"Run"Rated PG-13
Part 1 of 1
Summery: A scene from Dave's past. He's decided he's had enough of his father's abuse, and fights back...
Song is Sympathetic Character by Alanis Morissette
*
"I was afraid you'd hit me if I'd spoken up
I was afraid of your physical strength
I was afraid you'd hit below the belt
I was afraid of your sucker punch
I was afraid of your reducing me
I was afraid of your alcohol breath
I was afraid of your complete disregard for me
I was afraid of your temper
I was afraid of handles being flown off of
I was afraid of holes being punched into walls
I was afraid of your testosterone
I have as much rage as you have
I have as much pain as you do
I've lived as much hell as you have
and I've kept mine bubbling under for you "
_____________________________________
There are some things you just know. Sometimes it's intuition, sometimes your life depends on it. It wasn't just the way the sky looked- at the moment it was a dying purplish orange color- that changed depending on the time of year. But somehow Dave knew that he'd be home soon.
The Beast.
The Evil One.
His father.
Dave shuddered, rubbing the bruises, still a fresh purple, the consequence of knocking over a can of beer yesterday night. Those were still nothing compared to the punishment he had gotten for failing 6th grade social studies...No food for a day.
"He's on medication. He can study during lunch. Maybe that will help his grades," his father had told the nurse. His shirt was neatly pressed and his hair was slicked back. That wasn't what he was like at all. It was all some stupid act.
Dave heard the jingle of the door opening. He could tell by how long it took his father to open it the man had found time to have a few drinks before he came home. *A few? The ol' man's probably good and loaded...*
He curled himself into a protective ball on the couch, letting the book he was reading tumble to the floor. Dave inhaled deeply, noticing the couch smelled of alcohol. When mom was around the couch was white. 6 years of neglect had turned it a dingy gray. The walls and carpet ... both used to be bright and cheery. But that had died with his mother.
Now the Evil One was inside, apparently cursing at something he had tripped over.
*I'm asleep, I'm asleep...* The thought was frantic, repeating over and over, as he tried to convince himself. If the old man thought he was asleep, then maybe he'd get a break tonight.
"Dammit Dave! Get your stuff off the floor!" He heard his father's drunken yelp and curled tighter into his defensive ball.
___________________________
I was afraid of verbal daggers
I was afraid of the calm before the storm
I was afraid for my own bones
____________________________
"Come here!"
*Don't answer, don't answer...*
"Dave! You lazy fuck! Come here!"
_____________________________
I was afraid of your coercion
I was afraid of your rejection
I was afraid of your intimidation
I was afraid of your punishment
_____________________________
*I'm asleep---* And then he felt it. His neck snapped as his father pulled and in one quick motion he was on the floor, his balance and reflexes shattered. He panted and slowly opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling about him. He watched as a tuft of his hair floated sluggishly to the ground. He could feel the dull ache in his skull.
"Are you crying? Pussy!" screeched his father's accusing voice.
*Why am I letting him do this to me... I can dodge him, I'm quick*
Dave struggled to his feet, fire in his eyes as he stood up slowly. Then back on the floor, and he felt his father's lumbering hands smash into his stomach. He lost his balance and his head hit the coffee table, the sickening crunch of bone versus mahogany enough to make even the hardened drunk cringe the tiniest bit.
His boy, his child, his responsibility was lying injured on the floor. Again.
__________________________
I was afraid of your icy silences
I was afraid of your volume
I was afraid of you manipulation
I was afraid of your explosions
_________________________
The teenager gave a low moan, evoking sympathy from his father.
"I hope you learned your lesson, you piece of shit." The man backed away awkwardly, not having a clear idea of what to say.
Dave lay on the floor, trying to make sense of everything, and waiting for the pain to subside. It was as though he had been hit so hard his mind had been separated from his body. It was like he was watching himself on TV. It was surreal ... he could almost feel himself rise and walk over to his father and...
Strangle him.
*Why not? He does it to you. Doesn't he? What made it okay for him? * Logic and Hurt debated against Ethics. *What ever made it okay? *
If he didn't do this, it would mean he was weak. Like his father always said he was. Somewhere in his body the adrenaline kicked in. The ache vanished and he rose from the floor. His dad was getting something out of the fridge, probably cereal. Neither of them could cook. They probably hadn't had a decent meal since his mom died...
