~Chapter 26~
The bell for the next class after I come from Starbucks doesn’t even have time to completely go off, because I already know I can’t stay.
I can’t stay here. I can’t breathe here.
In this room that smells of marker and windows that never open, I feel something squeezing my throat. Like an invisible hand.
The biology teacher comes in talking about the endocrine system, but his words just pulsate in my ears, like a permanent buzz.
Theo elbows me every now and then, trying to bring me back to reality, but today…
there is no reality for me. Not one I can stand in without my knees shaking.
“Cass, bro, are you okay?” I hear him, but his voice is like it’s coming through a long, metal tube.
No, I'm not well.
Not since yesterday.
Not since today.
But I can't tell him that.
I can't tell anyone.
I try to write in my notebook, but my hand is shaking. My hands are cold, but my back is burning. Every muscle seems to protest. I feel the blood rushing to my temples, too fast, too strong. My heart is beating... no. It's not beating. It's pounding in my chest, as if it wants to come out.
And then everything breaks.
I raise my head suddenly.
The auditorium spins slightly.
I see the neon light flickering.
I see people.
Too many people.
Too many stares.
I can’t.
I HAVE to go.
I raise my hand, but I don’t have time to ask permission.
I stand up straight.
“Where do you think you’re going, Cassian?
” the professor asks, visibly disturbed.
I can’t breathe. I have no voice.
I sling my backpack over my back like it weighs tons.
“I’m going… out,” I manage to say. That’s it.
I don’t even know how my voice came out.
“Without permission, I don’t..”
I can’t hear the rest.
The door slams behind me.
The hallway is long, cold, and empty, with echoing footsteps as if I’m walking into an industrial warehouse.
Every step hurts. Every muscle seems to pull back, resisting.
My knees are shaking so hard I feel like I’m going to fall.
I lean against the wall, a cold, white wall that burns through my shirt. I breathe in jerkily.
Oh, God.
I can’t.
I can’t.
“Go away,” I whisper to myself. “You have to go.”
Not to the office, not to the courtyard.
To the exit.
I move like water, each step clinging to me, pulling me back. My body isn’t my own today. My body is going through something and I don’t even know what.
But I know where it all started.
That stupid dream and my imagination
I shake again, so hard that I drop my backpack. I bend down to pick it up, and a sharp pain shoots through my ribs. I curse under my breath, a kind of choked sob, and I shove my backpack over one shoulder.
The exit is five steps away.
Fi—
Fo—
Th—
Tw—
When I step outside, it's as if the cold air of the courtyard hits my lungs directly and forces them to work again.
But that doesn't last long either.
And then I start walking.
Without looking back.
Without thinking.
Feeling nothing but pain and fear on a scale I've never felt before.
---
I walk down the sidewalk, my backpack dangling and my steps sounding like someone else’s. People pass me and look at me strangely.
Maybe it’s because I’m sweating. Maybe it’s because I’m white as a sheet.
Maybe it’s because I walk strangely, like I’ve been drinking, but it’s not that.
It’s my body, pulling me down.
It’s like my muscles are too small for me.
Like something wants to expand.
To widen.
To come out.
I feel a constant tremor in my palms.
In the back of my head.
A burning.
Like a hot claw.
I lean against a fence. I close my eyes. I breathe in.
It doesn't work.
It doesn't stop.
My whole body is pulsing.
It's a rhythm. Not the rhythm of my heart.
Something else.
Something older.
I keep going.
Not because I can.
But because I have nowhere else to go.
At some point, my vision blurs.
I see black spots, as if someone had put ink on my invisible lenses.
I stay there.
On the sidewalk.
Breathing like a man who has run for miles.
“Get up…” I tell myself, but my voice is barely a faint whisper.
A woman walks past me. She looks away for a second.
But she doesn’t stop.
Why would she stop?
They don’t look hurt.
They just look tired.
Or high.
Or scared.
If I were them… I wouldn’t stop either.
I try to get up.
My muscles protest.
My ribs prick.
I manage to get to my knees, then to my feet.
And I walk again.
Five more blocks.
Then two more.
Then the corner to the apartment building.
By the time I reach the front of the house, my body is ready to give up.
