Author's Note: First fanfiction I've ever truly tried to write. The first chapter is kind of short but... I tried.
Chapter One
The lights sputtered off with the resounding thud of the light switch. The set had fallen dark and the floors glimmered after the janitors' nightly rebuffing. Not a soul stirred on the empty set but Link Larkin who walked directly to the center of the stage and stood there, his hips pivoting, his feet planted, his hands in his pockets. This was his least favorite part of the day: the time to go home.
He took a deep breath of the waxy, sweaty, perfume-filled air and spun on his heel, heading toward the heavy back door. With only the neon red Exit sign to light his way, he did a graceful job of leaving the studio. Putting his hands on the long, metal handle, Link sighed dejectedly and shoved himself out the door. Whether it was the door or Link's reluctance to leave that made it so hard to go, he didn't know. Or he didn't really wanted to face the truth.
The sun was low when Link looked up. The sky stretched endlessly into a soft blue blanket over the city and the sun burned the horizon bright pink. Bitter autumn winds nipped Link's bare hands and he stuffed them in his pockets, back hunched against the breeze. Dead, dry leaves scraped the cracked cement sidewalks Link had become so accustomed to walking on; the wind- that damn wind- whistled through the semi-bare trees. It was only November: the leaves struggled to hold onto the brittle branches for a few more weeks.
Link's dazzling blue eyes glanced into the empty bus stop. It was heavily shadowed, but sheltered from the wind. It had only been five minutes from "quittin' time" (or so Corny happily put it) at the studio. Another bus wouldn't come by for ten minutes, and although it would take Link thirty-five minutes to walk home and fifteen by bus, he kept walking forward, the bus stop seeming to burn a hole in the back of his head. Link rounded a corner and stopped, leaning against the scratchy, graffiti-ed brick walls of an old Baltimore building. He stared at the setting sun for a few intense minutes and started walking again. It was all just to buy him more time.
Link was first to the studio and last to leave every day- every single day since he had started to work there years ago. He beat Corny Collins to the set of the "Corny Collins Show". His friends teased him relentlessly about it, which Link took as just a reason to tease. No one would ever wonder why he came so late, left so early; they just assumed that he loved his job. Don't get the guy wrong. He did love his job, but not because he was dancing up on that stage, or having the whole teenage population of Baltimore cheering for him. No. That was definitely not his reason.
Sooner than Link could have imagined, the sky was a navy sheet across the Earth; stars pierced the inky darkness, twinkling happily. The street lamps flickered to life casting an unnatural light onto the sidewalk that spilled in an orange puddle onto the street. He shuddered, the absence of the sun making the air colder by the second and soon Link had pulled his coat tightly around his body, ducking his head into the collar to hide his ears and neck from the biting cold.
Soon enough, he stood in front of an old brick building, looking up to the flat roof as if desperately trying to see a beacon of hope. Link lifted one foot off the sidewalk and onto the cracked cement stair, his hand resting on the rusted, iron banister. He shivered at the touch of the cold metal but kept walking, knowing that his nonattendance was probably noticed and that his parents were awaiting his arrival sooner than he had arrived… meaning he was going to be in some serious trouble once he stepped foot inside that house.
Link took a deep breath and let it out before he twisted the golden doorknob and swung open the door. "Hello?" He called down the hallway. "Mom? Dad?" There was the grating noise of chair being pushed back on hardwood and Mr. Patrick Larkin stood in front of the doorway at the end of the hall, his shadow elongated down the dark entry hallway.
"What took you so long, Link?" He asked as Link approached him, peeling his coat off his arms. "You're ten minutes later than normal. Your mother and I were getting worried."
He was a typical father for the 60s: tall, wiry, and strong. Patrick had a nest of dark brown hair atop his head that matched his hollow chocolate brown eyes to a T. He was a good-natured man, generous and kind, but the problem was that he was a typical father for the 60s: he wanted his child to fear him, and in turn for the fear, respect. Mutual or not, he got the respect he wanted, but he had also earned the trepidation of his son along the way- something that would only grow with time instead of shrinking and shriveling away. Link was seeing more and more of the angry side of his father every day and that good-natured part seemed to fade with the time.
"Time at the studio ran late," Link lied hastily, walking over to the kitchen table and tossing his coat over the back. "Sorry, Dad."
"Well," Mrs. Lacey Larkin said, motioning with her fork to the plate set for her son at the table. "We were waiting for you. Aren't you able to leave early? You get to the studio early enough."
"You know, she's right, son," Patrick said as Link took his spot at the table. Following suit, Patrick sat and tucked himself into the table. He grabbed his fork and took a bite of his meal before speaking again. "Your mother and I want to see you before you die, if that's all right with you and your station manager. Tomorrow, we want you home by five thirty, you understand?"