_______________________
I have as much rage as you have
I have as much pain as you do
I've lived as much hell
As you have
And I've kept mine bubbling under for you
________________________
Dave tapped his father on the shoulder.
"What?" he asked tiredly, his words slurred.
And just like that Dave punched him in the jaw. The way his father screamed filled him with a sickening feeling of accomplishment, anger, anxiety, and regret... It was frightening, and almost addicting.
*You've really done it this time, you're in for it*
When his father looked at him with stunned eyes, Dave hit him again, this time in the stomach. Fear and bitterness rose in his throat, tears burned beneath his eyes. "How's it feel, bastard?"
His father stumbled back for a moment, then jabbed his son in the eye. Dave was thrown off balance very easily, not expecting any retaliation. This time he managed to catch himself, though. The $20 dollars on the counter temporarily distracted him, but a slap on the cheek, curtesy of his father, redirected his attention. The older man attempted to punch him again, but Dave ducked. *I'm done for, I'm done for, oh God, he's gonna kill me this time...* The boy noticed there was a clear path to the door. He rushed to it, running so fast he almost slipped going around a corner.
"Dave! Stop! Come back!" he could hear his father calling to him. Everything became surreal again. He didn't listen to the old man, and continued sprinting down the street. Then thin denim of his jeans flapped and his white cotton coat trailed behind him. He didn't stop, he didn't think, he didn't even bother to think about where he was going. Something inside him just told him to run. Run and not look back.
_________________________
He just kept walking. He knew he was going somewhere, he just wasn't aware yet. The streets seemed endless and inviting, almost comforting. Dave inhaled deeply. He used to notice the way the sunset smelled, when he was little. He pushed it out of his mind, because it sounded, well, odd. But not he was giddy like a child. He didn't have to go back now. He could just walk forever and disappear into the New York skyline. There were really no strings to tie him there anyhow, he figured as he kicked a half crushed soda can into an alley. He paused and wrote "DAVE" in the dust with his faded sneaker. He was 15 years old, he could take care of himself, find a job somewhere... He even noticed a pretty girl staring at him. He flashed a suave grin back, then realized that she was staring because his eye was most likely swelling like hell...
He blushed and scurried off. Aunt Carrie lived around here. Look, there was the place where the hot-dog stand used to be. His aunt used to take him to the park and buy him hot dogs there, until she went vegetarian. And by now the vender, the old Hispanic man with the tobacco yellowed teeth, was probably long gone. As was Dave's confidence. The streets seemed menacing now, every turn seemed to be a wrong one. There was a shoddy white house, paint peeling and grass in dry, brown patches. The children were running around in the front yard, kicking up great clouds of dust as they chased each other in a game of tag.
Dave pulled his jacket closer. The temperature had taken a sudden drop, and he began to walk a little bit faster. He came across a man who looked in his early 20s, his eyes glaring at him from under a lopsided baseball cap. *Maybe he's got a gun...* Dave chewed his thumbnail, imagining what it would feel like to have bullets tear into his flesh, his breath cut off as they ripped through his lungs, his blood spilling in widening pools on the sidewalk...
Dave sprinted the next 3 blocks to his aunt's house.
______________________________________________
Caroline Malucci looked at her nephew with concerned eyes.
"No. I'm fine." His voice was small as he looked around the room. Cows. Everywhere. It was what his aunt collected. A wooden cow with the legs dangling off the TV, an assorted collection of ceramic cows in the cabinet... Even the black and white cow, now more of a rug then anything else, was named Moo.
Dave chose to poke at the cold meatloaf in front of him. He ate a tiny bite just to be polite, even though his stomach threatened to reject anything that came it's way.
"I know I've asked you this before, and you haven't answered yet, so ... why are you here? Why'd you just take off, spur of the moment, and wind up here?"
He only answered with silence, not even bothering to look at her. She sighed.
After a while he spoke again. "Remember when I was little and mom used to pick me up from school early, and we'd come here and drive for an hour and go sledding? And I hit the tree and mom was convinced I was dying and we never went again?" He was smiling sadly.
