Archive of Our Own ^beta

He felt the sharp pain in his leg grow with every movement. Sitting on the bathroom floor, he managed to remove the bigger pieces, but tiny glass shards still remained. Standing up carefully to avoid disturbing the bandage on his leg, Mao quietly shut the bathroom door behind him. He made his way over to the room next to his—his mother’s room. She lay peacefully, on the queen bed that always felt empty, even though it was meant for two. Moonlight shone in through the open window, illuminating her hair spread out on the pillow. She hadn’t changed out of her work clothes, clearly exhausted from a long day only to come home to cook and clean up after his ungrateful father. Mao gently pulled the comforter over his beloved mother, quietly shut the window, and pulled down the blind in case she got cold. Taking care not to wake her, he closed the door behind him.

Next, he went to the room across from his. His little sister, Mai, was asleep at her desk. She had always been the favourite, but Mao didn’t resent her for it—he could never. Mai was one of the most important people in his life. Unlike him, she never faced the same expectations from their parents, and never had to study as hard or do as many chores. But she still did them, all to make sure Mao wouldn’t hate her—not that he ever could. Mao could never hate Mai for receiving all the love from their parents because he knew she hated her being the favourite, just as much as he did. Gently, he lifted his little sister from her desk and tucked her under her covers. He glanced at her desk; she’d been studying again. Mai always told others she liked to have free time to do stuff for herself, but in reality, she spent it all trying to catch up to him. A feeling of sorrow settled over him as he closed her door softly behind him.

Mao made his way downstairs. The TV’s light filled the dark room, a room that had always felt depressing to him. Carefully, he skipped the last two steps, not wanting the creaky stairs to wake the man asleep on the couch. His father lay there, as usual, with a beer bottle in hand—the same kind of bottle Mao now had shards of in his leg. And yet, he didn’t hate his father, no matter how much he wanted to. Gently, he slipped the bottle from his father’s hand and placed it on the coffee table. Then, he grabbed the blanket he kept under the couch. Every day, he made sure to leave one there. Unfolding it, he laid it over the man he called his father. Quietly, he took the beer bottle and put it in the fridge.

Mao made his way back up the stairs, skipping the first two steps again. He closed his door behind him, feeling a fleeting sense of peace. Now that he knew his family was okay, he felt a little less broken, even if the pain in his leg disagreed and his heart ached more than it should. Mao hated himself more than he could ever love anyone, but as long as he convinced himself to love his family, that was enough to keep his darker thoughts at bay. Even if, deep down, he knew he deserved a better one.

He picked up the unfinished unit work he had. Now that he was on holiday, he didn’t have any homework to do, but at least he had some form of work to keep his thoughts on the lighter side. As he sat at his dimly lit desk, the void in his stomach seemed to grow lonelier, even though he was surrounded by his family. He hated that deep down; he knew no matter how hard he tried, he could never fully keep his thoughts at bay. And no matter how busy he kept himself, the darkness always found a way back in, creeping silently like a burden he could never escape.