sum: He is not scared anymore. -― Max Miller
notes: first supernatural fic - i have an obsession with minor characters so i decided to write this drabble; hope you guys like this, c:
you spit your two-fanged venom
max miller
.
It's your fault, his father jeers at him; large, lethargic pounding footsteps echo in his ear, and the pungent smell of scotch wafts throughout the ear.
Caliginous spit mixes in with his eye, and Max is thrown against the wall - you are worthless, father says, you should have died instead of your mother; and there is a flicker of pain in his father's eye - but Max does not feel sorry.
The neighbor, the one who lives across the street, with the kind eyes who's called the police countless times (the police are more helpless than he is) tells him to leave, to run away, and he just shakes his hand, smiling.
There is no point in running away if the monsters are still chasing him - fear reigns in his heart, and it will either aid him or destroy him; the next time his head is bashed into the crumbling mahogany staircase, blood mixing with dried cement (long-lasting stains, and it is all his fault that the house will never be bought)
.
On the outside, they are the Millers.
Accountant father who graduated from a prestigious Ivy League, mother with a blond chevelure and kind blue eyes (nobody knows that she is not truly his mother), and a troubled son that is to hide upstairs and not draw attention to himself - he is a disappointment, he has always be a disappointment, he is not the child that belongs in the perfect pretty Millers family.
They move houses, and his father is more careful now - his step-mother, Alice, stands in the kitchen, chopping peppers with a stainless steel knife - baby blue eyes blank, and she never does anything to help him.
.
The flames are getting brighter.
Licking ashes rise in the crevices of his mind, and the knife is launched in one hand; he maintains control of the weapon, and feels a sick, sort of guilty pleasure when the waft of monoxide and poisonous gas is spread throughout the garage. Uncle Miller comes to visit (to pay condolences, he says, but really, to beat the hell out of Max, because somehow, they will always find the way to pin the blame on anybody but themselves), and then Max shuts the window - it's the same window that he's tried to escape out of several times, always dragged back by his father and uncle, head bashed in on the scrubbed white tiles. But then, the monsters have been defeated ―
He is not scared anymore.
.
He is one of the Special Children, they say - drawn out words; he envies this Sam Winchester; he envies the way he still has somebody to rely on, the way that his father never turned on him. The way he was never blamed for his mother's death, the words said enough times until he started to believe them; it's your fault, it's your fault, it's always been your fault.
Nobody can help me, he says numbly (he is a monster, just like his father and uncle are - used to be, he thinks wryly) and closes his eyes and destroys the monster (himself). In real life, there is no victor.