Rated T for language and adult themes. Language not beyond what you might hear on television; 'adult themes' relating to child abuse.
AN: This started out as the beginning of a different story. That story ended up going in quite a different direction, but I liked the snippet and so expanded it into this. It's not pleasant, and it's not hopeful. You have been warned. Thanks to LiveJournal user ladyflowdi's story, Guardian, for the inspiration of a stuffed animal.
Unbetaed; I apologize for any mistakes. Usual disclaimers apply.
The boy seemed to have fallen
From shelf to shelf of someone's rage.
-- John Ashberry, "A Boy"
"Where have you been?"
"Piano lessons," Rodney answered neutrally, slouching toward his room.
"You're still doing that?" his mother asked incredulously. "I thought you'd quit." Rodney didn't answer, only shrugged and continued on his way. "Come back here! I'm not through talking to you."
"I have homework," he objected, scowling.
"Don't argue with me," she countered harshly. "That kind of attitude will get you in trouble one day, boy. Just wait until your father gets home."
"I'm shaking in my boots," he replied saucily. She didn't notice the glimmer of very real apprehension in his eyes.
"Go to your room, you little brat!" she yelled. "I am your mother; how dare you take that tone with me!"
He obeyed, noting with a slight satisfaction that he had been going to his room in the first place. He tried not to think about what would happen when his father did come home from work, but his ten-year-old imagination was too vivid. Lots of yelling, probably. Maybe a belt, but he doubted it. Whatever it was, he could take it. He was ten, after all, hardly a kid anymore.
"Ronny?"
"What do you want?" Rodney asked irritably. He didn't really have homework but he still didn't like being disturbed, especially when he was dreading his father's return at any moment.
"Why is Mommy mad?" Jeannie's small voice asked. She wasn't actually that much younger than him, but she had learned, perhaps subconsciously, that 'cute' was one of the better ways to deflect parental anger. He wished he knew how to be cute.
"Why do you think?" he returned, scowling.
"I don't know," she answered, slightly annoyed. "That's why I asked you."
"Well, I don't wanna bother with your stupid baby questions," he concluded, tossing a crumpled piece of paper at the blonde head in his cracked door. The shot flew far over her head but she ducked anyway.
"Ronny?" Jeannie queried again.
"What?" he sighed.
"Why is Mommy always mad at you?" she asked quietly.
"Get out!" he yelled, his face contorting in anger. He leapt from his chair and slammed the door in her face, barely missing her little fingers curled around the door frame; for a brief instant, he wished they had been crushed. That would teach her.
Rodney didn't really wish his sister harm, not usually. Sometimes, though, she asked him questions that he wanted an answer for himself. Sometimes he felt like it was his responsibility to help her grow up; sometimes she was just an easy target for his pent-up anger. Besides, if something happened to her, maybe she wouldn't be Mom and Dad's perfect little angel anymore. Maybe if her fingers were damaged, his piano playing would be more appreciated. Maybe…
Rodney heard the front door slam shut and his heart skipped a beat. Sliding Helmholtz from the bed, he cracked open the door and held his breath. (Rodney would never admit just how attached he was to Helmholtz, a gift from hairy Aunt Maggie when Jeannie was born. He wouldn't be caught dead with the worn sock monkey outside the safety of his own room, but he was a comfortable companion when Rodney needed one.) Squeezing Helmholtz's arm tightly, he listened for his parents' voices.
"Owen!" Mother called. "The kid needs talking to."
"Good Lord, woman," Father growled, "let me take my shoes off, will you?"
"Don't snap at me! I'm trying to tell you about your son."
"That's fine," Father replied, exasperated. "Just wait until I've been home for more than three seconds."
"Don't tell me what to do!" Mother screeched. "You don't have to be home all day with the little monster."
"Oh, please!" Father shouted. "You think my day is easy? And don't even try to tell me he's home all day; he's at school most of the damn time."
"That doesn't give him an excuse to disrespect me," Mother countered loudly. "He talked back to me this afternoon. He's been doing it all week."
