I own nothing, no one, and nowhere from Supernatural…to bad!
Warning: fairly graphic descriptions of abuse and violence
Reviews are, of course, greatly appreciated.
He waited for his dad to come home from work. Standing by the drying dishes in the kitchen, Max stared, transfixed, out the window into the garage. Twenty two years of this, of fists, of feet, of mocking, of tears and screams. No one could blame him for what he planned on doing. Not a living soul who heard the words his father screamed at him could ever fault Max for this. His step-mom shut the bedroom door upstairs, and he glanced around nervously. Murder…could he really kill his father? The garage door started squeaking open, and Max closed his eyes. No, he would leave, pack his crap and leave that very night.
Where are you going?
Max shook his head roughly, no, not going to remember that again.
His dad was standing by the front door, beer in one hand, broom in the other. "You're mom's visiting her sister in Utah. You're gonna stay home and clean the house."
"But Dad, I've got school today." His father belched and threw the broom at Max in reply.
"You're going to help your mother today Max"
"She's not my mom" Max had mumbled it, but somehow, the drunken ears of his father heard him. He will never forget the feel of his dad's hand on his shoulder as he turned around one.
Max gripped the side of the sink and gasped for air. Why couldn't he just forget it? He felt a tear slip down his cheek. Oh God, please, let me forget. A dull thudding broke through to his brain. A glance at the kitchen window, and he could see his father pounding on the glass inside his car. Max didn't even remember shutting the door or starting the car. His father's eyes met his, and Max winced unconsciously.
He had splinters in his hand from where the broom was ripped out of his grasp. His dad's face had gone purple, and twelve year old Max cowered like a puppy. "She is your mother! You ungrateful little… say you love your mom, say it!" The wood of the broom cracked down on his shoulders, and he whimpered in pain.
His father was pounding louder on the car window, pleading for his life. "Open the door, please Max!"
"Please Dad, don't"
"Say it." The handle sneaked under his huddled form and was jammed in to his ribs viciously. Low on breath, Max gasped out the words. Another crack to his spine, and Max fell to the ground.
"Say it louder!"
"I love my mom." Max ground out the words, gritting his teeth in pain. "Mommy Max. You love your mommy." Max nodded, anything to make him stop. A sneakered foot connected with his chest, and Max's eyes widened at the pressure. "I love my mommy. Please, Dad, I love her!" His dad threw the broom on the floor and went to the bedroom for a nap. Max had tried not to cry, but wiped a tear away with the back of his hand.
His hands didn't shake as he watched his father slump down in the seat. He had stood there, watched his father die, and had felt absolutely, no, remorse. As he climbed under the sheets, for the first time in forever, Max didn't think about nightmares.
He was proud of the act he was putting on at the open house for his father. Family, friends, they all he thought he was upset when, in reality, the only emotion he had the strength to feel was relief. He stood on the back porch and brought the cigarette up to his lips. His dad always hated it when he smoked. So this time, he relished the drag. Last night had given him a horrible headache. It always hurt when he used his powers, but it was worth it. It was so peaceful without his father around. Just the knowledge that he was gone forever made life seem easier. Max felt glad now that everything could be over. A fat hand resting on his shoulder told him he was wrong.
"Your mom could use some help in there kid. She's pretty broken up." His uncle always insisted on calling him kid.
"Kid, get me another beer." Fourteen year old Max trudged to the fridge and grabbed a can. His uncle was over to watch the game with his father, and they were in a foul mood already because the Colts were down by five. To this day, Max had no idea why they insisted he watch it with them, probably so they could have something to wail on if their team fumbled the ball. His dad uttered a loud curse at the tv, and Max jumped. He heard his uncle chuckle and knew he had seen it.
"Rob, you got that kid of yours right scared, know that?" His dad threw an empty can at the screen and turned to his brother.
"Huh?" Max hated when they talked about him like he wasn't even there.
"I said your kid's a wuss. He walks around the house like a beat dog." Max was staring at the floor. He knew it was true, no need to argue there. His dad just shrugged. Obviously discussing family affairs was not something he had in mind for the evening.