"Yeah, now that I think about it, I do." He said nothing, just returned to his little reverie. There seemed to be no purpose to his remark, no amusing anecdote, it was just there. Then she knew why.
"I miss her."
The teenager gave a little scoff, but the smile never left his lips. "You're not the only one."
Carrie looked at him harder this time. His clothes were crumpled and stained, and had holes in places. She could see bruises on his arms that she, as a nurse, knew couldn't have come from any accident. Dave was pale and skinny, almost sickly. And of course his black eye.
"Did you get in a fight with someone?"
There was a loud clink as his fork dropped to the floor. But no answer.
"David..."
"Don't call me that," he snapped. "My name is Dave." That's what his mom used to call him.
"But did you?"
"Shut up."
"David Norquest, don't talk to me like that..."
"It's Malucci!" he yelled suddenly. "I don't want to have that bastard's name!"
"Malucci..." she repeated. "Like your mother."
"And like you," he whispered.
She sighed again. "Well, Dave Malucci, I think I should call your father now."
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"Please don't."
"Look, if you can give me a good reason..."
"It's because he's probably passed out somewhere," remarked the boy bluntly.
"Oh. I see," she answered, not quite knowing how to reply. "I'll check anyway. I think he deserves to know you're alive."
"He probably doesn't care," he said, shrugging. "Can I spend the night here?"
"I suppose..."
"Okay. Goodnight. I'm going to bed."
"Wait, don't you want some aspirin or something for your face?" Carrie asked, picking up the phone.
"No. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," she echoed, then dialed the number. She tapped her foot patiently, waiting for the man to pick up.
"Y'low?"
His voice was slurred, but that could just be from sleep. It was, after all, around 10 PM.
"Hi. It's me, Carrie. Did you know that Dave is here right now?"
"Huh-uh. Why?" *Voice still slurred, not a good sign*
"Were you even aware he was gone?"
"Yeah."
"And you're not worried?"
"I fell a'sleep..."
"Okay, well, did you know he has bruises on his arms?"
No answer.
"Did you?" she asked again.
"Kid's clumsy."
"Oh, this is more then clumsiness, Jacob."
"He misbehaves. He's a troublemaker. You would do the same thing," answered the man, starting to give in.
"Is that what you do?" she stated in disbelief. "Whenever he does something wrong, you whip out a belt, or a baseball bat, or what-have-you?"
"No, only when he's horribly bad."
"Which is when?" she spat.
No answer, just nervous breathing at the other end.
"David doesn't wanna go back, and I don't think I'm gonna stop him."
"Fine! Take the little bastard!" the man roared, angry now.
"Is that what you call your son? If Maria were alive right now..."
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT MY WIFE WOULD THINK! You know she'd be alive today if she hadn't refused treatment."
"That was her decision, ever think about why?"
Jacob gasped angrily. "Are you suggesting I beat her? I loved---love my wife and I would never hurt her!"
"Yeah, but you don't think twice about killing something she loved more then herself." Carrie hung up the phone and leaned up against the wall. She definitely didn't want David going back there. But taking care of a child... But he wasn't a child. How could he go through that and be called a child? He could take care of himself, she could leave him alone after school and trust him not to burn the house down. She worked at a private practice now, not an emergency room. She'd be home by 5. She could do this. She tiptoed into the guest bedroom. "I know you're awake. You were probably eavesdropping too."
He had been, a little, but he wasn't able to make out much. "No ... bastard... Maria ... whip..." That was all he had heard.
"You probably eavesdropped, Dave," she repeated. "That was what your mother used to do."
Yes, but his mother's life wasn't what he wanted to find out about right now.
"Do I have to go back?" he asked. That was the question that had been consuming him all evening.
"No. I wouldn't do that. You're staying here."
And that answer was fine by him.
____________________________________
Finished Oct. 7th, at 9:00 PM
Flames? I can take 'em
Comments? Love 'em
Send it all to Misscaran@aol.com
And oh yeah, save Dave.
http://www.vanessaonline.com/saveerik.htm
Part 1 of 1
Summery: A scene from Dave's past. He's decided he's had enough of his father's abuse, and fights back...