"That's the big damn emergency?" Father asked, and Rodney could hear his scowl in his voice. "That's what couldn't wait for me to take of my damn coat?" Rodney winced; his father's swearing always increased proportional to his anger.
"Just take care of it," Mother sighed.
"Fine," Father spat. "Ro-od!" The bellow tore through the house and Rodney swore the door rattled in its frame. "Rodney McKay, you get your no-good skinny ass out here right now, boy!"
Rodney closed his eyes and swallowed hard, steeling himself for the tirade ahead. Taking a deep breath and gently replacing Helmholtz on his bed, he opened the door and walked toward the living room with a carefully studied indifference. It would be over soon. Whenever his father yelled at him on a weekday, he was usually too tired from work to put much vehemence into it.
"What took you so damn long?" Father demanded when Rodney slouched into view. "When I tell you to do something, I damn well expect it to be done fast."
"Sorry," Rodney mumbled. It went easier if he didn't argue.
"You'd damn well better be," Father snapped. "Your mother says you disrespected her this afternoon."
Rodney noticed, with a sort of detached fascination, that Father's left eye drooped slightly. He wondered why he'd never noticed it before. Then he realized that Jeannie's left eye drooped, too. What features of Father's did he have? No one ever said he looked like his father. Aunt Maggie had once said he had his mother's nose…
"Are you listening to me, you son of a bitch?" Father shouted in Rodney's face. His breath stank, but not of alcohol. It was too early for that.
"Yes," Rodney sighed, not daring to meet his father's gaze.
"The hell you are," Father sneered. "Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir," Rodney ceded sullenly, staring at his father with a long-practiced look of bored disdain.
"I will not tolerate disrespect under my roof!" Father continued, thrusting his fist toward Rodney. Rodney flinched, but Father's hand stopped inches short of his face. Father had never hit him, though he did like to emphasize his points with violent physical gestures. "Your ass doesn't leave your room for a week, got it?"
"Not even for school?" Rodney asked scornfully.
This time his father did hit him, landing a backhand slap across his cheek. Tears sprang to Rodney's eyes but he blinked them away before turning back to his father. Defiance sparkled in his eyes, masking the fear lurking there. He glared at his father, trying to look tough, before turning and heading for his room. He had to get away before he did something stupid, like bursting into tears. His father wouldn't stand for that.
"I'm not done with you!" Father roared, storming after Rodney.
Rodney ran, fear now controlling his actions. He reached his room, slamming the door behind him, grabbed Helmholtz and huddled in a corner. He had never seen his father so angry, at least not at him, and he was afraid. Seconds later, the door burst open so violently that it smashed into the wall and left a hole.
"You are in deep shit, boy," Father snarled. He paused, frowning. "What the hell is that thing?" Rodney, too late, stuffed Helmholtz behind his back, trying to look as if he had no idea what Father was talking about. "Is that a stuffed animal?"
"No," Rodney tried, backing further into the corner.
"Don't lie to me!" Father exploded. "And what the hell are you doing playing with a damned stuffed animal like a damn baby? First those stupid-ass piano lessons, now stuffed dolls? I won't have people saying my son is some damn pantywaist!"
Father grabbed Rodney's arm tightly, wrenching Helmholtz from his grip. Rodney couldn't stop the small yelp that slipped from his mouth, earning him a contemptuous glare from his father. With a malicious gleam in his eye, Father left the room. Rodney followed, hastily wiping away the tears that had risen to his eyes.
Rodney arrived in the kitchen just in time to see Father throw Helmholtz into the trash compactor. Staring in disbelief and horror, Rodney watched Father turn it on and heard the sickening sound of his best friend being crushed into a tiny cube. As Father faced him with a grim look, Rodney determined not to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him cry.
"Go to your room, Rod," Father said quietly, shutting off the compactor. Rodney obeyed silently. It was only after the door was firmly closed that Rodney allowed the tears to flow.