I got a request from a guest named Lucas to write a one-shot about Roger discovering he enjoys inflicting pain. I hope the Guest is reading this, and if you are, I hope you like it. Oh, Roger. He's so good to write about because he's just so incredibly easy to characterize! Just a warning: it gets a little graphic and Roger-like.
Roger was starving.
He was all alone again, wandering along the streets of town, scrounging for anything that could fill his grumbling little tummy. Father was angry with him again. He'd been locked out of the house for the third time that month. Roger shivered and pulled his sweater closer to him. It was cold outside, and all he wanted was a bowl of something to eat.
He couldn't even quite remember the last thing he'd eaten. He was pretty sure it had been two days ago…at lunch…Jack…that's right, Jack had given him an apple to eat at lunch two days ago. The pains of hunger began to set in. Roger groaned a bit as he kept walking. His knees began to feel weak, followed by his hips, shoulders, arms, soul. Not only was he so hungry, but for days now he was sure he had a fever. Not that anyone care or anything. His father hadn't even noticed. Roger had thrown up a few times (not helping the currently empty status of his stomach) at home and school, but pushed through it because he couldn't appear weak - if he did, he'd be taken advantage of. He knew this from much experience.
Roger walked by all kinds of little houses along the streets. As he passed, he'd look through the windows. Nearly every time, a family would be sitting around a dinner table. Or a mother would be putting the finishing touches on the ham as the children set the table and the father poured her a glass of wine. Roger's heart ached. He give anything to have a family like that. He'd give anything for food.
Roger pushed his silky black hair away from his face. He realized that the road out of town was coming up. He knew he couldn't ever just keep walking and leave the horrible life he was living - he had choir to be in, he had a house to look after (since his father was drunkenly incapable), he had Jack to obey. He usually made it out of the town this far, where he'd just crawl into the woods nearby and sit under a tree. But oh God was he hungry. He went to his normal spot under the tree, but fell weak too soon and ended up crawling. The dusky sky had glimmering sunlight radiating from the setting glow. He sat there, legs pulled close to his chest, and began to cry. Roger didn't know exactly why he was crying. But he knew that something inside of him hurt so badly.
Maybe it was because he was starving. Or because he was so reduced because of malnutrition, his clothes didn't fit right anymore and he literally looked like a walking skeleton. Maybe it was because he didn't have a single friend to turn to, not even in choir, because they'd just make fun of him. They didn't know his circumstances. No one did. Not even Jack. His father had beat him countless times, making him swear that he'd never tell what was happening at home. Roger would tearfully promise - anything to get those awful blows to just stop - and wake early the next morning to expertly blend all the marks with makeup. Maybe he was crying because he barely ever got any sleep at home. He was too afraid. Maybe he was crying because he just felt so hurt inside and out, by everyone in his life that turned their heads when he tried to make a cry for help.
Roger was starving.
He wearily looked around through all the underbrush of the forest, thinking about what a quiet and wonderful place it made. He wished he could live there. Suddenly, there came a squeal from his left. Far off in the distance, Roger focused his gray eyes on a pig that was wandering the area. He figured it was probably looking for road kill or roots to eat. But he knew what he had to do. Roger wiped the tears off his cheeks quickly. He looked around for anything to use in his capture. Rocks. A stick. Yes, those would do. Roger picked up a rock and aimed…steadily…and then he released his arm.
The rock struck the pig right in the head, stunning it, making it fall onto the ground. Roger scrambled as fast as his weak legs could carrying him. He forcefully hurled rock after rock at the dying creature, screaming as he did so, picturing it as the body of so many of his tormentors; his father, the big kid that shoved him at school everyday, the two boys in choir that whispered about him and then openly teased him in front of everyone, the teacher that had yelled at him in class for not listening to her and incredulously asking if the sound of her voice was being drowned out by the many voices in his head, and the other people that knew of every single struggle he was facing and that chose not to do anything about it so they wouldn't become 'involved' with him. They knew. Roger felt unstoppable anger rise up in him. He literally felt his blood boiling. He wasn't sure if this was due to his fever, or his rage at society and how it treated him. But this had to be done. He had to picture what he needed to in order to get those feelings out.
When he finished, the pig was bashed open and blood was everywhere. Oh, he wished he had Jack's hunting knife that the fearless leader always had with him. He gazed downwards at the mess he'd created. The blood. Ooh, it felt so good. For once, he was the one inflicting the pain upon a helpless creature, instead of it being the other way around. Roger shuddered when he dipped his fingers into the hot blood and a smirk crept over his face. This was what he wanted. This was how he wanted to see everyone that teased, ignored, and hurt him. Lying on the ground like a worthless swine, precious life juices oozing out of them.
Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Bash him in.