Song is Sympathetic Character by Alanis Morissette
*
"I was afraid you'd hit me if I'd spoken up
I was afraid of your physical strength
I was afraid you'd hit below the belt
I was afraid of your sucker punch
I was afraid of your reducing me
I was afraid of your alcohol breath
I was afraid of your complete disregard for me
I was afraid of your temper
I was afraid of handles being flown off of
I was afraid of holes being punched into walls
I was afraid of your testosterone
I have as much rage as you have
I have as much pain as you do
I've lived as much hell as you have
and I've kept mine bubbling under for you "
_____________________________________
There are some things you just know. Sometimes it's intuition, sometimes your life depends on it. It wasn't just the way the sky looked- at the moment it was a dying purplish orange color- that changed depending on the time of year. But somehow Dave knew that he'd be home soon.
The Beast.
The Evil One.
His father.
Dave shuddered, rubbing the bruises, still a fresh purple, the consequence of knocking over a can of beer yesterday night. Those were still nothing compared to the punishment he had gotten for failing 6th grade social studies...No food for a day.
"He's on medication. He can study during lunch. Maybe that will help his grades," his father had told the nurse. His shirt was neatly pressed and his hair was slicked back. That wasn't what he was like at all. It was all some stupid act.
Dave heard the jingle of the door opening. He could tell by how long it took his father to open it the man had found time to have a few drinks before he came home. *A few? The ol' man's probably good and loaded...*
He curled himself into a protective ball on the couch, letting the book he was reading tumble to the floor. Dave inhaled deeply, noticing the couch smelled of alcohol. When mom was around the couch was white. 6 years of neglect had turned it a dingy gray. The walls and carpet ... both used to be bright and cheery. But that had died with his mother.
Now the Evil One was inside, apparently cursing at something he had tripped over.
*I'm asleep, I'm asleep...* The thought was frantic, repeating over and over, as he tried to convince himself. If the old man thought he was asleep, then maybe he'd get a break tonight.
"Dammit Dave! Get your stuff off the floor!" He heard his father's drunken yelp and curled tighter into his defensive ball.
___________________________
I was afraid of verbal daggers
I was afraid of the calm before the storm
I was afraid for my own bones
____________________________
"Come here!"
*Don't answer, don't answer...*
"Dave! You lazy fuck! Come here!"
_____________________________
I was afraid of your coercion
I was afraid of your rejection
I was afraid of your intimidation
I was afraid of your punishment
_____________________________
*I'm asleep---* And then he felt it. His neck snapped as his father pulled and in one quick motion he was on the floor, his balance and reflexes shattered. He panted and slowly opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling about him. He watched as a tuft of his hair floated sluggishly to the ground. He could feel the dull ache in his skull.
"Are you crying? Pussy!" screeched his father's accusing voice.
*Why am I letting him do this to me... I can dodge him, I'm quick*
Dave struggled to his feet, fire in his eyes as he stood up slowly. Then back on the floor, and he felt his father's lumbering hands smash into his stomach. He lost his balance and his head hit the coffee table, the sickening crunch of bone versus mahogany enough to make even the hardened drunk cringe the tiniest bit.
His boy, his child, his responsibility was lying injured on the floor. Again.
__________________________
I was afraid of your icy silences
I was afraid of your volume
I was afraid of you manipulation
I was afraid of your explosions
_________________________
The teenager gave a low moan, evoking sympathy from his father.
"I hope you learned your lesson, you piece of shit." The man backed away awkwardly, not having a clear idea of what to say.
Dave lay on the floor, trying to make sense of everything, and waiting for the pain to subside. It was as though he had been hit so hard his mind had been separated from his body. It was like he was watching himself on TV. It was surreal ... he could almost feel himself rise and walk over to his father and...
Strangle him.
*Why not? He does it to you. Doesn't he? What made it okay for him? * Logic and Hurt debated against Ethics. *What ever made it okay? *
If he didn't do this, it would mean he was weak. Like his father always said he was. Somewhere in his body the adrenaline kicked in. The ache vanished and he rose from the floor. His dad was getting something out of the fridge, probably cereal. Neither of them could cook. They probably hadn't had a decent meal since his mom died...