To fall completely.
But not before I see the nightmare through to the end.
---
The door creaks as I open it.
My house hasn’t felt this cold in a while.
The familiar smell of stale coffee and wet wood hits me like cold water poured over a barely lit fire.
My father is in the kitchen.
I hear the chair scrape the tiles.
I hear him open the fridge.
I hear a glass placed on the table.
I hear everything.
Much too clearly.
“You’re early,” he says, not looking at me.
I pull my foot out so I can close the door.
I hesitate. I put my backpack down.
I say, with difficulty:
"I didn't feel well.
"
That's all he needs.
So little.
I hear him laugh briefly.
Dry.
Sharp.
"Of course not. You never feel well.
You never get through a day without complaining.
"
My stomach tightens.
"I—I didn't say I complained.
.."
"You skipped class, didn't you? Again?
" he asks, finally turning to me, "and took another 2 or 4 and your guts came out? "
His eyes are like dirty glass.
Gray, dull, filled with something too deep.
Disgust.
“Dad… I really felt sick,” I say quietly.
“You always feel sick. About everything. About sports, about homework, about responsibilities, about life.”
He approaches me.
Slowly, but with heavy, determined steps.
I feel my mouth go dry.
“You can’t even sit up straight now,” he continues. “You look down like a beaten puppy. You’re weak, Cassian. Weak.”
I can’t defend myself.
Not today.
“Are you looking at me?” he asks, his voice rising.
I look up. But that’s a mistake.
There’s nothing good in his eyes.
Nothing warm.
Just frozen anger and disappointment.
“Tell me,” he says, bringing his face closer to mine.
“What was your reason for leaving school? Did a hair hurt? Did you wonder how a pen was sitting on the desk? Or did you feel more special than the rest again?”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
I taste metal.
Blood.
But so far from blood
“I’m not special,” I whisper.
“Exactly,” he says, with terrible satisfaction.
“You’re not. And you never will be And neither does your brother.
”
Every word hits me.
If I had a shield, it would have broken through effortlessly.
“If you’d done something with your life,” he says, turning to the table and raising his glass, “maybe… maybe I’d respect you.
But no. You’re just… a burden.”
My heart tightens so hard I feel like I’m choking.
“I don’t even know what you want to be in life,” he continues.
“But I know what you are now: a boy who runs away. Who gives up. Who doesn’t see things through. ”
I feel myself start to tremble.
Not from fear.
From shame.
From pain.
From something deeper.
“Even your body isn’t listening to you,” he says, laughing.
“Look at you. You look like you’re about to fall.
Always about to fall. Because that’s what you do, Cassian: you fall.
”
And then he says something that completely tears me apart:
“If I’d known what you’d become… I wouldn’t have wanted you.”
All the air in my lungs breaks.
Like a broken bag.
I can't see the kitchen anymore.
I can't see anything anymore.
Just the floor slowly approaching me.
I'm shaking.
I fall to my knees.
And he doesn't even stop.
"Are you crying? Seriously? You can't even be strong," he says contemptuously.
I’m not crying.
Not yet.
But my eyes burn.
“Are you looking at yourself?” he continues, spitting out the words as if they were something dirty. “Who do you think would want you? Who would need you? That you don’t even belong here, in this house.”
Then it breaks me completely.
Because it’s true.
I feel.
I feel like I don’t belong anymore.
Not to the house.
Not to the world.
Not to my body.
Not to my heart.
And something breaks inside me for good.
Something that will never be put back together.
Inhale. Exhale.
But I feel nothing.
No physical pain.
No anger.
Nothing.
Just emptiness.
---
Classes feel twice as long today as usual. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I barely slept last night, maybe it’s because the throbbing pain between my ribs refuses to leave me, maybe it’s because I’m just tired of always looking okay.
The professor speaks in front of me, gesturing exaggeratedly, but his words pass by me like tired echoes. It’s like I hear everything, but nothing sticks in my head.
I don’t know exactly when the pain started.
Maybe a few hours ago, or a day ago, maybe more.
It’s definitely worse today. My limbs are shaking subtly, not enough for anyone to notice, but enough to make my breathing difficult.
