This story came to me whilst listening to a song called Never Again by Nickleback (give me a shout in your review if you like that song!) and it reminded me of the episodes where Dr Cox lets slip tiny pieces of his unhappy-sounding childhood. That's when it really struck me – I need to write a fanfic about what happened to his parents, did they just disappear, are they still alive or are they dead? Enjoy! xxxNTxxx
_
"Or, maybe it had something to do with our mothers ability to watch silently as our dad drunkenly knocked us from room to room." – Dr Cox, 'My New God'
Percival Ulysses Cox was a fragile child. He never stood up to the bullies at school and he always jumped at the sound of a bang. At the age of eight he had learned that some noises were normal and outside of the house, things were usually okay. At the age of ten, Perry had learned that bullies were nothing compared to what he could be involved in, and that school was pretty much a haven in comparison to home life. At the age of twelve, however, Perry had not learned much else. He still stayed a quivering, snot-nosed, scared little boy and he felt there was nothing nobody could do about that.
At the age of twelve, Perry would wake up every morning with a headache that splintered through his forehead and down into his eyes. Sometimes it was so bad that his legs didn't work properly when he tried to lift himself out of bed; perhaps that was due to some other reason. He would rush his wash in the bathroom even though he knew that no one but Paige would be awake, and he would sneak downstairs to grab anything to eat. Mom used to make eggs. She didn't do that anymore. Perry would take a steady walk outside, never wanting to let Paige in his stride in case wanted to 'talk about stuff' again. Talking about stuff was never fun. It all ended up being the same stupid conversation.
The bullies on the school bus were relentless, even after hitting fourth grade. Perry would try to brush their comments aside and think about other things like math or literature, something difficult and mind-boggling that would keep his mind off of the obvious. No one likes school, but Perry loved it. Here, he could pretend he was someone else for the day. A traveller, no, no, a discoverer! He would tour the world making excellent discoveries just like in that movie the teacher had let them watch that day. Or maybe something else? Something worthwhile that would make him feel good about himself? A doctor – helping people could be fun. Stitch up their cuts and plaster their bruises...
After school, Perry would linger on the way home, finding any excuse not to go to that dreadful house. Paige would soon catch up with him, clutching her homework in a tight, tense grip and staying silent. They both knew the inevitable, and it terrified them to their very core.
Perry always opened the front door, and he was always the first to enter the house. He had nightmares about doing that very notion, which was odd for most twelve year olds.
Inside, their mom would be cooking. She always baked cakes and sweet-things for them to eat before the clock hit 19:00. Perry and Paige would eat the guilt-ridden foods quickly, thanking their mother and tenderly embracing her frail body in gapped hugs. Perry hated this part, because he knew that it was all just a front. She was trying to say sorry, to make them feel better, but cakes and hugs didn't cut it. He could see Paige wince as her mother pulled her close and it was strange to say that neither Perry nor his sister respected their mom.
He was only twelve years old. He felt older. This weird rut they were stuck in had started so many years ago, so why didn't their mom do something about it? What kind of mother let this sort of thing continue for so long? Then, what? Just smile, say sorry and force-feed cakes, is that it? Is that supposed to put things right? It was fair to say that Perry hated his mother.
He hated his father even more.
At 19:00, they would try to act like they didn't know what time it was. They would start their homework, watch TV, anything. Today, Perry chose the safest option that he'd ever used before – staying in his bedroom out of sight. If his father came upstairs to find him – which was rare because he was always too drunk to care where his son was – then he would show his father that he was simply doing his homework, like good boys do. That's right, isn't it? Good boys get on with their studies, they don't worry over bothersome topics.
So there Perry was, uninterested in where his mother had chosen to occupy herself and yet satisfied that Paige was safely in her bedroom as well, executing the same battle plan as he. Things would blow over tonight, he could feel it. He could taste it.
The front door swung open. How early it was for a grown man to be already drunk and ready to collapse. But poor Perry knew no different – as far as he was concerned, most men drank during the day and slept it off in the night; this was not out of the ordinary. Perry listened hard, pressing his ear to the floor to try to understand the communication taking place between his two dim-witted parents. There was a mumble, the lighter voice getting higher and louder and the deeper voice staying the same level. Crap, it was happening again.
Every once in a while, his mom would say the wrong thing about her children, and their father would lose it completely. Right now she was digging their grave, possibly accidentally but probably fatally. After all, once Perry and Paige were out of the picture, who would dad turn to then? She didn't even know the half of it; and Perry was just twelve. He felt so old now.
The footsteps coming up the stairs were heavy and slow, giving just enough warning and time for Perry to grab a textbook and beginning scribbling words into his jotter. There was an audible gasp from next door – Paige's room. She knew what was coming just as much as the rest of the happy family.
As always, Perry's door was the first to crank open. His father was a mess, but there was no change. He teetered on the spot, eyeing his son with part disgust, part anger. Perry tried not to look in his eye line, tried so hard to look and act like a good boy. Most other kids didn't have to go through this same routine every night, did they? Why couldn't he be like most other kids? With hopes and dreams and aspirations...
