Unforgiving
By Ms. Kinnikufan
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
My father offered me money to beat him up. I take the money, but refuse to beat him up. I tell the Kinniku idiot that he's won and walk away, eventually lead away by prison guards,
Stupid-ass father thinks he can buy my forgiveness. He can't.
Though as little as 5, maybe even 2 years ago I would have jumped at the chance to beat him up for money. I still wouldn't have forgiven him though. I will never forgive him.
I hate him. He beaten mother and me non-stop for over a decade. I remember every attempted defense, every huddle in the corner, every night sobbing that my mother spent. I remember every kick to the ribs, scratch, every slap, every punch, every broken bone, every time he spit on me in great detail.
Mom crawled into a bottle of Wild Turkey and eventually drowned there. He was the one who gave me the scar I have upon my face. Not that I exactly was a great looker before.
I was a stupid kid. I thought if I were good enough, cute enough, he would realize his constant mistakes and beg for my mother's and I forgiveness and be a good father.
I find myself choking on a memory that I had buried away:
I was a kid in great denial. I liked to draw and paint. I found myself lying a lot in my childhood, mostly in pictures then. I would draw happy picture of a happy family that was supposed to be mine. Of course it was a lie. I guess I thought if I could visualize it, it would come true. Like I said, I was a really stupid kid.
One day, (it was before my father took me out of school so I could goddamn train 24 hours a day for his goddamn revenge against Suguru Kinniku) I brought home a family portrait. It was painted using the finest acrylics the public schools had to offer. Everyone ohhned and awed over it, saying it was a fine piece of work for someone my age. My art teacher, Ms. Klinski-whatever said I had potential and motivating crap like that. She said I could be another Van Gough. I was happy about the complement then. Little then I know he went insane later in his life. (Hmmmmlooks like my art teacher was precognitiveI did go insane later in my life after all.)
I took it home to show my father. I guess I thought it would be the magic catalyst that would make want to be a good father and shit like that.
It wasn't.
"Is this what they're teaching you in school? Pointless, worthless shit like this. Shit that teaches you to be a faggot instead of a man?" He tore of picture in two and slapped me.
"I MADE THAT JUST FOR YOU!" I screamed and began to weep, upset that my little fantasy that the picture would make my father want to be nice completely shattered.
He (as I should have expected by then) slapped me and shouted at me to be a man and stop crying.
That night, I drew my father burning in a lake of fire. I still remember the angry ecstasy of putting detail on my father's agonized face. How hard I pressed down as I tried to get just the right red-orange fire color. I had the most cheap-ass type of crayon ever and I had to press down quite hard. The joy of making wavy, fiery flames. I was so proud of drawing that stupid picture; I put down the date and my own signature (We had just finish our cursive unit in school.)
Of course, he found that and tore that too. I drew yet another picture of my father in torment. He found that one too.
I soon learned to hide my pictures. I soon grew tired of cheap-ass crayon and learned how to shoplift truly great art supplies. I remember the first time I stole some high quality colored pencils. I marveled at their soft but not waxy leads. The pleasantly woody smell. The colors: Parma Violet. Process Red. Ultramarine. Mineral Orange. Imperial Violet. Sunburst Yellow. French Gray 30%. Crayons never had such descriptive, yet elegant names.
Every night, after my father got tired of training me, I would draw, paint, whatever.
I still remember every line I drew. Every smudge I painted. Most of them were red-oranges of anger. Some were the grays and blacks of despair. One, after my mother died, were the blues of sadness. I don't know if they were any good. I got taken out of school at 13. My father never let me near any adults who cared for art. I still loved everything I drew or painted or whatever other art techniques there were.
One day, when my training wasn't living up to my father's expectations (more then usual even) my father burned every piece of art I ever created.
"Son, I have something to show you. It's very important." My father said in an unusually sweet tone of voice.
I knew something bad was up. I also knew it would be worse if I didn't see whatever horrible thing my father had to show me.
It was a Dumpster.
"That's what you want me to see. It's just a Dumpster!" I exclaimed, thinking my father had finally completely lost it.
"Look inside" I obeyed. It was full of my stolen art supplies and everything I ever created. It was all covered in gasoline. I knew what my father was going to do next.
"NOOO!" I screamed. He gave me the most brutal kick to the ribs I had ever gotten. I fell in weakness and in pain.
One lit match later and everything I had created was gone.
"Damn it son! WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU? WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU?" He gave me another kick towards the face this time.
"Don't waste my time on shit on time like that!" I tried to hide my face from my father's foot in vain. I'm ashamed to say that I cried.
My father then gave an extremely brutal beating. I woke up in the hospital 3 days later, attended only by a jaded uncaring nurse.
I woke up enraged. Why did he burn everything I had created? What reason did he have except to destroy me? How dare he! How dare he! I screamed internally. It was a whole new game now. I wasn't going to put up with any more of my father's shit.
Still half injured, I checked out of the hospital. I sloppily stole a handgun.
Then I went home for the last time.
My father was sitting at the table, drinking. The look on his face as I shot him was pure joy for me. Unfortunately the gun I stole only had two bullets. I missed vital areas both times. But at least he was disabled.
I went to the Dumpster. All my art had burned to cinders. No saving it-except. I got a cheap plastic container and filled with as much ashes as I could. (When my associates later asked what the ashes were, I told them it was my mother's ashes. It would greatly enhance my reputation as someone not to mess with when someone saw me running my fingers through my "mother's" ashes.)
I still have that plastic container of ashes. But not in my prison cell. Someday, when I successfully escape, I will go to my plastic container of ashes and remember what they might have been a collage of red and yellow flame annd angry words. A painting of a butterfly with shredded wings. A portrait of myself with stigmata. A picture of a snowfall, the only gentle thing I ever created.
I got away as far as I could get. There were about three do-able options for me: 1. Deal drugs. 2. Become a whore. 3. Steal.
I didn't know where to get any drugs, and I absolutely refused to have my life degraded even further by becoming a whore, so I stole.
I was a pickpocket at first, eventually rose up to burgling, then rose up to burgling and murder.
One day, (I can't remember how many years ago5? 7? Years ago.) I tried to rob the house on a very swanky, very rich and as it turned out, very corrupt avenue.
The master of the house caught me trying to rip the door off the safe. I pulled out my gun. Fast as quicksilver, he de-armed me of my weapon. He tried to hit me. I dodged every blow. Just as he had me backed into a corner, I stabbed him with a pen, the only pointed object I could find. He didn't cried out in pain. Instead he gave an odd little smile. He told me I had great potential as a mercenary that I was still quite rough around the edges, but with a little training, I could be making millions as a mercenary. Millions sounded way better then the hundreds I was making as a thief, so I listened.
It turned out that he was really the leader of one the world's greatest mercenaries agencies. He said he usually didn't recruit thieves, but I was a far greater then most thieves.
He got me training. He got me my first job. I was greatly surprised there were no hard feelings or assassination attempts when I left the organization to go solo. He wished me luck and said he would give me a few recommendations to his chojin-interested clients. He was like the father I never had. He was the one who taught me that Van Gough eventually went insane and died penniless. Out of respect for him, I never went after him or any members of his organization.
It was he who taught me that life for some was worse then death. That's why I won't ever give my father the beating he wants the penance he deeply desires.
For my father, being unforgiving is worse then death.
Afternotes: The main inspiration of this fic was the implication that Bone Cold was an artist in the dub I ran with that. Thus this fic. I really enjoy writing the descriptions in this fic. Bone Cold's father came off rather 2D in this fic. Oh well, it's from Bone Cold's p.o.v, I doubt he looks at things from his father's p.o.v.