All rights for Jessica Jones are Marvel's and Netflix's. I own nothing.
AN: As I rewatched JJ I came to realise that Kilgrave must have had quite an interesting life. I thought Marvel should make a series about Kilgrave before he met Jessica... and somehow it came to the idea of me doing it myself. I hope I'll do him justice.
Prologue
Manchester, UK, 1988
The house was oddly quiet when he woke up.
Blinking, he slowly sat up in his bed. It was morning – the light coming through the window proved as much. But there were no clothes waiting for him; no scent of a breakfast coming from the kitchen; no sound from any of the other rooms. It was as if his parents were still asleep, even though they should have been awake by then.
Maybe they went to work. Even though they stopped their research, they still went to the university every now and then. He wasn't sure why, but they did.
He got up and picked up a pair of trousers and a shirt from his closet. He dressed up, still wondering about the whereabouts of his parents, and then walked out of his room, towards his parents' bedroom. He slept there with them occasionally, although mostly before they started doing everything he said. Now, if he was scared, they'd come and stay in his room.
He stepped into the room to find the bed untouched. The blanket was stretched over the mattress and the pillows were puffed; there was no sign anyone had slept there.
Maybe they went to the hospital? He gave the idea a brief thought. It was possible, of course. The iron was hot and hurt his mother; he saw it on her face. He regretted telling her to do it as soon as she screamed, but by the look on his father's face, it was too late. Maybe when they come back they could go out, and he would make her see how sorry he is.
He quite liked that idea.
When he went to bed that night, he knew they would never come back. He stayed at home all day long, waiting for them, thinking about what he could do for his mother. Even though a part of him claimed she got what she deserved after torturing him, he was mostly upset about hurting her. She was his mother, after all, and he loved her.
But they didn't come back. He was all alone. He found snacks in the cupboard to eat while he was waiting, but as the day went by, he realised that had they gone to the hospital, they'd have been back already. A long time ago.
When the afternoon turned into evening, he went back upstairs and opened his parents' closets. They were all empty. The suitcases that used to stand by the door were gone, too. And yet he still hung onto the hope that maybe they would still be back. Maybe they would realise they'd forgotten him and would come back for him.
But when he went to bed, he knew that wouldn't happen. They were gone.