_______________________
I have as much rage as you have
I have as much pain as you do
I've lived as much hell
As you have
And I've kept mine bubbling under for you
________________________
Dave tapped his father on the shoulder.
"What?" he asked tiredly, his words slurred.
And just like that Dave punched him in the jaw. The way his father screamed filled him with a sickening feeling of accomplishment, anger, anxiety, and regret... It was frightening, and almost addicting.
*You've really done it this time, you're in for it*
When his father looked at him with stunned eyes, Dave hit him again, this time in the stomach. Fear and bitterness rose in his throat, tears burned beneath his eyes. "How's it feel, bastard?"
His father stumbled back for a moment, then jabbed his son in the eye. Dave was thrown off balance very easily, not expecting any retaliation. This time he managed to catch himself, though. The $20 dollars on the counter temporarily distracted him, but a slap on the cheek, curtesy of his father, redirected his attention. The older man attempted to punch him again, but Dave ducked. *I'm done for, I'm done for, oh God, he's gonna kill me this time...* The boy noticed there was a clear path to the door. He rushed to it, running so fast he almost slipped going around a corner.
"Dave! Stop! Come back!" he could hear his father calling to him. Everything became surreal again. He didn't listen to the old man, and continued sprinting down the street. Then thin denim of his jeans flapped and his white cotton coat trailed behind him. He didn't stop, he didn't think, he didn't even bother to think about where he was going. Something inside him just told him to run. Run and not look back.
_________________________
He just kept walking. He knew he was going somewhere, he just wasn't aware yet. The streets seemed endless and inviting, almost comforting. Dave inhaled deeply. He used to notice the way the sunset smelled, when he was little. He pushed it out of his mind, because it sounded, well, odd. But not he was giddy like a child. He didn't have to go back now. He could just walk forever and disappear into the New York skyline. There were really no strings to tie him there anyhow, he figured as he kicked a half crushed soda can into an alley. He paused and wrote "DAVE" in the dust with his faded sneaker. He was 15 years old, he could take care of himself, find a job somewhere... He even noticed a pretty girl staring at him. He flashed a suave grin back, then realized that she was staring because his eye was most likely swelling like hell...
He blushed and scurried off. Aunt Carrie lived around here. Look, there was the place where the hot-dog stand used to be. His aunt used to take him to the park and buy him hot dogs there, until she went vegetarian. And by now the vender, the old Hispanic man with the tobacco yellowed teeth, was probably long gone. As was Dave's confidence. The streets seemed menacing now, every turn seemed to be a wrong one. There was a shoddy white house, paint peeling and grass in dry, brown patches. The children were running around in the front yard, kicking up great clouds of dust as they chased each other in a game of tag.
Dave pulled his jacket closer. The temperature had taken a sudden drop, and he began to walk a little bit faster. He came across a man who looked in his early 20s, his eyes glaring at him from under a lopsided baseball cap. *Maybe he's got a gun...* Dave chewed his thumbnail, imagining what it would feel like to have bullets tear into his flesh, his breath cut off as they ripped through his lungs, his blood spilling in widening pools on the sidewalk...
Dave sprinted the next 3 blocks to his aunt's house.
______________________________________________
Caroline Malucci looked at her nephew with concerned eyes.
"No. I'm fine." His voice was small as he looked around the room. Cows. Everywhere. It was what his aunt collected. A wooden cow with the legs dangling off the TV, an assorted collection of ceramic cows in the cabinet... Even the black and white cow, now more of a rug then anything else, was named Moo.
Dave chose to poke at the cold meatloaf in front of him. He ate a tiny bite just to be polite, even though his stomach threatened to reject anything that came it's way.
"I know I've asked you this before, and you haven't answered yet, so ... why are you here? Why'd you just take off, spur of the moment, and wind up here?"
He only answered with silence, not even bothering to look at her. She sighed.
After a while he spoke again. "Remember when I was little and mom used to pick me up from school early, and we'd come here and drive for an hour and go sledding? And I hit the tree and mom was convinced I was dying and we never went again?" He was smiling sadly.
