The day had been one of bliss, but the night held something else in store. Proceeding on the hope of happiness, the boy had listened to his desires, had acted on his love. But he had been careless, and so he had been caught: his father had come home early from work to see his son on the couch, his shirtless body covered with a sheer film of sweat and lust, pressed up against someone else.
Pressed up against another boy.
Later that night, the boy had dared to sneak out of his room, where he had been condemned to spend the rest of his days, and crept out into the house, along the stairs, hoping to hear his parent's discussion. The boy's hand rested awkwardly on the staircase. His father had broken his fourth finger only a few hours earlier, believing the inability to type computer code quickly and accurately would hurt him more than words could.
But the boy knew all too well just how much he could be hurt by words.
Yet what he was hearing now, was shocking him: talk of camps and programs, training and therapy that could somehow "fix" the boy. He already knew his father was cruel, so what hurt him more was the bare few words of protest from his mother, a women he desperately needed to stand up for him.It will be all right, the boy tried telling himself. At least you can leave your father behind. It won't be so bad.
He crawled back to his room, feeling unwanted and unloved. There, his gaze wandered around, settling finally on his boy's heartbeat stilled for a moment. Rain drew angry lines down the glass, but through it he could see the deep blue cityscape, the rows of towers and alleys.
He continued staring out the rain-slashed window for a long while.
Tonight. Tonight was the night.
The boy hurried to his bed, bent down and dragged out a bag. Inside it was fine watches, signed memorabilia, tablets, tech, and anything he could sell for food and shelter. That was another thing to love about him. He steals. He'd been stealing from around the house for months, stashing things under his bed in preparation for the day when he couldn't stand to live with his father any longer.
The boy rushed to his closet and pulled out an armful of clothes, then hurried about the room to collect his electronics and notes. The boy worked in feverish concentration. He added the belongings carefully into his bag, hid it behind the bed, and pulled on his shoes.
He settled down to wait.
Hours later, when he was certain his father had left his workshop and the house had stilled, the boy grabbed the bag. He hurried to my window and pressed his hand against it. Gingerly, he pushed the left pane aside and propped it open. The storm had calmed some but rain still came down steadily enough to mute the sound of his footsteps. The boy looked over his shoulder one last time at his bedroom's door, as if he expected his father to walk in. Where are you going? he'd say. There's nothing out there for a boy like you.
The boy shook the voice from his head. Let him find me gone in the morning, if he even noticed. He took a deep breath, then began to climb through the open window. Cold rain lashed at his arms, prickling his skin.
"Anthony?"
He whirled around at the voice. Behind him, the silhouette of his mom stood in the doorway, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. She stared at the open window and the bag on the boy's shoulders, and for a terrifying moment, he thought she might raise her voice and shout for Father.
But his mom watched him quietly. He felt a pang of guilt, even as the sight of her sent a flash of resentment through his heart. Fool. He grew angry that he felt sorry for someone who had watched him suffer so many times before. I love you Anthony, she used to say, when the boy was small. Daddy loves you too. He just doesn't know how to show it. The boy wondered why he pitied those who were loved by his father.
Still, he found himself rushing to her on silent feet, taking one of her hands in his, and putting a slender finger up to her lips. She gave him a concerned look. "You should go back to bed," she whispered. In the dim glow of night the boy could see her worried expression, "You'll get in trouble if he finds you."
The boy wrapped her in a hug and squeezed her tight, then pulled back and let their hands touch. They stayed there for a long moment taking in the small amount of comfort they gave each other. It was something they had not felt often. Usually his mom would pull away from him, knowing that the father did not like to see them close. This time, though, she clung to him. As if she knew that tonight was something different.
"Don't say a word to him." The boy pull away farther. "It will be safer for you that way."
She didn't reply; instead, she swallowed and looked down the hall toward the father's room. She did not hate him in the same way that the boy did, and the thought of going against his teaching – that her son was nothing, that to love him was a foolish thing – filled her eyes with guilt and confusion. Finally, she nodded. The boy felt as if a mantle had been lifted from his shoulders, like she was letting go of him. A few tears slipped down her cheeks and he wiped them away.
