A/N: This fic be weird muchly. Inspired by "No One Knows" by Queens of the Stone Age, but only very slightly. Sort of connected to "Philosophers of Maybe."
"No One Knows"
a murder by numbers fic by SchizoAuthoress
Summary: No one knows how much Justin is hurting...and why.
****
"You stupid bitch!" Davis Pendleton sneered, shoving his wife Katherine away from him, "Just get away from me. What the hell good are you?"
Katherine looked away, toward their young eleven-year-old son. Justin sat quietly at the dinner table, head bowed and eyes hidden by his long blond bangs. It wasn't right that a boy should see his parents this way. His unhappy short-order waitress and typist-clerk mother and his often-drunk, foul-mouthed, construction-worker father.
She had only tried to tell him that she was worried when he didn't come home, and now Davis was cursing her out, probably going to hit her soon.
Justin said quietly, with strained politeness, "May I please be excused, Mother?"
"Yes, go, go to bed." Katherine replied quickly, but she was immediately overruled by Davis.
"No. Stay there until you're finished." Justin looked up to meet his father's drunken glare and nodded, saying,
"Yes, Father."
****
He locked himself in the bathroom. He could hear his father yelling at his mother, beating her mercilessly. She screamed, over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please!"
Justin felt sick. Hideously sick.
It had to be because he had eaten so quickly...yes. Not smart.
...no, not that, but then why?
The screams had faded into a broken sobbing. This was the way things were. He had never felt sick about it before...but he felt so awful.
It was wrong.
The wrongness of it all hit him like a falling girder. What was he doing locked in the bathroom of his home, scared that his father--his own father--was going to kill him or his mother? It wasn't normal, and it wasn't right.
Justin swayed there for a moment, uncertain as to whether he was going to fall or not. And then he did, and he was choking down the tears, the urge to vomit...then he was retching, resting his forehead on the toilet seat and gagging and crying.
"Justin?" The beast roared outside the door.
Justin breathed deeply, and answered in a normal voice, "Yes?"
"What the hell are you doing in there?"
"Getting ready for bed."
Silence. The beast considered this answer, and deemed it acceptable. He growled, "Then get ready and get out of there." He stomped off, slamming the door to the bedroom.
Justin stood up, his legs still trembling. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Clutching the rim of the sink with one hand, he scooped water running from the tap into his cupped hand and rinsed his mouth out several times. His throat and eyes still burned, but he couldn't taste the sulfuric stomach acid anymore.
He looked up into the mirror and gasped.
For a split second, he hadn't seen his own tortured blue eyes staring back at him through stringy blond wisps of hair. A strange and angry face glared out of the glass, a face of brown eyes and gold skin and reddish hair, and was gone before Justin could be fully certain that he'd seen it, replaced by his own familiar visage.
It was a typical San Fransisco night. Nothing special.
"No One Knows"
a murder by numbers fic by SchizoAuthoress
Summary: No one knows how much Justin is hurting...and why.
****
"You stupid bitch!" Davis Pendleton sneered, shoving his wife Katherine away from him, "Just get away from me. What the hell good are you?"
Katherine looked away, toward their young eleven-year-old son. Justin sat quietly at the dinner table, head bowed and eyes hidden by his long blond bangs. It wasn't right that a boy should see his parents this way. His unhappy short-order waitress and typist-clerk mother and his often-drunk, foul-mouthed, construction-worker father.
She had only tried to tell him that she was worried when he didn't come home, and now Davis was cursing her out, probably going to hit her soon.
Justin said quietly, with strained politeness, "May I please be excused, Mother?"
"Yes, go, go to bed." Katherine replied quickly, but she was immediately overruled by Davis.
"No. Stay there until you're finished." Justin looked up to meet his father's drunken glare and nodded, saying,
"Yes, Father."
****
He locked himself in the bathroom. He could hear his father yelling at his mother, beating her mercilessly. She screamed, over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please!"
Justin felt sick. Hideously sick.
It had to be because he had eaten so quickly...yes. Not smart.
...no, not that, but then why?
The screams had faded into a broken sobbing. This was the way things were. He had never felt sick about it before...but he felt so awful.
It was wrong.
The wrongness of it all hit him like a falling girder. What was he doing locked in the bathroom of his home, scared that his father--his own father--was going to kill him or his mother? It wasn't normal, and it wasn't right.
Justin swayed there for a moment, uncertain as to whether he was going to fall or not. And then he did, and he was choking down the tears, the urge to vomit...then he was retching, resting his forehead on the toilet seat and gagging and crying.
"Justin?" The beast roared outside the door.
Justin breathed deeply, and answered in a normal voice, "Yes?"
"What the hell are you doing in there?"
"Getting ready for bed."
Silence. The beast considered this answer, and deemed it acceptable. He growled, "Then get ready and get out of there." He stomped off, slamming the door to the bedroom.
Justin stood up, his legs still trembling. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Clutching the rim of the sink with one hand, he scooped water running from the tap into his cupped hand and rinsed his mouth out several times. His throat and eyes still burned, but he couldn't taste the sulfuric stomach acid anymore.
He looked up into the mirror and gasped.
For a split second, he hadn't seen his own tortured blue eyes staring back at him through stringy blond wisps of hair. A strange and angry face glared out of the glass, a face of brown eyes and gold skin and reddish hair, and was gone before Justin could be fully certain that he'd seen it, replaced by his own familiar visage.
It was a typical San Fransisco night. Nothing special.