed against the limit of his conscious as the memories flooded over him. 

Grey scrambled across the sticky ground. He gripped at the blood-soaked hoodie, pulling the small body into his arms. His fingers left trails as he rubbed at the bruised skin, hoping his touch would wake him up. “Pebble c’mon.” What he thought was a yell was nothing more than a cracked whisper. Shaking hands gripped at curls that were just like his just a bit brighter in color. He just kept repeating himself, holding the one good thing in his world, rocking him back and forth like he had to do to help him fall asleep just a couple years ago. 

A few feet away, smoke rose from the fifth cigarette lit today. It found its home between cracked lips. Lips that never once said anything that portrayed an ounce of care. Those lips belonged to a woman of dirty beauty. Beautiful blonde curls that have been passed along for generations framed a pretty pale face that was stressed by a chosen sickness. She stared at the scene, the bodies that were her offspring, at least by the doctor’s words. But just cause the doctor said it, doesn’t mean she cares for it. The law forces her hand, forces her to obey her parental expectations, ‌but it can’t make her look at them with anything but an icy indifference. 

That indifference made her not care when they cried. When they needed to be held. When they needed someone to praise them when they won and support them when they fell. That’s is why when her youngest was beaten with vase after vase until the glass shards impaled him because he whined too much, she didn’t move a muscle. One less expense. 

Tears were dripping into his coffee, little splatters staining his clenched hands. He took one and bit on it, holding inside his screams as what happened just a few hours ago replayed. Stepping inside the decade old home, the wood creaking with every step. The excitement he felt with Deku swinging in his pocket, imagining the look on Pebble’s face as he held his favorite character in his hands. 

Then the way his soul dropped into the pit of his stomach. How his vision blurred until the only thing he could see was his little brother laying on the smoke infested rug, his blood making it an even darker shade of black. The glass fractures creating a mosaic of different colors that flickered in the light of the dusty swing lamp. 

Knots formed at the bottom of Grey’s stomach. It burned, it hurt. The more he pushed it away, the more it forced itself forward. Their mother sitting there, watching, dusting the ashes off her pants. Their father's snores traveling from down the hall. 

He bit into his skin until it split. Luckily, his shirt was black. No one could see the blood that was making it stick to his chest. Just the dirt that’s layered on top of it. He couldn’t leave his brother laying there. Someone had to bury him.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Grey turned his head, blood trailing down his chin. 

“Are you ok honey?” It was a middle-aged lady. Her hair was thrown into a tight ponytail that made her sharp features pop out even more. 

He licked his sore lips. Looking down, he had bit into the white meat of his hand. Blood trickled down his skin and dripped onto the table. Puffy eyes, blood tinted skin and lips, dirt stained clothes. Grey knew he looked a mess. 

Swallowing his answer, his voice probably wasn’t going to work anyway, he grabbed his coffee mug and walked right past her. Curious eyes probed at him as he walked towards the glass doors. Someone behind him was asking him to wait, but he didn’t listen or he couldn’t hear. Either way, he walked straight into storm, the rain soaking his body in just a few minutes. 

Puddles splashed, cars honked, wet grass coated abused shoes. Grey let his feet lead the way. They brought him to the park. It was empty of course. He climbed onto the playground, crawling his way into the little tunnel, the one place that was still dry. Somehow, he was still holding on to the mug. He took a sip. It tasted like brown water. 

In the tube surrounded by the rain cascading down, he let himself cascade. Sobs spilled out until his whole body shook, his hands not able to find the right place to stay. He kept trying to stick them in his pockets but then he remembered deku wasn’t there.

 It was tight in Pebble’s hand.

He gripped his hair, his scalp protesting. His mother’s nonchalant figure, his father's peaceful rest, Pebble’s warm body lying there. Still. It lit something in him. Everything he was holding inside, all that he kept hidden, to keep a smile on his little brother's face. All he dealt with to protect him, everything he never gained that he gave. 

His sobs trailed off into a coughing spill. His mind broke. The pain spilled over, the cuts, the bruises, the memories. The mug cracked in his tightening grip, his shaking hands from the cold or his anger he didn’t know. 

With a crack, the mug spilled into his lap, and a deafening scream spilled from his lips. The force bruising his already sore throat. It filled the tube. The storm swallowed it, taking his pain into its grasp as his vision blurred with red.