"Be careful out there. Stay safe. Good luck." She offered meekly.
They exchanged a final look and he turned away, walking to the window and stepping onto the second floor ledge. He nearly slips. The rain had turned everything slick and his converse fought for grip against the narrow ledge. He made his way along the ledge until he reached a balcony and there he slid down until he could dangle with nothing but his trembling hands holding him in place. The boy closed his eyes and let go.
His legs crumpled beneath him when he lands. The impact knocks the breath from his chest, and for a moment he could only lie there in front of the house, drenched in rain, muscles aching, fighting for air.
His focus narrowed. He needed to get out of there and was about to do so when his eyes landed on his father's car. Temptation corrupts the boy. He's not sure what demon possess him: maybe it's the memory of seeing his father drive away in that car, leaving him behind to go search for a fallen hero or to go to some trip the boy was deemed unfit for, one too many times.
He's broken three windows and is pelting rocks at the windshield when he hears the sound of footsteps behind him.
The boy froze in his tracks, realizing the mistake he's made. At first the steps seem distant, almost entirely muted by the storm, but then, an instant later, the steps turn deafening. The boy trembled where he stood. Father.
Before he could think anything else, the boy sees him, a sight that sends terror rushing through his blood – his father, eyes flashing, materializing through the fog of a wet midnight. In all the boy's years, he'd never seen such anger on the father's face. The man's hand closed around the boy's arm like an iron shackle. "What are you doing, son?" he asks, his voice eerily calm.
The boy tried in vain to escape the grasp, but the father's hand only grips tighter until he gasp from the pain. His father pulled hard—the boy stumbles, loses his balance, and falls against the man. Mud splashed his face. All he could hear was the roar of rain, the darkness of his father's voice.
"Get up you ungrateful little shit," he hissed in the boy's ear, yanking him forcefully up.
The boy glared at him and pulled his arm away with all his strength. The grip slipped against the slick of rain—his skin twists painfully against the man, and for an instant, he was free.
But then the boy felt his father's hand grab a fistful of his hair and the other close around his chin. "So ill-tempered. Why can't you be more like Steve?" he murmured, shaking his head and hauling the boy toward the house. "Where were you planning on going? Who else would want you? Do you realize how much humiliation I've suffered, dealing with a son who is ruining my business? Do you care that your romantic deviance hurts my legacy? Do you know how hard it is for me, always apologizing for you?"
The boy screamed. He screamed with everything he had, hoping that his cries would wake up the people sleeping in the houses around him, that they would witness his father's abuse. He wonders if they would they care. "You're coming home with me now," he said, pausing for a moment to stare at the boy. Rain ran down his cheeks. "Good boy. Your father knows best." His father tightened his grip on the boy's neck and pulled his hair harder.
The boy gritted his teeth and stared up at him. "I hate you," he choked out, barely a whisper.
His father stuck him viciously across the face. Light flashed across his vision. The boy stumbled then collapsed upon the doorway. Seconds later his father's hand was back around his neck. I've gone too far, the boy suddenly thought through the haze of terror. I've pushed him too much. The world swam in an ocean of blood and rain. "You're a disgrace," the father whispered in his ear, filling it with his smooth, icy rage. "You're going wherever the hell I decide to send you, you're going to fix yourself, and so help me, I'll kill you before you can ruin my legacy. This is for the best." He hit the boy again. "This is for the best."
When the boy finally escapes the bruising and the beating at the hands of his father that night, he feels so much hate that he does not notice the pain. The next day, and every day after, the voices come. I am Tony Stark, the phantoms whisper that night, speaking his most frightening thoughts in a chorus of voices dripping with hatred, his hatred. I belong to no one. On this night, I swear to you, Father, that I will rise above everything you've ever taught me. I will become a force that this world has never known.
I will come into such power that none will ever dare to hurt me again.
The boy never forgets his promise