Authors Notes – This fic involves child rape and abuse, so please don't read it if you're extremely sensitive on the subject. Also, some…Pietro…and Lance…and stuff. Er…review, please!

I just want to feel safe in my own skin I just want to be happy again I just want to feel deep in my own world but I'm so lonely I don't even want to be with myself anymore on a different day if I was safe in my own skin then I wouldn't feel lost and so frightened but this is today and I'm lost in my own skin and I'm so lonely I don't even want to be with myself anymore I just want to feel safe in my own skin I just want to be happy again

--Dido (Honestly OK)

Involuntary Martyrism

By NHSpartanGal14

Threads of ruby sunlight struggled to escape the thick lips of an ebony horizon, looking in all of their grandeur like involuntary martyrs to the hellish pits of nightfall. Despite the balminess of the air, he found himself shivering, and he hugged himself tightly in a feeble attempt to ward off the demons that germinated in his mind and overflowed into the well of reality.

Won't think. Won't think. Won't think.

A fine sheen of perspiration clung to the back of his neck. He wiped it away, perceiving the sticky wetness between his fingers. A twisted darkness blurred the edges of his vision, and in the distance, he thought he could hear a man's voice. A man laughing. Or was he? Was he really crying? Was he laughing or crying or a little bit of both? A lot?

Laughing crying laughing crying laughing crying laughing crying laughing crying laughing cry--

There was a faint touch upon his shoulder and he jumped instinctively.

"Pietro?" The voice was concerned yet completely oblivious. The older boy sat down beside him and grinned teasingly, his dark eyes carelessly passing across Pietro's face and noticing nothing. "What's up?"

What's up? The laughing crying man had asked him that often, had sat beside him and looked at him with much more than friendly interest in his dark dark dark dark eyes. What's up, Pietro? Why don't we shoot some hoops after dinner?

They'd hardly ever shot hoops after dinner.

Yet he'd accepted every single time, each time believing that they really would go and shoot some hoops. Believing—or wanting? Wanting so badly that he was forced to believe?

Believing wanting believing wanting believing wanting believing wanting wanting wanting wanting—

"Pietro? You okay, man?"

I'm okay now…you're safe…I promise…it'll never happen again…I love you, son…

I'm not your son! I'm not your son! I'm not your son!

Okay, Dad. I love you too.

He shifted and the wooden boards beneath him elicited a faint creak. Heat and sweat and fear and so much blood—a ruthless man above him and a confining bed below him and a suffocating black hot sticky ugly demonic hellish box surrounding him—

The man had cried when it was all over. An hour later he had laughed and gotten drunk and drove his car off of a bridge and left his son that was not his son to wither in remembrance of the suffering. His son that was not his son was an involuntary martyr to the hellish pits of the nightmanfall.

"Pietro?" The voice was a little more insistent, a little less careless. A cautious touch to his side sent his icy gaze to the anxious boy beside him.

"You okay?" Lance repeated.

I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm not okay.

"Yeah."

Silence.

"You sure?"

No.

If he didn't feel safe, then he wasn't okay. He didn't feel safe. He just wanted to feel safe. He just wanted to feel safe.

"Yeah."

Somewhere out there, there was a man. A laughing crying man. And then there was his son—his son that was not his son—his son that wanted so badly that he was forced to believe.

The fibers of dying sunlight trembled against a choking thicket of blackness, dimly shining their self-sacrifice to all those that cared enough to look. They sputtered and died, apathetic fingers of dark nonchalantly wiping away the remains of their being. They died. They died.

Laughing crying believing wanting dying dying dying dying dying—

I'm going to die.

"Me and Todd are gonna go to the park and shoot some hoops. Wanna come?"

No. I don't want to get hurt again. I don't want the man to find me and hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt me again.

Rape.

It was such a sinister word. He preferred involuntary martyrism.

"Yeah."

I love you, son. I promise…I promise it'll never happen again.

Sweat fear blood involuntary martyrism—

Then tears and laughter and nothingness.

He got to his feet and followed Lance into the house. In the distance, he tried to shut out the sounds of a man's voice. Was the man laughing or crying? He was too far away to hear him anymore.

Crying.

Somewhere inside of him, the child wanted so badly that he was forced to believe.

End of Story