Author's Note: Okay so I know I haven't written in a while but I've been super busy with school and drama (I'm sure you all know) and I just got back into writing again (finally). Anyway, this is my first Breakfast Club fic. I watched the movie a week or so ago and I fell in love. Claire and Bender =forever 3 So I hope you enjoy my story. I realized after I wrote it that Bender probably doesn't use a lot of big words so I did my best to change it so that he sounded super street smart. He also may be a tiny bit out of character but I like to imagine that he does feel pain and get upset like other people would. Thank you in advance for reading my story and thank you for reading this extremely long author's note.
Love you all
~Readlovehappiness
"What did you say to me, boy?" I could hear my father's temper rising. I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't answer him, but I was more afraid of what would come from my mouth.
I ground my teeth together, hoping to keep the words from spilling from my lips. Seventeen years of living with my father had taught me when to hold my tongue.
The man in front of me was large, a lot stronger than I am, and a lot more stupid than me, too. He roughly grabbed my face forcing it upward. My father's eyes, which I had so carefully been avoiding, locked onto mine. I could see the blind hatred in them. I struggled a bit against his hand, but the grip on my chin only got stronger.
The lack of eye contact had been the only thing tying my tongue, but now that I could see the senseless anger in my father that was directed at me, John Bender, his only son, I had lost my self-control.
"I said that you were a sniveling, pigheaded, sad excuse for a father that wouldn't know compassion if it hit him square in the nose." I regretted the words the moment they had left my mouth.
"Pigheaded? That's a new one for you, John. Did your smart-ass new girlfriend teach you that one or did you learn that all by yourself?" The last part was in a mocking, baby voice. I ignored his jab at Claire. "I wouldn't know compassion if it hit me in the nose?" He questioned rhetorically. "Well, let's see if you could recognize it."
My father's rough hands shoved me into the wall, a painting falling from the green drywall, crashing to the floor. I took my eyes off my father for a split second to see that the picture was of my family, from when I was young, six or seven years old, maybe, back when we were still pretending to be a real family.
I looked up from the pile of shattered glass just in time to dodge the bare knuckles heading straight for my nose. I turned quickly to run out the front door, but a hand had a hold of my long, dark hair. My father's hand dragged me backward making me regret not getting a hair cut like Claire had suggested.
My back hit the wall again, but this time a forearm was crushing my throat. I couldn't breathe. I struggled t remove my father's arm, gasping for breath. The man in front of me pounded my face repeatedly. I could feel a ring opening cuts in my skin every time it made contact. A ring that once stood for love and union was now represented by the blood and cuts and bruises forming along my cheeks and my eyes.
One last thrust of my father's fist into my stomach sent me to the floor, gasping and gagging, showing that I was defeated, that I am weak.
But I'm not weak. I seem to have to prove it to myself over and over, but I am not weak. Sometimes, I even try to prove it to my father. Maybe one day Good Ole' Dad will see that I am strong and that I don't take any crap from anyone. But rebellious ideas like these are what end me up with burns up and down my arms. Scars that never go away.
"Are you done crying yet?" I was only half aware that I had been crying. I wiped my nose noisily, leaving a trail of blood along my sleeve. I didn't wipe away the tears, though, knowing that I would look like a child.
"Stand up." My father ordered. I did as I was told. I was in no position to argue and I wasn't up for it either. I had better things to be doing.
Claire popped into my head for a moment. She was most likely waiting for me to pick her up like I said I would. Chances are I never show.
I focused on my father, now, who had lit a cigarette. I hoped and prayed that he would just let me leave, but I knew better. He took a few puffs of his cigarette, blowing rings of smoke into my face. A hand reached for my arm but I pulled back. I shook my head at my father, the man I used to care for, who I used to love. My eyes pleaded with him which made the man smirk.
"What? Is wittle Johnny afraid of a wittle burn?" he said in his baby voice again. The truth was that I was afraid. I was scared to death. To me, burns are the worst kind of pain. I'd rather be hit with that gold, wedding band a hundred times then be burned just once.
There was no way to avoid it. I could try to make a break for it, but I know it's no use. I backed up as far as possible into the wall behind me but my father was a determined man.
"Give me your arm, boy!" He snatched my right arm from behind my back, flicked my sleeve. Before I even had time to plead with him, I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Tears were bubbling in my eyes. I sank down the wall to the floor, shaking and breathing heavy.
As soon as my father had left the room, I shoved my car keys into my pocket and sprinted out the front door, still shaking and cradling my right arm.
A/N:So what did you think? Loved it? Hated it? Write a review telling me your opinion. Nice ones are always appreciated(they boost my self-esteem big time) but mean and negative ones are just as welcome. Thanks again! Love you all!
