Author's Note: Provided Nathaniel even is being beaten by his father, which isn't even a certainty, I've probably made it darker than it actually is. Tried a new writing style, but I'm still pretty disjointed. Yet another one of my crappy oneshots.

Being literally kicked into the corner of the room is a gentle and tame action compared to the belt treatment. He lashes it across your back like a whip and the thin polyester material of your shirt isn't enough to keep the buckle from biting into your skin. You flinch inevitably and curl in a little on yourself, but you don't make a sound. You have more dignity than to do that. You'll lay there obediently. You'll take the pain like a man instead of crawling away the the lowly worm he seems to think you are.

He's yelling about something of course, whatever it may be this time. Did you let your sister get in trouble? Were you out too late doing 'god knows what?' Did you get a ninety-nine out of one hundred on your last exam? Whatever it is he's screaming about this time, you're not sure. For the time being you can't really hear anything. You've tuned out. The only thing that makes any sound at all is the harsh thwack of that metal buckle striking your back (its weird that your shirt hasn't ripped yet). And even that sound is faint. Like it's far away…

But the pain isn't faint. The pain is not far away. It's like fire, searing you to a crisp and the only thing at all you can do about it is to bite your lip and bear it in silence. "Stop it! You're going to kill him!" The anguished cry of your mother brings all the sound back at once. The belt hits your skin once more and that stomach churning thwack is loud as ever. You gasp without meaning to, but it's more out of surprise than pain. The next sound is said belt hitting the floor, as your father complies with your mother's request and pads out of the room.

She nervously skitters around and crouches in front of you, a worried hand placed on your sweaty cheek. "Nath? Honey?" She probably thinks you've fainted. You respond by simply pushing her hand away. She lets out a little sigh. Whether of relief or exasperation, you're not sure. Possibly both. Possibly neither. "I'll go call you in sick," she mumbles awkwardly and excuses herself with more quick, nervous steps. It's right then that it occurs to you that you're not going to skip another day. So you look like shit, that's fine. So you're in a helluva lot of pain, so much that it makes you realize he's been going easy on you lately, because you haven't hurt this much in months. That's fine too. You're not going to skip again. You have work to do there.

(And you can't stay in this fucking house any longer. That is inarguable.)

You roll over onto your hands and knees and start to pull yourself up. At first it's too much. The initial shock of the world tilting, the amplified burning in your your back, the aching in your gut and the throbs of your bruises. You tremble, only just managing to bear your weight in this feeble position. In another three seconds you can't even do that anymore. Your arms and knees fail you. You drop back to the hardwood floor in a pitiful heap.

Somewhere in the back of your head, you hazily realize just how kind the floor is. All the times he's slammed you down and all the times you've fallen, the floor has been there to catch you. Not very gently, no, but it has caught you. And that's got to count for something.

You pull yourself up again. With jerky, awkward movements you're somehow able to stand. You force yourself to the staircase. Your legs are like pulsating deadweights and your arms aren't faring any better but you manage. You always manage. Gripping the banister, you sluggishly trot down the stairs and to the front door. You can hear your mother hanging up the phone in the living room. Daddy Dearest is nowhere to be found. He's driving Amber to school of course. You could almost hate her for that, you really could. And yet you don't. You love her. You love him too. Things would probably be easier if you didn't.

There's a thin, slate gray jacket of yours hanging up on the coatrack. You pull it on, muscles screeching in protest. Something's got to cover the bloodstains you're positive have taken up residence on your shirt. You leave quietly to be sure your mother doesn't notice you.

As you walk down the block, you wonder if you should take the long way around. Or a shortcut of some sort. Your father will be driving back now and you really, really don't want him to see you. That'd be bad. He doesn't care that you attend school while you're suffering. As long as whatever injuries he's dealt are hidden, he even drives you there with your sister. But when you're visibly limping, when bruises show and liquid crimson bleeds through, you have to stay home. Can't have people asking questions about where all that came from, oh no. So if he catches you walking (staggering, if you're honest with yourself) to school like you are now, you'll be in a lot of trouble. Undoubtably in for another, likely harsher, beating.

So you do take a shortcut. It involves hopping over a picket fence that's little over half your size, and you fall of course. The grass catches you this time. The grass is a little more gentle with you than the floor is, but it can't keep white hot pain from vibrating through out your entire body. You're pretty sure that stunt reopened a wound on your back because you feel fresh wetness trickling down your swollen skin. No…In fact, it probably just opened an already-open wound wider, as opposed to reopening a closed one. It's unlikely you would have scabbed over that quickly, right? Of course it is, what were you thinking?

You shakily raise to an unsteady stand and set off on your way again. This shortcut also involves cutting across lawns, some belonging to people you know, and that makes you a little apprehensive. You've got to be quick and jogging is probably the furtherest thing from what your body wants to do right now. Jogging isn't exactly what happens when you do force your weary limbs to get a move on, but your pace is faster than a walk now. It's fast enough to get you onto the sidewalk without being noticed on private property and that's all the really counts. Treading up the block, you think about what will happen when you get back home tonight. You're in for another round with the belt, of course. Because whether or not he caught you on the way there, you will have gone to school. But you'll be able to handle whatever he throws at you by the time that comes around. You'll have had the entire day for your lesions to stale, your cuts to numb, and your entire body to brace itself. Not for the first time, you consider just not returning home. But you know you will. No matter how many times you think about leaving, you'll always go back.