His uncle still had his hand on Max's shoulder, and he could feel his warmth through his jacket. He wanted to throw up. "This is a hard time for all of us kid. But don't you worry, I'll be here for your mom and you." Max nodded, wanting his uncle to leave. "Now, get inside and help your mom. And put that thing out, you know Rob hated it." He left, and Max put the cigarette out on the siding, wanting to burn down the house.
Three beers and one half time show later, Max was still sitting stiffly in the corner chair. His uncle sat in the loveseat. He was short, shorter even than Max at fourteen and looked ridiculous as his feet barely skimmed the ground. Max cared nothing for football and was staring at his uncle's feet, trying to hold back a giggle. A cough, and Max looked up quickly. Oh no, his uncle had been watching him again. With a wave of his hand, he summoned him closer. Max knew he was in for it. Even though he was never as violent as his father, Max's uncle was just as sick, and he hated him just as much.
"I need a footstool kid." There was one by the other couch, and he moved to get it. "No, you'll do fine. Lay down." He stood there, not quite sure what his uncle was going to do to him. From the other couch, his father kicked him sharply, driving him down. Both men laughed.
"Listen to your uncle Max." He was on all fours, staring at the ground. This was insane, he was a footstool now?
"On your back." Max sighed and rolled over. Rebellion welled up inside him, and he tried to sit up, thinking of arguing with them both right there. Okay, a beating was one thing, but this? This was completely debasing. His uncle pushed him down roughly and shoved both feet down hard on his stomach.
"Stay there till we're done with the game!" Max laid on the living room carpet, his uncle's feet constantly pressing into him. After a while, what had been annoying became painful. His uncle obviously lacked the ability to sit still, and in his constant motion, was pushing roughly on his stomach muscles. Max had the suspicion that he was doing it on purpose, digging the heels of his feet into his nephew simply to make him hurt. He knew better than to sit up, but maybe if he just rolled over. It wouldn't hurt so much on his back. He tried to turn on his stomach but his uncle pushed down violently. "I like you where you are, so quit moving. You make my feet warm."
"Can't I just turn over?" By this time, his father had fallen asleep, no such luck with uncle.
"Why, does this hurt? Want me to move my feet?" His uncle's toes crept lower, down past his belly button, and Max froze. His breathe caught in his throat. Oh God please don't let him do that.
He shook his head frantically, "No, never mind, they're fine where they are." "Then shut up." For another hour, his uncle's feet continued to push into him. Sleep was impossible, so Max listened to the sounds of the game and concentrated on anything but the pain in his middle. He had bruises for a week afterwards.
Max heard the screen door open. "I'm not telling you again kid. Get in here right now. The family's starting to wonder where you are." He grabbed his arm and yanked him through the door. At that moment, Max knew his uncle would simply take his father's place. This would not be over till they were both gone.
He stood stiffly by his step mother and listened to the news of his uncle's death. She had been crying ever since Max's father died. Now, with the death of Rob's brother, Sharon was inconsolable. Not that Max tried to console her. She never helped him, so he returned the favor. The police had come by and reported his uncle's death. He took the news bravely and even managed to look decently shocked by the description of the decapitation via window. The plan had gone perfectly. He arrived at his uncle's apartment and let himself in. The look on his uncle's face during that split second when he knew he was about to die sort of made Max sick, but he knew he was justified. The only thing that bothered him was the two priests he saw as he was leaving his uncle's apartment. They were barely ahead of him, and it was a good possibility they saw the whole thing. He remembered seeing them at his father's open house too. Well, there was nothing they could do about it now. He felt his step-mother's hand reach for his. He pulled back quickly and studied her face. Dark lines slid from her eyes, evidence of her tears, and he found that he wanted to cry too. She was the only thing resembling a mother he had known, but had she ever put a band-aid on even one of his cuts? She cowered from his father just like Max did. She should have stood up to them. Max felt himself starting to shake. She should have protected him, but she had always been weak, too weak.
