The Shape of A Father Figure
PapaCaelxCael
He can tell as soon as he opens the door to his house that today will be one of those days. There is, at this point in his 10 years of life, not a lot he understands about the world but the tension in the air and banging from the kitchen tells him that, if he were smarter, maybe even if he were older, he would turn and leave. But he is 10 and the people around him tell him that running away is what bad children do. He still can't stop himself from closing the front door extra quietly.
He creeps to the stairs, a slow, slinking motion, toe heel toe heel until he reaches the first step. He knows where the creaks in the floor are, he knows the thin handrail is louder than it should be so he curls and all but crawls up the stairs to his room. The shadow suddenly blocking the light behind him makes him stutter to a stop, barely 3 steps up. The hand curling into the back of his shirt wrings a panicked noise from his throat and his body instinctively does its best to avoid the pain of being tossed across the foyer and into the living room.
"What are you sneaking around for?" The voice is rough on his ears and makes him cough on a breath as he tries to sit up, vaguely thankful for the soft carpet on the living room floor. He's even more thankful when an equally rough hand grabs his hair and shoves his face to the floor. "I asked you a question." I didn't want to bother you he says; I didn't want to distract you. I just want to go to my room please dad I have homework. The fingers tighten, pull and lift until he's on his knees. "Well you didn't try very hard."
He's almost prepared this time, almost able to stop himself before his head cracks on a bit of tile near the fireplace and his vision flickers. The things being said to him are breaking up, a bad connection due to a loose wire possibly. I just want to do my homework. Another crack.
The other hand is scratching down his stomach and he feels his throat burn as his head throbs. He's pushed further on the tile, closer to the fireplace. He can tell because his shirt is gone and the tile is cold. The hand in his hair is pulling his head back until his back is arched to keep his neck from snapping and the hand on his stomach drop to the floor.
The heat from the body, at least 5 times bigger than him, crawling over him makes the back of his neck prickle with fear and anticipation, an edge of forbidden but growing excitement as he shuts out the image of his father and focuses on just how bad off he'll be when this is over, if he'll need another new pair of glasses, if he'll be able to read through one eye because surely the other will be swollen shut. The blossom of white and the dull thunk of his head against tile brings him back to the present and the alarmingly close proximity of his father's thighs. He catches the glint from a watch somewhere to his right as the body above him rocks forward and places weight on the hand propping it up. Words are ground out somewhere above him but his nose is too full heat and the grip in his hair is making his eyes sting.
His chest constricts as his air is suddenly cut off with another roll of hips. His mouth is too full and he knows he's going to choke because he can't breathe and still his body squirms for more. Richard, disrespectful but better than calling someone so undeserving 'father' is talking, growling down at him, large hand tugging his head back ever further, tugging and tugging until his throat is merely an open hole he can thrust himself fully into. The stinging in his eyes is toomuch and he thinks he's crying, knows it by the shuddery push forward and down and the horrible, guttural noise sinking down to him. Sick, this whole thing is sick and his 10 year old mind understands that fully. Another crack against tile until his throat vibrates with a sob.
Darkness recedes to the corners of his vision and the first thing he is fully aware of is the heat pounding against the back of this throat. Richard has shifted, is gripping the fireplace with both hands and piston-firing his hips into his face. He lifts his hands, so so small and thin and useless, to grip into the back of his father's pants, to tug so he can arch up, pull his head away far enough for even a small breath. No such thing is granted and he can't quite see straight anymore.
Underneath deeply bruised flesh, his lungs suck in a deep breath through a raw throat, the air whistling down to ring hollowly. Seconds later the same breath is groaned out, riding on the pathetic sound as Richard spills himself on his face, rests himself on his bottom lip and rubs slowly until he's done. His ears pick up the erratic breath but he can hardly focus on anything other than the bitterness on his tongue and the sticky heat clogging his nose.
"Fuck….Go do your homework."
And then he's left there to writhe on the floor until he's focused enough to sit up and cough until he knows what breathing is again.