The darkness envelops me, and the pain becomes unbearable.

I try to get up from the ground. The stinging pain jolts through my legs as I try to move. Not being able to keep the tears inside anymore, they fall in rapid succession. I stand up slowly, leaning against the wall.

I slowly walk out of the dark alleyway. But I still fall, my legs not being able to withstand the wounds that they inflicted on me. I slowly make it home falling a couple of times. The door creaks open after many times because of the black ice stuck on it.

The lights are on, and I try to tiptoe around to the stairs. The mirror beside the door reflects what I know will leave my mom bawling. I clean up my tears, trying to make myself look presentable.

My mom's sitting on the worn-down couch in the living room, the tv playing one of those action movies that she loves. She sits with her legs folded, and her head resting on her knees. My stepdad, Greg is on his knees, stroking my mom's hair as the howls of her cries echo while she stays in the infamous child's pose. A gnawing feels starts to claw up, but I push it down. She doesn't see the pain in my heart.

I'm almost halfway up the stairs when the lights are turned. My back faces him.

"We already heard the door open, your mom was hoping you'd come to her." He says.

"I'm really sleepy, let's talk later."

I can hear his footsteps coming up, and then a hand is placed on my shoulder. "Buddy, please, your mom's been worried all night, just talk to her."

I shake off his hand. "I said, we'll talk later," I began walking again.

Greg turns me around slowly, to face him. His face loses colour as he sees me. "Troy, what is this?"

My mom comes rushing out of the living room. "What happened, is he okay?", She gasps when she sees me, her hands covering her mouth.

He goes to comfort her, his hands going around her shoulders. She pushes him off and comes closer to me. Her hands trace the bruises beside my eyes, after repeatedly getting punched, it was sure to leave a black eye. Her eyes prick with tears, and her forehead scrunches with worry lines. She looks like she's holding back her tears because of me.

"Did you get into a fight, Troy?" She screams.

"No, mom, I just fell in practice."

She looks back at Greg. He raises his eyebrows, his own wrinkles appearing. "Are you telling me that the star player fell in practice, tell me who it was?"

I shake her off, "Are you going to hit the ice for me as you used to when I was a kid?" I joke.

Her tears now fall at this. She goes straight to Greg's embrace. "Tell him to stop joking, and tell me."

I rub my eyes, yawning. "Mom, it's been a long day, we can talk in the morning."

"Was it the boys from hockey?" She yells again, this time nearly killing my eardrums. My head is still pounding.

My hands go to cover my ears. "Mom, stop yelling, I'll tell you tomorrow, I promise," I tell her calmly.

She starts crying again, and her head falls on Greg's shoulders. He looks at me, then at my mom, like he has no idea who is right.

"This is the reason." I start.

She looks up at me, her body shaking.

"I don't even want to come home anymore because of you." I walk upstairs and slam the door.

I can hear my mom yelling, and Greg trying to calm her down. None of that makes it better. I walk right to my stash in the bottom drawer of my bedroom table. I pull out the alcohol bottles that I've been secretly hiding in my room since last year. But I haven't opened them, until now.

I turn on the TV in my room, opening up the COD program. I need to talk to someone if it's only online players playing video games. My eyes turn glossy at times, but I just keep playing. Close to 3 am when the only light is the illuminating light of the screen and the moonlight is the only brightness of my room. My thoughts go haywire, burning their fires of chaos, leaving ashes of pain.  

Maybe Marcus wasn't wrong.

The reflection of the dark screen as the game ends shows all my insecurities.

I always looked like my dad. When I was little, walking on the streets with my mom, with her blond hair and blue eyes, people would give us weird glances. My mom always said that she liked me and my dad's hair more than her own. Though we never talked about it, I knew that it was something that my mom had come to terms with. I never knew that I hadn't.

If I looked like my mom, would the bullying still happen?

Would they know what my legacy was, who my ancestors were?

The pain in my chest tightens and I need to lie down. Eyes start crying, and the tears don't stop this time. I chug down the bottles, the pain easing for some time. Maybe Marcus was right.

I am drunk.

I am dumb.

I am ugly.

I wish I could go back to a time where I was living, not just breathing waiting for relief.