“Cass? Are you okay?”
The voice comes from somewhere to my right.
My colleague, Theo, is looking at me with raised eyebrows.
I ignore him. Normally, I would have made a joke, rolled my eyes. Today… I can’t.
I just focus on breathing. Slowly. Calculated.
If I sit very still, it might go away.
But it doesn’t.
The pain spreads like a cold wave under my skin, up my arms, down my legs.
It’s not a pattern. It’s chaotic. Like an invisible weight that moves, pressing down exactly where it hurts the most.
The professor raises his voice at one point:
“Cassian! Then maybe you can tell us the answer?”
I look up at him. Everything moves a split second slower than it should.
I realize I didn’t even hear the question.
“I don’t feel very well,” I hear my voice say, hoarse, foreign.
The professor blinks twice, surprised that I’m talking.
I’m the guy who knows, who answers, who comments, who never stays silent.
“If it’s something serious, you can go to the office.
”
“I’m going home,” I say bluntly, standing up.
The moment my feet hit the floor, the world bends.
Fast. I see white. Then a flash of black. Then nothing.
—
When I come back, I’m still standing, leaning against the bench.
My classmates are making noise. The professor approaches, worried.
“Cassian, someone needs to take you to the office.”
“No,” I mutter.
“I’m… I’m going home.”
“Are you sure? You look like..”
But I can’t hear the rest. I walk out the door.
The hallway is long, the lights flicker, and the air is too dry.
The footsteps ring in my ears like hollow blows.
Outside, the world seems normal, quiet. I hurry.
My ribs ache with every breath, my arms are numb, and my knees sometimes give way.
I keep my hands in my pockets, clenched, as if I want to hold everything inside me so it doesn’t spill out.
Because I feel like something inside me is about to give way completely.
I half run, half crawl home.
On the way, I stop three times. The first time to catch my breath as dizziness hits me, the second time because I feel like the ground is slipping away from under my feet, and the third time… because I just feel like I can’t do it anymore.
It’s an hour before I get home. The door is open. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
It’s quiet inside. Too quiet.
I trudge inside.
I lean against the wall. My breathing is even shorter.
“Where have you been?”
My father’s voice breaks the silence like a hammer.
I freeze instantly.
He’s in the living room, his robe thrown over the back of his chair and a cup of coffee in his hand.
His eyes scan me up and down, and his expression changes in an instant from neutral to irritated.
“I asked you for something simple. To show up to class. To not cause trouble. To not make the family a laughingstock. And what are you doing? Are you leaving? Why? Are you sick? Does something hurt? You don’t look sick. You just look… weak.”
I don’t have the energy to answer.
I try, though.
“I don’t feel...”
“I don’t care how you feel,” he cuts me off.
“I’m sick of your excuses. I’m sick of your feelings.
Your sensitivities, Vex”
He steps closer.
He takes big steps. Too big.
My stomach tightens.
My instinct tells me to take a step back.
But I can’t.
“If you have something to say,” he continues, “say it. If you don’t, stop crying like a baby.
”
“I’m not crying,” I answer, even though my voice is shaking.
Then his hand hits me across the cheek. Not hard, but hard enough to take my breath away. And the next second, without me having time to recover, there’s another. Then a punch to the shoulder.
My head jerks to the side.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
“You’re no good,” he says. “You never were. Not you, not him.”
“He” is clearly Sergio.
And the mere fact that he includes my brother ignites something in my chest. An instinct.
An anger. But I’m too weak, too sick, too broken inside to fight back.
My father raises his hand again, but he doesn’t manage to strike.
Because another hand grips his wrist with brutal force.
“Don’t touch him again,” Sergio says.
And his voice… his voice is cold, sharp metal.
I’ve never heard it like that.
“What did you say?” the father asks, trying to free his hand.
“I said,” Sergio repeats, taking a step closer, “that you’re never going to touch any of us again.
”
“You’re just a naughty kid who”
“I’m your son,” Sergio interrupts, squeezing him tighter.
“And if you ever come near Cassian again, I swear on everything I have that you’ll never raise your hand again.
”
The father pushes him. Sergio doesn’t budge.
“Get out of my house!” the father yells.
