A/N: Taking a short break from Giving Me Everything. I love writing angst. Doesn't everybody? Maybe it's just a weird quirk of mine. Sorry if this is too over-the-top emo.

Disclaimer: John Hughes equals Not Me.

So Real In The Dark

It had been better once. If John's life had always been like it was now, he probably wouldn't care that it sucked. He probably wouldn't know the difference. But once upon a time John had parents who loved him, treated him like he was the best thing that ever happened to them, and would have done anything to protect him.

It wasn't like the circumstances were any different. Mr. Bender still drank too much. Mrs. Bender was still a housewife when she would rather be a doctor. It wasn't until the first grade when things started going bad. They never hit him or anything, but they yelled a whole lot more than they ever had and they stopped listening to him when he spoke. As time went on, he became a nuisance in school, subconsciously thinking that it would win back their attention. It only made them yell more.

John blamed himself until, in about fourth grade, one of his friends gave him the idea that it was his parents that were at fault. The thought boosted his self-esteem quite a bit. Every day he dwelled on it until he was convinced that his parents were complete idiots who needed to be put in their place. The first time he yelled back was the first time his father hit him – that is, hit him without a forewarning of punishment – on the face, hard enough to bruise, and John was so stunned that he didn't do it again for months.

The second time he hit him, John hadn't done anything wrong. His dad was drunk, near tears for some reason. His mother was comforting him, but he couldn't stand the sight of his son. John didn't know what to do, so he let his father shove him and smack the side of his head. His mother told him to go to his room.

Fighting back became easier each time he did it – but it was only verbal; he just took it when his dad started hurting him. He never ran away, because that was what cowards did. John spat insults and gritted his teeth when his father yanked his arm, but he never ever tried to get out of it.

Junior High was the first time he bullied someone. It was this defenseless looking kid who John had never heard speak until he was yelling, "Uncle! Uncle!" with his head shoved in the toilet. That was the first time John actually identified with his father; it made him feel better to torment someone smaller than him, it made all of his problems a little more bearable. In a way it was like someone was sharing his pain. Of course he never hurt them like his father would've, he just humiliated them and stole things so that he was more of an irritation than a terror.

John loved school. He hated the teachers, students, books, classrooms, food, sports, the shit they tried to teach him, and even the kids he hung out with; but he loved the distraction from the rest of his pathetic life. At school he became some kind of icon. Kids were afraid of him, annoyed by him, and looked up to him. It all meant that he wasn't worthless. While he was there, all the drama and trouble he got into almost made him forget that he'd have to go home to two people who hated him.

His mom hit him too, but not nearly as often or as bad as his father did. She hurt John more in the long run, though, because she never stood up for him. She just watched like he deserved it (maybe sometimes he did) while her husband left bruises on her son's shoulders. Usually, John hated her more.

One time he shoved her, but that was a mistake he would never make again. His father made sure of that.

The worst incident he could ever recall was when they made him sleep in the garage. He was almost a freshman in high school, but they were treating him like he was a disobedient puppy. At first he was so upset that he didn't try to go back inside, but when he did he found that the doors were locked. It was the middle of March and sleet pounded over the roof. John hardly slept that night, shivering and wrapped in an old tarp, and went straight to school when he woke up.

That was the first time he'd wanted to tell someone. He almost did. But no, that would be just like running away and John wasn't a coward.

Some of his friends ended up figuring it out, not as if it were that difficult. John never denied it and often elaborated, but casually, as if it was no big deal. Some of his teachers even knew although only one ever tried to help him. John had simply laughed at him.

It was almost like his father wanted people to know. He would send John to school with a black eye and a split lip, face downtrodden and humiliated so that everyone would know that he wasn't just in some punk fight. He scarred John with cigars like he was daring him to tell someone. It was like a crazy control game; like he was pushing to see how much power he had over his son. Like a test, to see if John would tell anybody, and if he didn't then his father would be proud. John didn't really tell anyone – not so that they'd do anything about it – and never fought back. It made him sick to the stomach.

The word "victim" was like poison to think about; John wasn't a victim, he was a survivor. John was a hero in his own book and his own world. In the public, he was nothing but a nuisance. To some people – to them – he was even a human being. Sometimes it all seemed like a fairytale. John's real life was nothing more than a bad dream to most people, where it didn't matter whether he lived or died, and where he was alone in the best of times. He lived a nightmare. It was the realest thing he'd ever known.

The End.

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A/N: There, so. I don't know if angst is popular in BC fanfiction, but I used to write a lot for anime. Please review.