"Percival." His father slurred, stepping in closer and snarling. "What the fuck are you playing at?"
"I'm doing my homework, sir." Perry had learned at the age of nine to always address his father as 'sir'.
"Why aren't you downstairs? Why aren't you helping your mom wash up?"
"Because... because I am doing my homework, sir."
"Your mother needs your help and you're just being selfish!" His father spat, his face getting closer to Perry's. "That woman gave birth to you! You should respect her! Get downstairs."
"Okay, sir." Perry stood and made to leave, but apparently that wasn't good enough. A painful sensation filtered from his jaw and cracked down into his neck, sending his body flying backwards and onto the floor, which then winded him and caused a slight panic attack to venture his system. Before too long he calculated the probability of what just happened: his father had punched him in the face. His jaw felt broken as he fought back the tears and stayed laid on the carpet, dumb-struck. He didn't even know why he was surprised anymore.
"You didn't tidy away your homework." His father narrowed his eyes. "And you sassed me. You do nawt sass me."
"I'm sorry, sir." Perry's voice broke and he made to leave again. His father grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and yanked him back just to give one last glare, and then pushed him out onto the hallway. Quickly, Perry gathered his messy thoughts and launched himself downstairs; he didn't want to hold on long enough to hear Paige's yelps and screams. Perry's newly acquired head wound made him feel dizzy as he tried to repress the memory.
In the kitchen, the washing was already done and his mother was stood leaning against the side, one hand covering her forehead. She didn't acknowledge his presence. There was a banging sound from upstairs, and she jerked slightly, only then catching her son's eyes and shrugging. She was crying – her eyes were bloodshot and sore. Perry didn't care, however, because he hated his mom for letting this happen nearly every night. She didn't even apologise.
Paige entered the kitchen with her arm dangling in an odd position. Their mother still did not speak. Their father came down and stared at the three of them, as if he, the drunken swaying man, was the only respectable and decent human being in the room.
"You disgust me." He gritted his teeth.
No one said a word, but that was wrong. Staying silent was wrong, so how come their mom survived more often than not? How come she didn't suffer the emotional and physical abuse that was dealt to both her children on a daily basis? Because of their silence, their father got angry. He began to throw the furniture, namely the wooden chairs, and smash the plates. He reached for a nearby bottle of whiskey underneath the overhanging cupboards and smashed it against the side for it to open. He gulped it down and wiped his mouth.
"Are you happy?" He snarled at each and every one of them. Perry flinched at his words, reciting them in his head as if they were a script. It was the same words, every time. "It's your fault that I'm like this. If you were never born, I'd be much happier."
And then it really began. He reached for Paige with his broken glass bottle and jeered at her, almost begging her to stay still so that he could force the shards into her face and distort her pretty eyes. He commented on how it would make her look better, because she was an ugly witch that drained him for every last penny he earned. Paige was crying, because the glass was so close to her eyes and her nose now. It was too much to ask her to try to hold her father's arm back, because drunk or not he was still stronger than a little girl.
Perry's little sister. This could be fatal; he knew it would be. He didn't want to see her dead on the floor, with his mother doing nothing and his father retreating to bed without so much as a glance in the direction of her mangled body... no, he couldn't even think about the possibilities. So what Perry does next, in the mind of a confused, scared and angry twelve year old boy, is only because he loves his sister so much.
Perry takes the bread knife and runs at his father, screaming; tears stream down his face in a mixture of blood from his head wound and salty sweat from the fear. The knife lunges into his father's fleshy open stomach and the blade disappears as he calls out in pain. The glass bottle falls to the floor, erupting into tiny shards that glint in the kitchen light. His mom is crying now, hitting him helplessly with her tea-towel before falling to her knees beside her dying husband. He is choking and coughing uncontrollably. Paige hugs Perry, over and over again she whispers in his ear. "Thank you."
Perry doesn't want to talk about it, not ever. His mother is touching the knife and covering herself in blood, there's only one thing to do. It's manipulative and evil for a twelve year old, but the things he's seen... he doesn't care. Perry picks up the phone and dials 911. He asks for the police. His mother would pay the price.
Paige stares at him, wide-eyed. She's too young for this.
They both were.
At the age of thirteen, Perry Cox had learned that violence does not solve everything, but it gosh darn made him feel better. At the age of nineteen, Perry learned that it was impossible to forgive someone for the things that they did, even if they were his parents. He also learned that a strong man is a winner, and no one messes with strong men. At the age of twenty-seven, Perry learned that forgetting is actually the easy part, it's just getting on with it that's hard. And right now, as Perry sits with his ex-wife and plays with his gorgeous son and daughter with Paige by his side, Perry knows that what is done, is done. No one would judge him, and no one would ever disagree with the actions of a hurt teenage boy with nowhere else to run.
Perry looks at Paige and he can see their mother in her eyes. He grimaces, holding back the regret and focussing on the present. He loved his sister, and no matter how much her presence reminded him of hat fateful day, he would always love her.
After all, he would kill for her.