"I'll go make dinner." Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she disappeared in the kitchen. Max was trying to keep his breath steady, but could feel the throbbing in his head start again. After Max had used his powers to kill his uncle, he had a headache for two days. But he didn't want to kill her. She had never really hurt him. He grabbed the keys off the counter, planning on leaving until he was cooled off. The keys clanged together as he snatched them up.
He pulled in the driveway, threw the car into park, and covered his head with his palms. He was so screwed. He hadn't even seen the concrete barrier when he opened the door. Sharon had taken advantage of the fact that he could now drive and had sent him out for milk. They only had one car so there was no way his father wouldn't notice the inch long scratch. Max banged his head on the steering wheel. What was he going to do? He felt violently ill when he thought about what would happen when his dad found out. His father was psychotic about the car. Max could feel himself start to panic, and he fought back the desire to cry. He was crouched down, examining the scratch, when he remembered that it was Friday. That meant that tomorrow was Saturday, and his uncle would be coming over to pick up Max's father for their fishing trip. A small glimmer of hope began to emerge. They wouldn't be home till Sunday, and Max had a couple of hundred dollars stashed under his bed. Yes! He could drive the car in to town tomorrow morning and get it fixed. His father would never even know. He let out the breath he'd been holding. It felt so good to avoid a beating, especially one about the car. Max physically cringed when he thought about how pissed off his father would be if he knew. He might even kill him. He heard a noise behind him and stood up. Sharon was standing there with a basket full of clothes balanced on one hip, heading towards the clothesline with her mouth full of clothespins. Max bit his lip. If she told on him, he would be in for a horrible beating.
"What happened?" She had set the basket on the grass.
He swallowed hard. Maybe he could convince her not to tell his father. "I opened the door against a concrete pole at the grocery store." There was a pause, and she turned around, picked up the basket and resumed hanging up the clothes. He ran over to her. "Sharon, please don't tell him." She shook her head at him.
"He'll find out Max. You know how your father is about that car."
"But I'll get it fixed tomorrow, when he's gone fishing with Uncle Joe. I have the money and everything. He won't even know." She didn't say anything. This wasn't fair. He was so close to getting through this unmarked. He felt the tears spring up. Whether they were from anger or fright, he didn't know. She just had to help him, just this once. "Please, you know what will happen if he finds out." He bit back the urge to beg. He wanted to plead with her not to, crawl on his knees and scream at her to not let his father hurt him. But sixteen years of life with his father had taught him not to beg or scream. So he let his request hang in the air. She glanced at him, and he could have sworn he almost caught a look of pity. He watched her walk in the house and wondered what she was going to do. Grabbing the milk from the back seat, Max followed her through the screen door.
Dinner was a tense affair. His father shoveled the meat loaf into his face and reached for his beer. He noticed Max's plate.
"Max, why aren't you eating? You sick?" Max shook his head no and stole a quick glance at his step mom. Sharon was taking a drink and looked at him over the top of the glass. He couldn't tell what she was going to do. He knew she hadn't told his father about the door because of the simple fact that Max wasn't in pain. That didn't mean she wouldn't tell though.
"If you're not sick, than eat your food. I won't have any little weakling running around." The taste of food turned his stomach. He wished she wouldn't tell. Oh God, please don't let her tell. He thought about making a deal with her. He would do all the cooking and cleaning, from here on out, if she didn't tell his father. His father left, and Max quickly volunteered to do the dishes. Maybe if he was nicer to her, she would cut him a break, just this once. The fact that she didn't meet his eye on the way out made him nauseas. His hands shook as he washed and dried the dinner dishes. This wouldn't have happened if she hadn't made him go get the milk. Stupid Sharon, stupid milk, stupid freaking concrete pole! A door slammed upstairs, and Max's heart stopped beating. She didn't!... Heavy footsteps thudded down the stairs, and the back door banged against the siding. His step mother stood in the doorway.