"Yeah, now that I think about it, I do." He said nothing, just returned to his little reverie. There seemed to be no purpose to his remark, no amusing anecdote, it was just there. Then she knew why.
"I miss her."
The teenager gave a little scoff, but the smile never left his lips. "You're not the only one."
Carrie looked at him harder this time. His clothes were crumpled and stained, and had holes in places. She could see bruises on his arms that she, as a nurse, knew couldn't have come from any accident. Dave was pale and skinny, almost sickly. And of course his black eye.
"Did you get in a fight with someone?"
There was a loud clink as his fork dropped to the floor. But no answer.
"David..."
"Don't call me that," he snapped. "My name is Dave." That's what his mom used to call him.
"But did you?"
"Shut up."
"David Norquest, don't talk to me like that..."
"It's Malucci!" he yelled suddenly. "I don't want to have that bastard's name!"
"Malucci..." she repeated. "Like your mother."
"And like you," he whispered.
She sighed again. "Well, Dave Malucci, I think I should call your father now."
"Don't."
"Why not?"
"Please don't."
"Look, if you can give me a good reason..."
"It's because he's probably passed out somewhere," remarked the boy bluntly.
"Oh. I see," she answered, not quite knowing how to reply. "I'll check anyway. I think he deserves to know you're alive."
"He probably doesn't care," he said, shrugging. "Can I spend the night here?"
"I suppose..."
"Okay. Goodnight. I'm going to bed."
"Wait, don't you want some aspirin or something for your face?" Carrie asked, picking up the phone.
"No. Goodnight."
"Goodnight," she echoed, then dialed the number. She tapped her foot patiently, waiting for the man to pick up.
"Y'low?"
His voice was slurred, but that could just be from sleep. It was, after all, around 10 PM.
"Hi. It's me, Carrie. Did you know that Dave is here right now?"
"Huh-uh. Why?" *Voice still slurred, not a good sign*
"Were you even aware he was gone?"
"Yeah."
"And you're not worried?"
"I fell a'sleep..."
"Okay, well, did you know he has bruises on his arms?"
No answer.
"Did you?" she asked again.
"Kid's clumsy."
"Oh, this is more then clumsiness, Jacob."
"He misbehaves. He's a troublemaker. You would do the same thing," answered the man, starting to give in.
"Is that what you do?" she stated in disbelief. "Whenever he does something wrong, you whip out a belt, or a baseball bat, or what-have-you?"
"No, only when he's horribly bad."
"Which is when?" she spat.
No answer, just nervous breathing at the other end.
"David doesn't wanna go back, and I don't think I'm gonna stop him."
"Fine! Take the little bastard!" the man roared, angry now.
"Is that what you call your son? If Maria were alive right now..."
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT MY WIFE WOULD THINK! You know she'd be alive today if she hadn't refused treatment."
"That was her decision, ever think about why?"
Jacob gasped angrily. "Are you suggesting I beat her? I loved---love my wife and I would never hurt her!"
"Yeah, but you don't think twice about killing something she loved more then herself." Carrie hung up the phone and leaned up against the wall. She definitely didn't want David going back there. But taking care of a child... But he wasn't a child. How could he go through that and be called a child? He could take care of himself, she could leave him alone after school and trust him not to burn the house down. She worked at a private practice now, not an emergency room. She'd be home by 5. She could do this. She tiptoed into the guest bedroom. "I know you're awake. You were probably eavesdropping too."
He had been, a little, but he wasn't able to make out much. "No ... bastard... Maria ... whip..." That was all he had heard.
"You probably eavesdropped, Dave," she repeated. "That was what your mother used to do."
Yes, but his mother's life wasn't what he wanted to find out about right now.
"Do I have to go back?" he asked. That was the question that had been consuming him all evening.
"No. I wouldn't do that. You're staying here."
And that answer was fine by him.
____________________________________
Finished Oct. 7th, at 9:00 PM
Flames? I can take 'em
Comments? Love 'em
Send it all to Misscaran@aol.com
And oh yeah, save Dave.
http://www.vanessaonline.com/saveerik.htm