Author Notes:

I'd like to start off by apologize to those who are reading Dance With Me, Exotica; I will finish chapter five eventually, but this project is currently a priority. Hands is a project that will be apart of my application portfolio for grad school. As a treat I'm reworking each part of Hands into a fanfiction and uploading it. There will be eight short parts uploaded of about 1,000 words each (my portfolio has a page limit, thus each part is short) and will alternate between flashbacks and the present.

The parts posted on this site have only been edited by myself, and have not undergone the grueling process of my editing team; therefore, constructive criticism is welcome.

Enjoy!

Hey.

Hi.

It's been awhile.

Yeah.

I'm sorry.

I know.

I love you.

…

Hands that hold,

protecting those close to the heart.

Hands that push,

condemning those painful to the heart.

We speak through our connections,

our holds and our pushes,

our loves and our hatreds,

all told through our

HANDS

The sound of air being torn from his mother's throat in a nightmarish scream of painful ecstasy awoke little Roxas from his dreamland sanctuary. He had been sailing merrily on a nameless dreaded pirate ship of his own creation. It was rare for the night to bring peaceful quietness, but Roxas had never heard a sound like that before—it was beyond the usual slew of vulgarity that his mother often forced upon unwilling ears. The unholy sound turned his stomach and burned painfully in his ears. It was so loud.

Desperately, he clung to the ragged, patched blanket that was his only source of warmth on the late autumn night and curled up more tightly on the ancient mattress. He tried to focus on the familiar neighbourhood noises: the forever arguing couple next door, the nightly party in the apartment above, the distant cars honking on Main Street just beyond the park, and the future gangsters boasting sexual conquests in the alleyway below. But they were all too soft, too quiet in comparison to his mother's screaming which was accompanied by a constant thumping. With every thump the screaming intensified. It seemed never ending.

Roxas snapped. In an instant he was out of his bed and rushing to the front door. He snatched up the stolen, brand-new shoes that replaced his useless, worn-out ones and began undoing the door locks. The screaming was deafening. Roxas could feel his insides twisting in revulsion as he looked up at the last lock; it was a chain lock, too high for a short five-year-old, like himself, to reach.

Taking a deep breath—the screaming had to climax soon, didn't it?—he looked around at the array of deteriorating furniture and spotted the broken broom that his father used on his backside at dinner when the new shoes had been discovered. He snatched it up and rushed back to the doors. His hands shook. The screaming became more raw, more animalistic, more pained. Lifting the broomstick, Roxas tried to snag the rusty chain. He missed. The screaming stopped. It was as if it had been suddenly choked off. Silenced. Roxas froze. His heart was pounding, and his eyes were wide as he turned to look towards his parents' bedroom. A minute went by, then two, and still there was not a sound in the house. Was it over?

Just as Roxas began to relax there was a slap of skin against skin, and his father hollered, "Wake up, you fucking bitch, and get me a beer!"

Roxas jumped into movement. He spun around, hooked the chain, and tugged as hard as he could towards the right. The rusted chain broke as he heard his mother's hoarse voice murmur a reply to his father. Then the screaming started again—these ones too weakened by the last and far more terrified sounding. He scurried out the door, down the stairs, and into the alleyway before he could be tortured by anymore of his mother's screams.

Weaving through the alleyways, dumpsters, and homeless, Roxas made his way to the park where he finally heard safe silence. He found a nice, sturdy bench hidden beneath a giant tree and curled up on it. The familiar drone of Main Street traffic soothed his nerves and soon Roxas returned to his innocent, child's dreams, where no evil lurked and his parents were happy and loving.

A warm hand gently caressed Roxas' arm, which was nearly numb with October cold. "Hey, wake up, Rox."

He groaned and moved closer to the source of warmth.

"Wake up!" The caressing hand shook him.

Roxas frowned and opened his eyes. The park was engulfed in a thin, post-dawn fog and the grass was frosted in icy white. Beside his head was a boy from school, the one who owned the stolen shoes. The boy was looking at him with worried, emerald eyes that were hidden behind thick black glasses. Roxas sat up.

"Why are you sleeping out here, Rox? Aren't you cold?" the boy asked.

Looking down, Roxas wrapped his arms around his shivering body and did not answer.

"Are you ok?"

He could feel tears gathering beneath his blue eyes, but still he did not answer. When he felt a warm coat wrap around him, he looked up at the boy who now only wore jeans and a sweater.

"Want to come to my house? Daddy's going to make pancakes!" the boy said excitedly.

Roxas bit his lip, unsure of if he should go, but unwilling to go home either, but before he could answer a warm, hardy voice called out, "Axel! Come on, son, we gotta get home."

The boy looked towards a large man carrying a tote bag. "Coming, daddy!" Then Axel looked back at Roxas and smiled. "C'mon."

Roxas began to shake his head, but the boy grabbed his cold hand with his two warm ones and pulled him from the bench. With a friendly grin, Axel led Roxas to his father and then home to fresh pancakes and a morning of hearty laughter.