Title- Crux.

Author- Katt.

E-mail- R

Feedback - Like it or loathe let me know.

Archive- Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive.

Disclaimer- I don't own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.

Warnings-This fic deals with the subject of child abuse, if this subject upsets you please read no further.

Author's Notes- This was written as a birthday fic for Whipper. Her original birthday fic was "Secrets", but that was posted early because I finished it quicker than I thought I would, and I'm hopeless at trying to keep anything secret myself. However, just because she had her main present early I thought she deserved something to open on the day. So I took a sentence that was going to be an opening sentence for a challenge at the archive"He'd never thought he'd come to see death as a viable option…" and thought I'd see what I could come up with. A CHAU. Happy birthday Whipper.

Crux.

He'd never thought he'd come to see death as a viable option, but that had been before last night, now he wasn't so sure.

Holland's home life had never been a particularly happy one, dominated as it was by the over-bearing presence of his father. He ruled the house with a rod of iron; his word was absolute law. Holland's mother was a quiet, mousy creature, who'd had any spark of life crushed out of her by her husband long before Holland had been born. She kept a perfect house, and cooked all the meals on time, she did as she was told, and had no opinions of her own. She never interfered in her husband's treatment of their son, hiding in a bottle of Valium, and a life so steeped in denial that Holland was convinced she had little or no concept of what was really going on right under her nose. Holland hated her for it.

When he'd been younger he'd tried to come between his father and her on several occasions. He'd wanted to defend her and protect her from his father's anger. So he'd stand in between them and plead with his father to stop, beg him not to hurt her, and what had it gotten him, just another beating from his father when he'd finished putting his mother back in her place. When his father would be advancing on him, as he cringed in a corner, or tried to hide behind a chair, Holland would turn to his mother, he'd call out to her, but she'd never respond. She'd never tried to do for him what he'd tried to do for her; she'd never tried to protect him.

Holland could remember the feelings of pure terror at those moments, because he knew that his father was mad at him, and that he was going to be punished. He could also remember the feelings of disbelief and abandonment he'd felt every time his mother turned her back on him and left the room, left him to face his father's wrath alone. Eventually he'd stopped appealing to her for help, he'd given up any idea that she might actually love him enough to do anything to save him, and it just hurt too much to have that knowledge reinforced. He'd also given up on her. He no longer stepped in between his parents, instead he'd sit up in his room and try to blot the sounds out, squeeze his eyes shut and put his fingers in his ears, and wish himself far away.

After a while the beatings he received from his father became routine. Holland knew that that wasn't right, that no one should come to accept being hit with a fist or a belt as normal, but in his house it was. His father's rage could still frighten him, and the pain he suffered was as acute as ever, but his attitude towards his punishments was largely ambivalent. It was going to happen, and there was nothing that Holland could do to prevent it.

God knows he'd wasted hours of his life trying to figure out what he could do to please his father, what he could do to satisfy him. He'd eventually realised that there was nothing. He worked really hard at his schoolwork, hoping that by being a straight "A" student his father might be mollified, but no. His academic achievement had become a double-edged sword. It hadn't made him any more worthy in his father's eyes, and yet he didn't dare let his grades slip, because then he'd be a "slacker", and if there was one thing his father hated it was a "slacker". So he'd worked so hard to try and make his father proud of him, and all he'd ended up doing was giving his father another reason to hit him.

Of course academic success wasn't enough for Holland's father, he wanted Holland to excel at sports also. Here try as he might Holland had proven to be nothing but a disappointment, a fact his father never lost an opportunity to point out to him. His father had been on the football team, the wrestling team and the ice hockey team. The fact that Holland was good at tennis and enjoyed running was just another reason for his father to despise him. Apparently real boys liked team sports, physical sports, not 'sissy non-contact rubbish." It meant that as well as snarling epithets like, "useless""piece of shit""stupid", and "bastard" at him his father was able to add, "queer" and "faggot" to the list.

However, it wasn't the physical abuse, or the mental abuse, that he suffered at the hands of his father that was making Holland feel so desperate, so miserable and ashamed, it was the other stuff. It was what his father had done to him last night.

It had started a couple of months ago when he'd woken up one night to find his father sitting on his bed. He'd already pulled the bedclothes down, and was touching Holland through his pyjama bottoms, while he touched himself with his other hand. Holland could remember the gamut of emotions that had rushed through him, confusion, fear, disgust, and shame. He'd wanted to shout "no", to push his father away, but instead he'd frozen. His father had realised he was awake, and had looked at him. Holland still shuddered when he remembered the shuttered, almost blank look, on his father's face. Then without saying a word his father had reached out with the hand he'd been using on himself, and had taken hold of Holland's hand. He'd pulled it towards himself, and had held it firmly, as he'd guided it to touch him the way he'd wanted, until he'd reached his completion. Then he'd gotten up, and still without saying anything, he'd left. Holland could remember after his father had gone he'd stumbled into the bathroom, and had finally released his shock by sobbing while he'd frantically tried to scrub his hand clean.

