Chapter One: Rescue Me.
"Be who you want to be; never let anyone try to tell them who you are, because they can't. Only you can."
Kendall twisted the door knob, sliding the bathroom door open, he gently slinked inside. "Where do you think you're going?" He father screamed, and Kendall shook his head, slamming the door shut. Kendall didn't listen; he shut the door, locked. Hearing his father's screams, he quickly looked at a drawer. The bathroom was a regular, a normal bathroom with a sink and a counter underneath, but this was different. He opened the drawer, pulling out a razor. He took a deep breath before pushing the razor onto his wrist, he sighed of relief, feeling the blood trickle down his arm he quickly grabbed a towel, cleaning up the mess he made. I know what you're thinking, why would Kendall: Kendall Schmidt cut? One word: abuse. It's not physical, but verbal and emotional. It happened when he was thirteen, when his mother had gotten arrested for public intoxication the cause? Drug use. She got sent to rehab, and never came back. She left the rehab clinic, but never showed up.
Kendall became depressed, his father soon blamed his for everything, and Kendall put pressure on his wrist, flinching at the thought. The remembrance of his father screaming, calling him useless, nothing but a wimp. He looked around, letting a tear drop down his face as his father continued screaming. "Get out of here so I can show you what of useless jackass you are. What are you doing? Smoking a joint like your mother? What a surprise." He said, letting the harsh words enter his word. "Maybe mom started that joint because she got sick of listening to your bullshit!" He loudly screamed and his father got angered. Kendall had never spoken to him before, he kicked the door, knocking it off its hinges, looked at Kendall. "What did you say to me?" He angrily snapped, not even noticing the towel gripped on his son's arms. The man pulled man Kendall close, spitting in his face as his fingernails began digging into his skin. "Stop—""No answer me, boy." "I'm not a boy, I'm eighteen." "Answer the damn question!" He screamed, pushing his son. Kendall's arms flew, grabbing onto the shower curtain, but it simply fell with him as he landed, on his stomach, inside the dirty bathtub. "Huh boy?" He screamed, pulling Kendall by his hair, forcing him to look at him.
Hearing Kendall moan, he didn't even bother to stop. "Dad—""—No dad shit," He said, throwing him onto the ground. Kendall's head smashed against the glazed glass tub. His head gently smashing against it. Blood trickling down the side of his head, the temple area to be specific. "Answer me!" His father ordered. Kendall weakly got up, barely managing to look up at his father. Blood was smeared around the tub, Kendall looked at his wrist had stopped bleeding moments ago; he felt his head, blood smearing in his palm. "ANSWER ME!" His father repeated, he repeated the question so much he forgot what the question was. "I-I don't k-k-k-know." He stammered, his father aggressively picking him up by his collar. "That's what I thought." He said, throwing him against the wall. His father looked to Kendall; disgust was the only Kendall could see in his eyes. His father looked at Kendall, and began walking out the bathroom. Pushing the fallen down door out of his way as he made his way to his car. Kendall sighed; he weakly stood up, looking in the mirror. His jaw had been bruised from the impact from being thrown in the bathtub. He moaned in pain as he felt his leg. A cut had been bleeding, hence the blood that was staining his newest pair of skinny jeans. He walked to the kitchen, grabbing a icepack, putting it against his chin.
The cooling of the icepack felt good on his hot moist skin. He grabbed a cloth, gently wiping some of the leftover blood that was in his mouth; the smell was horrible, almost making him want to gag. He shook it off, getting a chill. He heard his father's car engine fire up, and Kendall knew exactly where he was going. To the bar, whenever he did something he wasn't proud of, he went to the bar. Drinking, drinking, and drinking, until he got wasted. Then he'd come home around six o'clock in the morning and go to sleep. He'd sleep throughout the day, and the whole thing would repeat.
He quickly rubbed his hands through his hair, quickly throwing his foot on to the top of the toilet, rolling up his pant sleeve. The blood hadn't stopped, not one bit. He grabbed a roll of tissue, bundling a bit of it, pressing it against the wound. He took a deep breath, and he quickly turned on the faucet, letting the water run. He took a deep breath, quickly removing his clothes, he stepped into the bathtub, quickly fixing the torn and ripped shower curtain, he raised it up, making it look as normal as it could be—thought it looked like a mess. The bathroom was a mess; his whole world was a mess. Changing the faucet from bath mode to show mode, he left the water pour onto his body. The burns and cuts stinging as the room temperature water ran on his body. He—again—rubbed his hands through his drenched hair; he quietly began washing it with whatever shampoo they had. Surprisingly—they had some. It was always unlikely whenever they had something normal families usually had. Simple thing like food and soap and clothes became a hassle for him. He worked double shifts as his job as a mechanic, and that didn't even satisfy his family.
His mother was usually cooped up in her bedroom. She rarely came out of her bedroom. She would usually come out once a day; sometimes she'd stay in there for weeks. Kendall sighed, letting his thoughts overwhelm his as the water cleansed his sore and aching body. Once he was done, he quickly got dressed, jeans and a sweatshirt. He looked around his living room, papers and garbage cluttered the once neat and homey house. He quickly began cleaning things, making things as clean as a man with bruises and cuts running along every inch of body could do. He knew his father would complain, over something as simple as dirty dishes. He was sick of it, tired of this life. He wanted to leave, though the only way he could would be to go to college. Knowing his father would never allow it. His father depended on Kendall for most of the bills. All the man did was drink and beat his kids—well in Kendall's point of view. He was almost done; he quickly walked to his front door, turning on the porch light. Hearing kid's snicker and laugh at they ran past the house. Kendall ignored it, quickly sitting on the old couch that sat in there living room. He was tired—more like exhausted, and it was only four thirty.