Page 17 of Uprising

I hate it.

I despise it.

The pull I feel towards him feels like I’m betraying everything I’ve fought against for my whole life. So even if I know somewhere deep down I want to know him and for him to know me. I can’t. I have to resist him. I have to make him hate me. I need to shut down everything before it’s even begun.

He’s a weakness I can’t afford. I couldn’t before, and I surely can’t now. No matter how much I hate myself for it. In the end he’ll thank me.

CHAPTER11

Noah

There's always a time in space when something happens and it sticks with you. The first time I felt the sting of abandonment, I was six years old. Many might think that’s too young, but when you grow up with parents that never uttered the words ‘I love you’ or even gave you a hug. It does something to a child. Much like when they give you the cold shoulder. I always knew my parents didn’t love me growing up. It’s not like there was a specific moment when they stopped; they just never held any love for me. It was never loud or dramatic; it was just there. It’s one of those times when it slowly settles in your bones, and it’s clear that they don’t care.

The coldness I received whenever they looked at me was a clear indication that I wasn’t the child they wanted. If they even wanted a child at all. I was a nuisance.

But also unlike other parents who don’t want their child, I was never abused physically. There was never any yelling or anger—just deep, unspoken dismissal. My mother never looked at me when she spoke, even if I was in the general direction. She was always busy on her phone, worrying about the next big thing. She didn’t hold the excitement that I hear most mothers have. Her eyes were always dull and vacant.

My father, while he had no problem looking at me, it was somehow worse. I almost wish he would dismiss me like my mother. Instead he was repulsed by me. Disgusted that I was his son. Every time he spoke to me, his voice was flat with no emotion. He always made comments about me making things difficult, as if I was a mistake they couldn’t fix.

I was six when my childhood fell through my fingers. I might not have the memories of when I was younger than that, but I know it was never there. Deep down I know they hated me the moment they had me. Even possibly while she was pregnant.

In the press they acted like the loving, caring parents kids would dream about. Dad would hold me; Mom would kiss my cheek. But the moment the cameras were off, it was the hatred that seeped down into me. They hated me in the quiet, everyday. I never understood how one's parents would hate their child so much; I was a part of them. I was half of each parent, yet they hated me. I was ignored, never asked about my needs or my wants. They didn’t care about my fears or my hopes. I was a means to an end. I was an inconvenience to them.

I was six when the realization—when it finally hit me—it was that moment when I finally understood they never loved me, that they never would.

They never once showed me an ounce of love. Instead, they purposely took it away. Piece by piece they shredded me apart. They wanted to steal what little happiness I had. What little warmth I had was no longer there; it was gone, a place of pure emptiness. I was a walking disappointment to them. A reminder of their failure, and they hated me for it.

I was six when I stopped asking for anything. I didn’t look at them for comfort anymore. I didn’t ask for help. I no longer sought their approval; I didn’t care for their affection. It would never come.

I was six when I learned to fight for myself, to act out, to make as much noise as possible. But even that wasn’t enough. No matter how loud or how much trouble I got in or caused, they turned their heads in the other direction.

It was then when my childhood ended.

It’s why I act out now. In a way I hate that I’m still looking for their approval, for their love. Even when the world is going to shit. I hate that I need someone, anyone, to love me with their entire being. I want the control you love. I want someone to show me that the pain I carry around is enough for them; I want someone to show me that even in the depth of my hatred, I’m still lovable.

So while I lie here in this nearly rotten bed, I can’t help but stare at Reed, wondering about him and his childhood. I want to ask him a million questions like, where did he grow up? Why does he wear a muzzle? Did his parents love him?

But I know he won’t answer any question that I ask. He’s like my parents, but possibly even worse, because I crave him. I want him to put me in my place. I want to act out and have him punish me for it. It doesn’t make sense; I barely understand it myself, but they left this giant hole inside me. One that I’m desperately trying to fix, to have something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m stranded on this Earth alone. My entire life I was surrounded by people, yet no one saw me. I was nothing to anyone. I was isolated—deprived of anything good. The void inside me needs nurturing, the basic attention, but also something so much more. I crave a pain that I’m not sure anyone can give me.

The need to act out and to yell to get under Reed's skin is swallowing me whole, and I can’t do much to stop it. Loneliness is a shadow that follows me and anyone in my path that I wish to drag down with me. I want everyone in the same room to be as miserable as I am, just so I’m not alone.

“Will you quit thinking so loud over there?” Reed mutters into the dark, cold room.

I roll my eyes; turning over onto my side, I let out a huff. I also hate that he somehow reads me better than anyone. Granted, not many have cared enough to pay close enough attention. And now that Reed is giving me an inch, I want to take the whole fucking mile.

So against my better judgment, I flop around on the bed like a fish out of water. It’s dramatic, and a sliver of me feels a tad bit bad, but the larger part of myself couldn’t care less. He said I would have three strikes, and earlier I was at one. I could at least get to two and still be on the safe side.Unless he completely leaves me in the middle of the night.

“Noah,” Reed warns. Unfortunately for him, I don’t care for warnings. Red flags are green in my eyes; I’m probably colorblind.

Shifting against the bed again, I smile when it squeaks, and Reed growls under his breath. I enjoy getting a rise out of him, and only a part of me thinks this is a bad idea.

“If you don’t stop moving and just go to sleep?—”

“I need some air.” I don’t need air. I also don’t want to go outside, but I’m putting it to the test that Reed won’t let me. He seems a little hellbent on making sure I’m safe, and while it’s odd, I like it. Maybe a little too much.

I throw the dusty blanket off of me and swing my legs over the side. With my Converse still on, I stand up from the bed. Before I can make a move towards the door, Reed is standing in front of me. His six-and-a-half-foot form loomed over my short self.

“No.”

---