A/N: This is just a little one shot that fought its way into my brain the other night, it doesn't attach to anything, really.. Just a little bit of aftermath to Natural Born Killer that my mind conjured up. Beta read by editor frog!
A/N 2: Oh, there is a mother-issue in this fic that really hasn't been adressed at all in the show, I just made it up on my own. Hopefully it works. No hurting me!
-o-o-o-
He felt the burning pain running down his back like strings of water, scalding his skin every inch of the way. Fire streamed over the exposed skin of his back. The tears in his eyes overflowed and coursed down his cheeks, leaving them blushing red and soaked from the salty liquid. The pain, the pain, the horrible pain.
He heard the screams, heard the demands he'd never be able to meet, felt the searing pain slicing through his skin. The shame, the humiliation and the painful knowledge that there was nothing he could do to stop the torture.
After a while his legs could no longer carry him, and he slouched down onto the floor, arms still securly fastened above his head, tightly tied together with a lenght of string, fastened to the brass faucet of the kitchen sink. It held his whole weight as he let his knees hit the cold marble tiling. His screams, formerly loud and angstful, were now reduced to small sobbing whimpers, only rising to a yell as the pain suddenly doubled.
He opened his eyes, and for a brief moment, he could see the blood pouring from the rough gashes on his back onto the floor beneath him. The puddle expanded, a few drops at a time. He closed his eyes once more; he didn't want to see, didn't want to know. He shut his eyes so tight, it made his head spin. Or was it the loss of blood that caused it? In any case, for a moment it felt like he was no longer in his body.
He had left the pain behind. Silently floating above himself, he looked on as his father swung the leather belt high above his head, and let it fall down onto the already bleeding back of his body on the floor. Over and over. His father hadn't even noticed that his son had been rendered unconcious by his abuse, but continued battering the boy before him.
Why? he wondered. Is all this my fault? What did I do to deserve this? You're sick. You're a sick man! You're a sick, evil man!
His father had one of his episodes again. The war in Vietnam had not been kind to him. As had many of his other compatriots, he suffered from PTSD. They could appear at any time. Eating dinner, taking a bath or even mowing he lawn. And his oldest boy was always the one to take the brunt of things when the shit hit the fan.
He was back in Vietnam, and the orders from his commanding officers rang in his head. "Get them to talk!" And so he began questioning Charlie. That's what he always called his son when the episodes began. Charlie, the nickname for the Vietnamese enemy. But he got no answers from him, seeing he had no idea what his father wanted. And so he was strung up. And beaten. Oh Lord, how he was beaten.
His mother heard her husband scream downstairs, and did what she always had done. Snuck a bottle of vodka under her robe, and locked herself in the bedroom. She was safe there. Only the boy would be in trouble, not her. The unbelievable betrayal from his mother made him sick to his stomach every time he heard the bedroom door slam shut, and get locked.
He understood his younger brother for hiding. He would do anything to protect Sean, he'd take all the beating his father could produce and all the anger he needed to vent – as long as Sean was safe. But still, he hated his mother for only protecting his younger brother, and not him. He needed the sheltering arms as well.
Then, suddenly, his arms were released and he slumped to the ground, his face landing in the pool of his own blood. His father yelled at him to stand up and fight like a man. But there was no man inside his son; only a frightened 13-year old boy, fighting for his life.
And the began the kicking. He could feel the hard tips of his father's shoes jab themselves into his ribcage, but was unable to move. He finally lost consciousness completely and driften into blissful oblivience.
"Hotch?"
The voice made his head snap up. He was in his office, and Morgan was standing over him, frowning.
"Are you asleep, man?"
Hotch shook his head. "No, no, I'm just... I'm just a little off today."
Morgan clapped his shoulder. "Well, get back to the BAU, we got a job to do here. We got a new case to look into. JJ's already in the conference room." He worried slightly as they walked out of Hotch's office and down the hall toward the room where JJ was setting up the briefing. He had never seen Hotch like this before. He decided to leave it for now, and concentrate on the case at hand.
As they entered the conference room, JJ stood ready before the large screen, holding the small remote. The casefiles were already on the table as they sat down.
"All right. This is Clara Jones, 24 years old. She is the third victim of a..." JJ began to brief the team about the case, but her voice trailed off in Hotch's head. All he could hear was his father's voice ranting in his mind.
"Talk, you fucking Gook! Talk!!"