"Sharon, you didn't tell him did you?" But Max already knew the answer. Not going to cry, I am not going to cry. He kept repeating the mantra even as he heard the extremely loud cursing from outside.
"You think you can just bang up my car and then not tell me?" Max chose not to look at his father when he entered the room. From the reflection of the kitchen window, Max watched his step-mother turn and leave the room. A sharp elbow in the middle of his back and Max's soapy hands gripped the sink. He didn't know if he had ever seen his father so angry. "How the hell did that scratch happen?"
Max could feel his father's fist driving in to his stomach before he even had a chance to answer. A little breathless, "A pole, at the grocery. I didn't even see it."
"What do you mean you didn't see it? Did it just jump out in front of the door!" Max knew he was in for a rough one when his father slammed his fist into his nose. He was never hit in the face. Black eyes were a lot easier to see than bruised ribs. Some of the blood seeped into his mouth when he tried to speak.
"Dad, I'm sorry. I'll pay for the door!"
"Yea, you will pay for it. You borrow my car and then screw it all up? I don't think so!" Hands spun him around and slammed his body against the sink. Hips digging painfully into the ceramic, Max twisted, trying to get away. He wasn't going to take this one. If he didn't fight back, there was a good possibility his father would kill him. "You never have appreciated what you have. Always destroying my things." Max didn't even respond. His father wasn't looking for a reply. Thick hands closed around the back of his neck, and Max's father pushed his head under the hot dish water. He was trying to kill him! The water was still scalding, and Max pushed frantically on the sides of the sink. He was finally let up, only to get another blow to the face. The soap made his eyes burn, and Max couldn't see. A knee to the gut, and now Max couldn't breathe.
"Please Dad, don't!" Max could feel the blood running down his face. If this didn't stop soon…
"You're completely useless you know that? Can't even drive a car without destroying it!" Oh God, please stop…Max wrapped his arms over his head and sank to the floor, leaning his back against the cabinet. The pain completely took over, and Max couldn't tell what was hitting him where; he just knew it hurt. His father was yelling something and kicking wherever he found a patch of skin. It was just a car Dad, just a car… Aiming for his face, his father kicked him in the arm, hard. Max actually heard the bone snap before he felt it. But when the pain hit him, his eyes started swimming. As he passed out, he was crying. Why couldn't she have helped him… shut her mouth, just this once?
Max was still standing there, gripping the keys tight enough in his fist to draw blood. Sharon…had never helped him, never. He'd never been able to stand up to his farther, or her. But now he could. Blind rage grabbed hold of him, and letting the keys drop, he moved towards the kitchen. He remembered back to that day as he watched her chop vegetables for the salad. He had woken up, still slumped in a pile on the kitchen floor…the shiny kitchen floor. She had mopped the floor, around him. Left him there in a pile of his own blood while she did her weekly mopping. He was watching her, shaking with rage. Flashes zipped through his mind of him begging her not to tell. She knew what would happen to him, but did it anyway. She deserved this. It would all be over once she was gone. Please, let it be over. The door slammed before the knife moved. Those two priests, or whoever they were. They wanted to stop him. They knew, somehow, that it was him. No, he was in control now, he was the one with the power, and no one was going to hurt him again.
Sam had some weird things to say, but Max couldn't be turned away from his plan. He had tried to make Sam see that it would all stop when she was dead. When Sharon had paid for the hell he grew up with, then everything would be alright. Even after he had slammed Sam into the closet, he still felt guilty about it. He kinda liked him. But he was so tired of everything. Max just wanted it to be over. He was crying now. All that talk with Sam had made him bawl. He always hated crying; his father had always hit him harder when he cried. Up to the room, open the door, point the gun. Everything would be okay after she was gone. If only that other guy would get out of his way. He was so tired…so, just wanted it all to be gone. Maybe he could sleep through a whole night with her gone. She was bad, evil. She hadn't stopped them, either of them. The gun cocked. She let them beat him. Oh God, why didn't she stop them? It was about to end, and Sam came in. Max was vaguely curious as to how he got out of the closet, but didn't say anything.
