Story description is a lyric from Darren Hayes' song "Neverland". It's the base of this story, and I love it to pieces. You should listen to it. I do not own Tommy, Adam, or the song Neverland. This is a work of fiction purely for entertainment purposes and in no way is in relation to the lives of the given characters.
Monday
Cops on the corner, always ignore, somebody's getting paid!
He doesn't have an iPod or an MP3 player, but he listens in his head. He doesn't have the luxury of music like that, but he's got a stereo at home that he listens to religiously. It's better than anything any God might grant him for his life. Music and school, those are the Godsends that he's got, and he wouldn't really have it any other way. Some people didn't like school, but he did. It was a safe place for him to be, to learn and to live. It was better than being at home.
Jimmy's got it wired, law's for hire, got it made in the shade!
He turns onto a familiar boulevard and he finds himself slowing his pace. This boulevard is a place he doesn't want to be, but he has no other choice. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his shit cell phone, glancing at the time very briefly. Half past five. Fuck, he's late. This isn't going to go down well, he already knows. That's the one thing he was granted, a cell phone. So he could be contacted easily. He was taught well to always keep it on him, and always have it turned on.
He keeps walking, deciding against playing music in his own head. He wants it clear and quiet now, and maybe he'll be able to think of a good reason why he's late… again. But he knows, somewhere in his subconscious, that whatever reason he conjures won't be enough. There's going to be consequences, prices to pay. There always is.
Step. Step. Another step and he's closer to the dreadful house. He doesn't want to go, but he knows that he has to. For the sanctity of himself and his mother. He thinks of her and smiles to himself, but he also wonders if today she's okay. If today he'll find her awake and not crumpled on her bedroom floor again. He shudders lightly, gripping the straps of his backpack tighter, pulling them over his shoulders just a few inches more. No, he can't think like that now, not on his way home. It's been a decent day and he's not going to let the possible, painful reality affect the high he's coming off of.
A car rolls by and he steps up onto the sidewalk of the street. He wouldn't mind getting hit if his mum weren't on his mind. Gorgeous, beautiful Allison. He's her reason to live, he knows this. He sighs, dropping his head and staring at his shuffling feet on the ground. He kicks a rock and keeps on moving. He kind of hates it here in L.A., he wishes to God that he could get out with Allison and leave, but he knows that he can't. He needs to get an education and money before they can leave. But fuck, if he could, he would take her and just go.
'But there's no getting out of this shitty L.A. neighborhood. I'm stuck here for at least another year and a half, maybe two.' He thinks to himself, lifting his head and peering up at the sky. The blue seas were clear with the exception of the burning orange disk that shot rays of light into every open area. It's beautiful despite the fact that he really, really, really hates it here. He's been here for seventeen years, and the new millennium was breaching, shouldn't he be somewhere else than here? 'Nope.'
Sickening, almost. He's been here seventeen years, and he's still alive. How is he still alive after everything he's lived through? It's almost a miracle, to be honest. He sighs heavily, lazily shuffling his feet along the ground. With every step it's like another punch to the gut, another ten pound weight on his back. It's exhausting and he really doesn't want to go. He sighs again, coming within sight of his house. It's small, painted a faded blue with a white, rusty hinged door. The windows are grimy from lack of cleaning attention, the lawn is brown in some areas. There isn't really a garage, it's more like a shed with a drive way in front of it, also painted faded blue. The roof looks as if it's about to cave in at any moment, and Tommy just cannot wait for the day that it does. Maybe it'll crush his drunk of a father.
He pauses at his neighbor's house, not wanting to take another step forward, closer. If he could, he'd bum out on the streets for the rest of his life. But he has to take care of himself and his mother, and the only way he can do that and still go to school is by living here. His hands tighten on the straps, and he feels the dulled ache from yesterday's beating in his hips. His hips, of all places. Goddamnit. Tommy drops his head, inhaling deeply. He tries to calm himself, holding back his distaste for his home life. He has to be strong. For Allison, he has to be strong.
He takes another step forward and pauses, hearing a racket from his neighbor's house. He cringes, glancing to his right at the neat, well kept front of the Lambert household. He doesn't really know them, but they are nice people. They would bring dishes over at Thanksgiving and Christmas as gifts for the holiday season. Tommy has met the parents and the youngest of two sons, but he's never really made much of an effort to meet the oldest son. What did the parents say his name was? Alex… Andrew… Something that started with an 'A'.
There's shouting, and the door is ripped open of the Lambert house, and out storms a semi-tall, broad-shouldered male, looking in his late teens, with deep blue eyes and golden red hair. His face is twisted in that of anger and sadness, his eyes distant, and he doesn't seem to notice Tommy as he stomps across the lawn and down the sidewalk in the opposite direction that Tommy is headed. Staring, blinking only once, Tommy watches the male get smaller and smaller down the street, before he disappears all together. This is an occurrence that happened, perhaps, once or twice a week. True enough, the Lambert's are nice people, but Tommy has learned that they don't always get along with one another.