“I’ll get out,” Sergio replies calmly.
“But not before I take Cassian upstairs. And not before I tell you something: you no longer have the right to call us your sons when you’re acting like a monster. ”
For a moment, the father looks like he wants to fight back.
"fags" Say it with hate.
But Sergio looks him straight in the eye. Without fear. Without hesitation.
And the man gives up. He curses. He throws the cup in the sink. He walks away.
Only when I can no longer hear his footsteps does Sergio take me by the arm and lift me up.
“Come on, Cass. Okay. I’ll take you upstairs.”
I let him hold me. I have no choice.
—
My room is dark. He slowly places me on the bed.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe.
Everything hurts. My body shakes uncontrollably.
“How long have you been feeling like this?” he asks, his voice soft, different from his low one.
“A few hours or a day, I don’t know.
..” he murmurs.
“And you didn’t say anything to me.
”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Cass…” Sergio sits down next to me.
“You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see you slowly fading away?
You are… my brother. My other half. If there’s something wrong with you, my whole universe falls apart. How could you not tell me?”
I’m silent. My eyes burn.
“Today… at school…” I begin, but my voice breaks.
“What happened?”
I run my hand over my forehead.
“I fell. Or almost fell. I don’t know. I feel… weak. Like my body no longer responds to what I want. Like… it doesn’t belong to me anymore.”
Sergio puts his hand on the back of my head, supporting my head.
“You’re exhausted. Stressed. Scared. And you don’t deserve any of this. You don’t deserve to feel like a stranger in your own heart. You don’t deserve to be treated like this by… him.”
Tears well up in my eyes. I try to stop them. I don’t want him to see me like this.
“Cass,” he murmurs, “you don’t have to be strong with me.
I’m here. I’m right next to you. And I don’t want to imagine a world without you, okay?
I don’t want to. I can’t.”
My breath catches completely.
Tears well up. Sergio pulls me to him, leans me against his chest, and rubs my back.
“I got you,” he whispers. “I got you. I’m not letting you fall.
”
I don’t know when I fall asleep. I just do.
In his arms.
—
Sergio's perspective:
When Cassian falls asleep, he’s pale. Too pale.
His breathing is shallow, and his body trembles from time to time.
I feel every spasm, every involuntary tension.
I cover him with a blanket. I adjust his pillow.
I wipe away the remaining tears.
It hurt to see him cry.
It hurt more than the beatings I took at the boxing gym, than his words, than any blow I’ve ever taken.
I’m used to being the strong one. The protector. The one who jumps. But today… today I felt an anger I’ve never felt before.
I could have hit my father. I wanted to.
But Cassian was more important.
I sit by his bed for a few more minutes, holding his hand.
His hand is cold. Way too cold.
Then the door opens.
My mother walks in slowly, her face worried.
“Is he sleeping?” she asks.
I nod.
She comes closer and looks at him with deep sadness.
She touches his forehead with the back of her hand.
“We can’t go on like this,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I answer.
“You need to be closer,” my mother whispers.
“You two. All the time. Watch over him. Keep an eye on him. Protect him. Keep him close.”
I look up at her.
“Why? What’s happening to him?”
My mother looks at me for a long time.
Too long.
“This is not the time for that question, Sergio. And not for the answer.”
My heart sinks.
“Then when?” I ask.
The mother looks at Cassian, gently strokes his hair, and says, "When the time comes.
.. you'll know. But until then... don't leave him alone for a second. "
He turns to the door.
“Not a second,” I repeat quietly, more to myself.
“Exactly,” my mother says. “He’s more fragile than he looks. And something inside him… is slowly breaking. You two need to stay together.”
The door closes.
I turn to Cassian, take his hand in mine again, and make a promise to myself, one that burns in my chest:
I won’t leave him again. I won’t let him go. I won’t lose him again.
No matter what comes. No matter what mom hides.
No matter how much he breaks inside…
I will be there.
Because he is not just my brother.
He is the man without whom my world does not exist.
And if I fall…
I fall with him.
---
I've lost the experience of reading quickly. Now it takes me +30 minutes to underline or correct mistakes or add more, some time ago it took me a maximum of 10-15 minutes ??