Link nodded but he still tried to fight. "But, Mom, you get home at six normally, don't you?" Link asked, even though he knew the answer. "You just get off work early on Fridays?" Lacey nodded and set her fork down on her plate.
"Yes," She said. "But it wouldn't hurt you to be home, would it?"
That's what you think, Link thought bitterly, stuffing a bite of spaghetti into his mouth and bending his head over his plate as the food splattered on his chin. Patrick smacked Link on the back off the head and Link nearly choked on his food.
"Use your manners, boy," Patrick snapped. "We aren't dogs."
"Sorry, Dad," Link muttered to his plate, eyes watering from his choking fit.
"Look me in the eyes when you talk, son," Patrick said hotly to Link. "It's respect."
Link looked up from his plate but not into his father's eyes. "Sorry," He muttered again.
"Speak clearly now," his father demanded.
"I'm sorry," Link said, biting back the annoyed tone in his voice. He had never met someone so picky about the way he spoke before in his life. All he wanted to do was finish his food, go upstairs, and finish the algebra homework that he had neglected to do from two nights ago (he had merely gotten away with the demeanor by giving an autographed picture to the teacher. Mrs. Hampton was a Corny Collins fan).
"Are you being smart with me, boy?" Patrick asked incredulously.
"What?" Link asked in the same tone. He looked at his mother who was pointedly looking at her spaghetti, clearly more interested in the pasta than in her fighting husband and child. "What? I- no! Of course not!"
"Are you trying to mouth off to me?" Patrick went on his rage without listening to a word coming out of his son's mouth. "You think you can talk to me like that?"
"Dad, I didn't-," Link tried to get in but before he finished his sentence, Patrick scraped back the chair, grabbed a handful of Link's hair and dragged him down the hall and up the staircase.
"Dad, what're you- ow! Dad, stop!" Link bleat incomprehensibly. Patrick didn't hear though. Often when he was in these rants, he was deaf to everything around him, as well as blind to how much he hurt his son; it was a mixture that was bad to cross in this certain situation.
Once at the top of the stairs, Link was still babbling, and Patrick led them into his and his wife's bedroom. Link tried to stop himself from being brought in but with one rough tug from Patrick's strong hands, he stumbled into the room, falling onto the floor in his ungainly haste. Patrick let go of Link and fiercely tugged open the top drawer of his dresser, shoving his hand through a bundle of socks and shirts to grab his object of desire.
"Dad, I swear, I wasn't talking back!" Link prattled on, unaware to the annoyance he was causing his already angered father. "I really wasn't!"
Patrick didn't listen as he slid a black leather belt out of the drawer. He slammed the drawer closed and looked at his son, anger blaring behind his eyes. The silver buckle of the belt disappeared under Patrick's strong hand as he wrapped his hand around either end of the belt. Link gulped and stumbled to his feet, his fear not allowing him to remember how he got to the floor in the first place.
"Link, when are you going to learn?" Patrick asked, sounding- to Link- like an evil character on a television show. "When are you going to learn?" And just like that, the metal buckle was released from Patrick's hand and brought down onto Link's back. Link cried out in pain.
"I'm sorry!" Link cried desperately. "I'm so sorry!"
After about a dozen more lashes from the belt, Patrick froze and returned the item back where he had gotten it. He turned and looked down at his son who was on the floor, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Link bit his lip and felt the warm, salty tears slide down his cheek, leaving behind shining trails that shone in the light of a nearby reading light.
"I'm sorry I had to do that, Link," Patrick squatted down to his son's current eyelevel and tried to look Link in the eye with no prevail. Link didn't want to look his father in the face at the moment so he refused to turn his head up. "But you have to learn," Patrick semi-appeased the boy. "You have to learn to stop smarting off." Link just nodded, unable to speak for the hard lump in his throat made it known to Link that if he tried to speak, he would burst out in tears. It was better to just nod and walk away.
And people wonder why Link spent so much time at the studio.
Author's Note: Note that I have number dyslexia and if my numbers seem incredibly off, just tell me and I'll try to fix it.
Also note, this story is all from personal experience, so I'm pretty sure you won't find a story with this much insight into the abuse. If you have trouble swallowing abuse, I honestly don't mind if you stop reading. Abuse isn't much of a fun thing to read. Or go through, I might add.
There will be a lot of CornyLink friendship in this story because I found having a young adult by my side one of the most comforting things you could get. I felt Link deserved that, too. (Did I mention I get WAY too into my characters?) I don't think I'll do a pairing because honestly, Tracy bugs me to no end, I can't see A PennyLink ever happening, and AmberLink seems too... picture perfect.