Turning forward again, Tommy walks up the sidewalk, spinning on his heel and crossing the browning, crunchy lawn. He considers turning around and following the redheaded boy, just as an excuse not to go home. But he's almost certain that his dad has already seen him on the lawn, and will be expecting him to walk through the door at any moment. No, he can't turn around now and follow the eldest of the Lambert sons, as much as he might want to. He doesn't deny that, despite the fact he's never met the older son, he's rather attractive when he's not angry.
That's a secret Tommy's kept even from his mother— the fact that he's gay. Oh, Lord Almighty, what would father say if he knew Thomas Joe Ratliff, his little boy, was a fag? Tommy cringes at the idea, climbing the old, rotted porch steps and gripping the door knob in his left hand. Inhaling slowly, he wills himself forward, to face the consequences. 'Just go.' He tells himself, confident and sure that he'll make it through the night, just like he has for the past seventeen years. He nods to himself once. Tommy turns the knob slowly, and doesn't get the chance to step into the doorway before an empty beer bottle crashes against the wall perpendicular to the frame, spraying glass in front of him. A few small shards grace his face, slicing faintly into his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut as the glass shatters on the wall, clamping his jaw tight; it's a reflex. He's learned to keep his sight protected and his mouth closed. The last thing he needs is to get the inside of his mouth torn to shreds or to lose his vision.
"You little shit! You're late again!" His father bellows. Tommy opens his eyes, stepping into the house and closing the door behind him. His father is a large, beastly man with unkempt brown hair and angry brown eyes. His wide, meaty hands are curled into fists, one around a half-empty beer bottle, the other around the pale, thin wrist of his mother. Tommy's eyes widen slightly as he stares at her; her faces is freshly bruised over the swollen cheeks from last night's beating. Her lip is split, her hair in tangled clumps. The tank top she is wearing exposes the welts and bruises on her arms and shoulders, her shorts just covering the bruises on her upper thighs. Her calves and ankles are a semi-permanent black and blue shade, swollen and aching. His stomach flips at the sight of her, her blonde hair curtaining her sorrowful green eyes.
"You should know by now the price to pay." Surprisingly, his father is only half drunk, and thus can speak coherent sentences. But his voice is loud and obnoxious, and his hand tightens around Allison's wrist. She squirms, but doesn't make a sound. Tommy keeps his mouth shut, tearing his eyes from his broken mother, and looking up at his douche of a father. Matching brown eyes meet and his father snarls, throwing the bottle that is in his hand at Tommy. Tommy leans to the right, the bottle smashing behind him on the wall, beer splashing out and hitting him in the back. His pack is going to reek of alcohol tomorrow, and he knows his teachers are probably going to ask questions. Great.
"Stop it, Richard, stop hurting him.." Allison begs, trying to stand up straight beside her husband. Richard shoves her to the ground; her elbow collides with the hard wood floor.
"I haven't fucking touched him, you whore!" He shouts at her, spitting on her face as he does so. Tommy has the urge to run over and punch him, but he knows, even in his father's state, that he wouldn't be able to reach him. That was the disadvantage of being short when your father was a beast.
Tommy wants to scream and shout and punch his father over and over, but he's weak. He's weak and he doesn't have the will to stand up against his own father. Not even for his mother, as much as he wants to. His hands curl at his sides and he breathes as evenly as he can, his eyes narrowing at his father. But Richard's not really seeing him. He's seeing an outline, a quivering shadow of fear and rage. Richard's cracked lips spread into a toothy smile, and he starts to laugh as he sees the curled fists at Tommy's sides.
"Little Thomas wants to be tough, eh? I'll teach him to be tough." He starts walking towards Tommy, swaying slightly with every third step. Tommy relaxes his muscles; he's learned. Do not tense up, for it will hurt worse. Do not fight back, for the beating will last longer. Do not make a sound, for the blows will come harder. And for God's sake, do not try to defend yourself.
The meat palm slams across his cheek and he stumbles into the door, his face throbbing and his head spinning. His textbooks dig into his back from his pack and he wishes that he could have dropped his bag before enduring this. But he was never really given the chance to do such. From the moment he'd opened the door, it had been hell. Go figure. Richard reaches out and grabs Tommy by the collar of his sweatshirt and throws him across the room and down to the floor. He lands on his stomach and skids a foot, crashing into the coffee table (of which is nothing more than a piece of wood placed upon four cinderblocks). His shoulder hits one of the blocks, and he can already feel a bruise forming. He opens his eyes and looks over at his mother. She's sitting up, her hand over her mouth, her eyes pouring tears like rivers. She can't do anything to help him. And he can see that she's hating herself for it.
He wants to tell her it'll be okay, and that they'll make it out together. They'll live. But he's not convinced of that himself as Richard pulls him from the table by his bag, flipping him over, his tight fist slamming repeatedly into Tommy's stomach.