Stained.

Headphone does not own!

Monopolize Shipping (Thorton x Palmer x Barry)

Warning: Mention of rape. m ;;

(x)

On that Friday, I had officially been in therapy for a full year. I don't really remember what tipped my aggression off to the point of it coming to the public eye, but I do remember that it had something to do with Palmer and his son. In all honesty, all that I can recall from the day my lid flipped was coming home for the first time in three weeks after a long Introduction Conference in Hoenn, and finding Palmer's pants on the back of the sofa. I'm pretty sure there was something else that happened, but after finding his pants there, almost as though thrown off in some sort of blurred tangent, I blacked out until the point of finding myself in the hospital, a black eye and smeared blood adorning the Tycoon's face. I'm almost positive I put it there, but I couldn't find it in me to remember clearly.

But, almost immediately after that incident, I noticed a lack of interest in Barry's eyes, a lack of energy in his steps, and I was almost positive that the incidents were connected. But, as I said, I didn't clearly remember what happened, and for all I know, it was just some sort of misunderstanding of sorts. It could have all just been a simple misunderstanding that would be so easily cleared up if I honestly cared to remember. 'I was above this all.' I told my therapist, some nice woman with disgusting purple hair that looked like it hadn't been brushed in weeks. 'No,' I revised hastily. 'I am above this.' When she asked me what 'this' was, I didn't have an honest response for here, because I could never tell her what I didn't remember. It was impossible to tattle what I couldn't find myself to recollect, and despite how much I feared what I could remember, I couldn't honestly connect the dots between what I could remember and what happened. For all I know, I found Palmer with some whore and I beat the bloody hell out of him for cheating on me. For all I know, I never even did anything, and I simply found him in that state. I didn't honestly know. By this point, anything could have passed as 'possible'.

It was like playing a guessing game, the only catch being that you only knew the beginning and end, and even those events could have just been staged lies. It was all just a test from God, I began to tell myself at some point beyond the third week, and everything that had happened was a lie. I know it was wrong for me to think that way, but it just disgusted me to think of all of the possible events that could have taken place, and with the world wanting to either get rid of or simply become Palmer, it was difficult to imagine all of the events that could have happened.

On that Friday, though, an entire year after the event had taken place, after me and Palmer had finally smoothed over our wrinkles as a couple; he decided to bring up the events of that day, one whole year prior. If I was any less of a man, I would have simply scoffed it off, saying that I hardly remembered it as it was, let alone what actually happened. Though, as it stood, I still had all of my manhood area in tact, and with all of the testosterone pumping through my body, I figured the least that I deserved was the truth.

The truth, though, was hardly what I wanted to hear. I could feel the rage burning in my gut as I heard his explanation of what had happened, and I don't think I'd ever wanted to throw up and punch the shit out of someone so much, let alone at the same time, and with an equal amount of force. The moment he finished his explanation of the events of that day, I stood from where I was sitting. As odd as it seemed, we were simply sitting at the dinner table, as though this was nothing more then a little bit of small talk that would be forgotten by the end of the hour. As it would be, though, this was nothing close to small talk; this was what would end Palmer's existence.

With the clenching of my fists, I popped three knuckles effortlessly. My teal eyes took a good once-over of Palmer, and with one fluid motion, one simple swing, my right hand collided solidly against the back of his skull, his face smashing straight into the marble table-top, his nose making a solid cracking sound, most likely breaking, and his lips parting just enough to let out a strangled cry of pain. He knew that I was thirty times stronger then he was, despite my small stature and build, not to mention my great disdain towards blood, and I'm almost certain that he knew with that one swing he would be shown no mercy. With a cold gaze, he looked over his shoulder at me, fury swelling in his eyes for the briefest of moments before absolute terror replaced it.

I popped the remaining knuckles, and grabbed the back of his skull, pulling his soft blonde hair with a certain amount of ease that seemed juvenile. With a tug of his golden locks, I craned his head up at just an angle so that I could speak into his ear without having to hunch over.

"He's your son, you sick bastard." It started as a small hiss, and turned into a livid screech. With a swift contraction of muscles, I slammed his head back down onto the counter top, another strangled cry choking the silence. Not even giving him a moment's reprieve, I yanked his arm, pulling him to a somewhat standing position, only to bash his face in with my fist so fast and forceful that he was sent skidding across the kitchen tile, his back colliding with the cupboards with a loud bang. Panting for a second, I walked to where he was and simply stared at him; his face was bloody and his nose was beginning to look a bit disfigured.

If he was any less of a man, I might have pitied his state, but as it was, I simply just didn't give a fuck anymore. My leather shoe collided with the side of his head, almost square in the temple, and he let out another howl of pain and his body threw itself to the ground.

"He's your son, for godsake! How could you ever do that to him, you fucking pervert? How could you rape your own son?"

I didn't care if he ever actually answered me, because I was far too preoccupied with bashing my heel into his stomach and screaming at him as to how wrong he was, and just how terrible he was, as both a father and as a human being. With a half a dozen more kicks into his rib cage, he curled around himself, and I knew that he was finally seeing the consequences of his actions, and he was actually feeling the guilt and regret flooding over him that he had ignored for so many long weeks and months.

"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?" I kicked his head in an upper-cut fashion, and with one last strangled howl of pain, I could feel the rage inside of me beginning to cool down. The dragon inside of me was beginning to calm down, and all I could do was simply stare at Palmer's bloody body, beaten and bruised by my own fists and feet. After what seemed to be a second ice age, I popped a squat next to his body, and I could hear his lungs wheezing for air, and I almost felt sorry, but not nearly enough of for me to regret my actions.

With one last thought, I grabbed a fistful of blood-soaked hair, and raised it up as I had done before, craning his head up just far enough not to make him howl out in pain, but enough to make it easier to whisper to him. Through gritted teeth, I uttered out a mere five words that made his eyes snap open, tears finding their way out of his tear ducts and onto his cheeks, running like madmen onto the now-scarlet kitchen tiles.

Two hours later the ambulance arrived. Two days later, I gained custody of Barry. Two weeks later, I was freed from all charges under the tenses of protecting Barry. Two months later, my therapist declared me as sane, and I was free to live my life according to my own desires. I'm sure my words will forever be engraved into his mind, and I sincerely hope he remembers them, because I want him to feel the pain. I want him to feel his heart ripping itself apart as he thinks over the last words I will ever say to him in private;

"He loved you before this."

(x)

AUGH. This is the first thing I've completed since, I don't know, Sleep. Which was, like, three months ago. I really need to get back into the whole 'productive' thing. I came up for the idea for this at six in the morning, but was too tired to write it out. So, instead I wrote it when I was sleep-sober. Yeah, don't ask.

Uh, feel free to flame. I don't honestly care. (Just use grammar and good spelling when you do, because if you don't you'll sound like some retarded ass ten year old.)

PS: I'm not promoting rape.