"Max, what you're doing, it won't fix anything." Sam wanted him to put the gun down. Max knew that Sam only wanted to help him. Sam was a good guy. But people like Sharon, and Uncle Joe, and his father, they were the bad guys. People who hurt other people, they deserved to die. Max gasped, struck by his own thoughts.
She was so pretty. Max was never popular at school, not even college, but this girl had always made a point to talk to him. He liked her a lot. He could tell her everything, all he wanted to do with his life, every fear…well, most of his fears. He couldn't tell her about his father and uncle. He was ashamed that he was still at their mercy. But he was also smart. He knew his only way out of that house was college. That was his only chance to actually be something. He couldn't float the whole apartment thing, so home was his only option. Even at twenty, he still got hit, a lot. But they only hit him in the stomach and back, nowhere that would show. Max had his own car by now, and they were sitting at the drive in, sharing a coke and a box of nerds. Lana, even her name was gorgeous. He liked the way her hair blew slightly with the breeze from the open window. And she seemed to like him too. He could tell she did by the way she kept glancing at him and rubbing her hands. Max still remembered the way her perfume smelled when she leaned over to kiss him, lips on lips and hands wandering freely. At this moment, Max was truly happy. The little noises she made caused Max to smile. A timid hand ran down her back, and she pressed closer to him. His breath hitched as she slid her hand under his shirt. She certainly expected a sound of pleasure, and was shocked when he moaned in what was obviously pain. She had pushed her hand accidentally into a deep purple bruise from a few days earlier.
"I'm sorry. Are you okay?" Max could have kicked himself.
"Yea, I'm fine." She was looking at his chest now, and Max felt self-conscious.
"Max, what happened? These bruises look bad."
"I..uh, fell off my bike. They're fine really." She was a med student and bent down to peer at them closer.
"Wow, babe, these are bad. Does it hurt when I do this?" She had pushed on his ribs, and ya, it hurt. He shook his head no. He could tell she didn't believe him. He wanted to get his shirt down, and fast, but he didn't want to make her suspicious. She continued tracing his bruises but paused and gasped slightly.
"What?" He didn't really want her to answer his question. Her small hand ghosted over his abdomen and aligned itself with what was, clearly, a hand print in the color of purple on his skin.
She looked up at him with concern written all over his face. "Max, what happened?" That look of hers infuriated him for some reason. He didn't want pity. He could deal with this, with his father and uncle. He had done it alone for twenty years. He felt like crying and was mad at himself for wanting to.
"Lana, leave it alone okay?" He moved her off him and shoved his shirt down. The mood was definitely gone now.
"No, I won't leave it alone Max. That was a handprint. Who did that to you?"
"I said drop it. I'm fine."
"No, you're not! Max, if someone is hurting you… Let me hel,p please."
Max was shaking. No one had ever found out about this before, and he liked it that way. He could just imagine, police, an investigation. How would he face anyone again if they all knew he couldn't even stand up to his own father?
"Lana, for the last time, drop it!"
She shook her curls. "I won't. Max, if you won't do anything about this, I'll call the police myself." She bent forward again and reached for his shirt. "Let me see those again. You might need to go to the doctor." Rage surged through him, and his head pounded fiercely. She had no right to do that. He made a choking noise and shoved her away from him, hard. She flew back against the passenger door, and he heard her head crack against the frame. Immediately he regretted pushing her, and he reached for her, trying to make sure she was okay. He froze when he saw the look she gave him.
"Don't touch me."
It was the same look he gave his father, a scared subtle form of hate. As she scrambled frantically for the door handle, Max felt like throwing up. He had hurt her, hurt Lana. He finally did open his door and throw up. She was long gone by then, probably hating him with every ounce of her. He had successfully managed to get rid of any pity she might have had for him. He had hurt someone.
Max gasped for air. "You're right. It won't fix anything." He was just like his father. Tears were sliding down his face. People who hurt other people deserved to be punished. He had turned into the bad people. Oh God, please forgive me. The gun swung his direction and finally, it was over.