The school's come into view now and you smile a little to yourself. It's strange but somehow you feel like this is an accomplishment. Maybe because you've actually managed to drag yourself this far, maybe because you know you have a temporary safe haven from that hell of a household, maybe because you've done it without getting caught and you feel like you've just one-upped him, no matter how hard he punishes you for it later tonight. You take note of the other students going inside ahead of you. You see Kim walking with Violette, her arm looped securely around the smaller girl's waist. There's Lynn talking with Peggy and a blushing Kentin alongside those twin brothers.

Lysander and the redheaded bastard are just a few yards ahead of you, and the former offers you a nod of greeting. You would nod back, but you can't because you've made a misstep. Literally. A chunk of uneven sidewalk has tripped you up. Although you'd normally be able to regain your balance in the face of such a minor predicament on the pavement, you're feeling pretty dizzy. You're enervated and you can't catch yourself, so you prepare for the concrete to do it for you.

It never does. There's a streak of black and mint green, and the next thing you know someone has caught you. Your savior grunts a little with the effort of supporting your dead weight. You'd find your feet if you could, but that little stumble's thrown you way off balance. "Are you alright, Nathaniel?" Lysander. You should have figured. He's ironically observant for being someone so forgetful. You lift your head, about to thank him, tell him you're fine, and limp away in embarrassment. But before you can get the words out, bicolored orbs are flashing in alarm and he's turned to the smirking redhead. "Castiel, help me! He's bleeding!"

An irritated sigh, but he comes over nonetheless. "He's probably just faki-Jesus Christ! What the hell have you been doing, Mr. President?" What do they mean? Did the blood seep through your jacket too? "Um…" It's all you can say. Which is stupid and pathetic, you should be able to say something other than that. You painfully slide a hand to your back and rub your fingertips over the lightweight slate fabric. It's definitely damp. When you bring your fingers to your face, the orangish red glaze on them doesn't lie. Idly, you wonder if that happened when you hopped the fence.

"What happened?" Lysander's slowly straightening you and you can manage a stand this time. Castiel's hovering behind you, likely to catch you if you fall, no matter how much he might not want to. But you'll never allow yourself to fall in front of him. That would make your current situation even more pitiful. As is, you politely brush Lysander's hands from your shoulders and shake your head. "Ah, nothing to be concerned about." In all honesty, you can't think of a plausible excuse this time. This was not what it looked like when you fell down the stairs. This was not a run in with a wall or a tumble on the pavement.

"Why don't we take you to the nurse's office," the silver haired teen murmurs softly. You expect Castiel to complain with something along the lines of 'why we?' But he doesn't and that makes you all the more uncomfortable. You inch away from the two of them, shaking your head. "That won't be necessary. Thanks anyway."

You're sore and listless as ever, but you still quicken your pace to get into the building. Before you can resume your normal schedule, you're going to have to check out your back in the mirror. You need to measure the damage before you can go about hiding it. If the jacket is badly bloodstained, you're just going to have to put it in your locker. And hope you'd left something you could use to replace it with in there. But you're hopeful that it isn't that bad. After all, Lysander hadn't seen the blood until he was holding you up.

You slip into the downstairs boys' bathroom, and after making sure it's empty, you lock the main door. You've always found it a little strange that students have the ability to do so. That it's just a turn lock instead of one that needs a key. But you don't think about that now. Now you shrug off your jacket as gingerly as possible and ignore the flare of pain that inevitably follows. You critically hold it in front of you for examination. It was as you'd hoped, the stain isn't really that bad. One had to be close up to even see there was a stain, let alone recognize what kind of stain it was. Now to look at your back itself.

You turn around, neck craning to study what's reflected in the mirror. Your shirt is definitely ruined. Bright drying crimson blooms beneath the starched white material in a series of somewhat diagonal, and most definitely horizontal ovals. There's six of them exactly. Two small ones in between your shoulder blades, one medium-sized right in the middle of your back, and three larger ones right in a row on your lower back. Tugging up the damaged shirt with your teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you study the injuries themselves.

Some minuscule buckle-inflicted scratches dance around the baleful gashes and not an inch of flesh is bruise free. Dull violet, fallow brown, and Prussian blue swirl and splash in-between and all around the open cuts, a morbid masterpiece on a human canvas. You didn't notice, but your hands started shaking. You mentally curse, pull your shirt back down, and unlock the door. You tug your jacket back on and leave. Sluggish steps carry you to the student council room, practically on autopilot. Somewhat genuinely comfortable to be in this place where you can actually make yourself useful and forget your problems, you plaster a smile on your face and start organizing cafeteria menus.