That had just been the first of many late night visits over the next few months. The touching with his hand to bring his father pleasure had been supplanted after a week or so, when his father had forced him to use his mouth to get the same effect. Then his father had begun to lie with him in his bed, rubbing himself against his body, sweating and moaning, his fingers hard and bruising, digging into his flesh until he'd tense up and release his pleasure, forever soiling Holland's skin, and his soul.

Tonight had started out the same as usual; his father had come to him and undressed without a word. Then he'd pulled back the blankets, and reaching out had quickly and efficiently stripped him of his pyjamas. Once he'd been lying next to him his father had pulled him close and whispered in his ear. He'd told him that tonight was going to be "special", and Holland hadn't been unable to stop a sob from escaping from his mouth at that word, because he'd known immediately what it meant. He'd feared this, but had hoped, had prayed, that his father wouldn't take things that far. He'd hoped his father would show him some mercy, he should've known better. His father had chuckled at his cry, and had told him to turn over and lie on his stomach.

Holland wasn't sure how much time had passed then; it seemed to have been hours. His father had taken his time, obviously relishing every moment. For Holland it had been a nightmare of terror and pain. He'd struggled, tried to resist; his father had just used his superior size and strength to restrain him. He'd cried and begged, but his father had just laughed at him, and had clamped one large hand over his mouth to muffle his cries of fear and pain. In fact, it had seemed that the more Holland fought and sobbed, the more his father had enjoyed it. He certainly hadn't rushed things, making sure he didn't inflict any irreparable damage on his son. Holland was sure that wasn't for his benefit, but merely to prevent any trips to the hospital with impossible to explain injuries. His father had something; some kind of cream or something, coating his fingers, making them slick. He'd used his fingers first before he'd finally taken him.

When, after a nightmare of pain and humiliation, his father had finally finished he'd collapsed down on top of Holland's back. Holland had felt his weight pressing down on him, suffocating him. He hadn't cared though; he'd been too numb to care. He'd cried so long and so hard that he'd felt empty inside, and so he'd lain there passively while his father had pulled himself from his body, and had rolled off him. The air of his room had felt like ice on his back, and had made him shiver.

Then his father had sat up and reached out, switching on Holland's bedside lamp. While Holland had squeezed his eyes shut, and held his breath, his father had examined him, inspecting the damage he'd done his touch cold and impersonal. With a satisfied grunt he'd told Holland,

"You'll be fine in a day or so. Seeing as it's Saturday tomorrow you can sleep in for an hour. It'll be easier next time, and you'll soon get used to it."

Then he'd flicked the lamp off, and stood up, merely pausing to pull the blankets back up over Holland before he left.

Holland didn't think he'd slept at all, and he could see the first light of dawn beginning to lighten the room. He was lying curled up in his bed shivering, and contemplating suicide. A sharp pain throbbed in his backside and lower abdomen, and something slick and wet had dried hours ago on his inner thighs.

God, was he really that desperate, did he really want to die? He was only fourteen, and the thought of death frightened him. Maybe he should run away, but he instantly dismissed that thought as ridiculous. He knew his father, he'd never let him escape, and he'd find him and drag him home again. The thought that maybe he should tell someone flitted through his mind, but the thought of having to tell anyone about those things his father did to him, that his father made him do, made Holland feel sick.

Besides, surely if he killed himself he'd go to Hell. Holland didn't really believe in God anymore. He'd given up on him when it had become pretty obvious that if there was a God he'd given up on Holland when he never answered any of Holland's prayers. He'd never made Holland's mother help him, or made his father stop hurting him. However, what if there was a God and it was just that he didn't care, or that Holland was a bad person and this was his punishment. He'd done things with his father that he knew were a sin. They were dirty and disgusting things, and although he'd had no choice maybe they'd marked him, and made him into an evil person. If that were the case he'd go to Hell when he died.

Feeling like a coward Holland curled himself into an even tighter ball under his blankets, and realised that although death was an option, it wasn't one he could bring himself to take. Instead he'd take what had happened to him last night and he'd push it deep down inside himself, and he'd bury it. Then one day, when he was old enough, when his father couldn't stop him, he'd escape. He'd run as fast and as far as he could, and he'd have a good life, and he'd make himself forget all this.

Locking that promise away in his heart Holland looked at the clock by his bed. He watched the second hand mark time, and decided that in five minutes he'd get up and go to the bathroom. He'd try to wash himself clean, and put the soiled bedclothes in the washing machine. Then he'd carry on with his life. He wasn't going to let his father destroy him. He'd get through this and he'd make something of himself, and he'd make sure that in his new life no one would ever know his secrets.