Hi guys! I haven't written a fanfic in a while and I wanted to explore the pasts of Anna and Mr. Bates, and possibly the future. This fanfic is kind of dark, and there will be a trigger warning later on. This story is rated T for a reason, read at your own discretion and enjoy!
Mr. Bates' Past
An Abusive Upbringing
When John Bates reflected back on his childhood, his memories were never pleasant. He had a sweet, loving mother, but that was demeaned by the extensive shadow his violent, drunk father cast.
Age 5
John kneeled on the floor of his parents' small living room, rolling his worn and shabby wooden train on the rough carpet. His small fingernails picked at the scarlet, chipping paint as he hummed absentmindedly. Little John did not notice his father had been gone all night, and was absent in these early hours of the morning. He heard his mother puttering around in the kitchen, making breakfast. Seemingly out of nowhere, their front door was nearly knocked off its hinges, slamming open against the hallway wall. John jumped with fright. "Mummy!" he called out as a tall, dark figure walked through the doorway. John's mother, Margaret, ran out of the kitchen to see what had scared John. She was met with a huge, stumbling man, holding the wall in order to keep his balance. "J-Jack." Margaret stuttered, smelling the pungent smell of beer in the air. She held out her hand to attempt to try to steady him, but he slapped her hand away.
"Get out of my way, woman!" he said loudly and gruffly. John stared at him, half appalled at the way his father just treated his mother, half afraid of his drunken father, who was coming towards him. Jack's steps were very heavy, and as Jack lumbered closer to John, he kicked John's beloved toy train against the wall with a powerful swing of his leg. John watched as his train hit the wall and fell to the ground, little wheels breaking free and rolling every which way. Jack lowered himself onto his large armchair very heavily, sighing and closing his eyes. John tiptoed gingerly up to his wrecked toy, too shocked to cry. He picked up his red train with his small hands, found all of the lost wheels, and walked solemnly into the kitchen. He hopped up onto a chair and placed his toy on the table. Margaret turned around from the cooking she was doing. "Oh, Johnny. I'm sorry about your train." She scooped him up onto her hip. She bounced him gently and he hugged her. Margaret bent down slightly to inspect the damage inflicted on the little red train. She put John back down into his chair, and went back to her cooking, taking flour, a bowl, and a spoon out of the cabinets of the kitchen. "Mummy, what are you doing?" John asked, curious.
"You'll see." Margaret replied, pouring some flour into the bowl, and adding water from the sink to the mixture. She swirled the mixture with the spoon and went back to John's table, lifting up the train and putting her gooey, sticky blend onto each end of the train axle.
"Mummy, what are you doing? That's silly!" He began to smile.
"You'll see what Mummy is trying to do!" She smiled back, grabbing the small wooden wheels and fitting them back onto the axles, joining the wheels together with the axle because of her sticky concoction.
"Margaret! Where's my breakfast?" Jack yelled from the living room, making both Margaret and John jump. Margaret sighed.
"Coming!" she yelled back, taking a plate and walking into the living room.
John leaned closer to the table, marveling at his train that had just been revived. He rolled it on the table and it worked perfectly. When he grasped the wheels and pulled them, they did not fly off or even shift. A grin stretched across John's face as he drew the conclusion that his toy was as good as new, if not better than new. He looked around to thank his mother but realized she was still absent from the kitchen. John looked up as he heard the sickening sound of a slap.
"And don't you ever raise your voice at me again." Jack spat sharply, taking his breakfast and moving out of the living room, leaving his wife on the floor.
As soon as the coast was clear, John silently ran up to his mother, who sat up on the floor, clutching her newly red cheek. "Mummy?" John said, sitting next to her. "Are you okay, Mummy?"
Margaret turned and hugged her little boy, holding back her tears. John suddenly got up and left her, running into the kitchen. In no more than ten seconds, John returned with a kitchen rag soaked in cold water. He sat back down beside her and dabbed the rag onto her hot, red cheek. Margaret smiled at John and felt the cool moisture of the rag touch her cheek. She reached out and held his other hand. "Thank you, Johnny."
Age 12
It was a gloomy late afternoon, and John was in his room and had his face buried in a book of the poems of John Keats, which his mother has gotten him for his eleventh birthday. He was jerked out of his focus when he heard the shrill shattering of glass from the downstairs kitchen. John instantly jumped up and ran down the stairs, hearing loud and angry prattle from his father, who undoubtedly was heavily drunk. John burst into the kitchen to find his father, holding his mother up by the wrist and hair. Glass and jam from various jars littered the floor, and Margaret had a thick cut on her cheek, not to mention bruises on her face and arms. John's blood boiled as he saw this terrible scene.
"Stop!" John yelled loudly. "Stop this right now!" John angrily approached his father. John had grown a lot in the past years, and he was now more mature, a lot taller, and a lot stronger. He used his strength to pry Jack's bearlike hands off of Margaret's wrists. Jack screamed at him and aggressively pushed John backward, nearly falling over in the process. John recovered quickly and punched his father square in the face, causing him to hit the ground. "Don't you ever touch her again!" John snorted, turning his attention to his mother, who was still on the ground. He swiftly grabbed a kitchen rag and ran it under cold water, kneeling down and applying it to her scarlet cut on her cheek.
"D-don't tell me what to do, boy!" Jack said, now standing up and directly behind John. He lifted his huge first and punched John directly in the back of the head. John fell over his mother, and she screamed in distress. John's vision began to blur tremendously as he fell unconscious.
"Jack! What have you done?" Margaret screamed at him, holding John's now limp form. Jack looked away, scowling.
"I'm going for another drink." Jack huffed, roughly grabbing his coat and slamming the front door behind him.
Margaret cradled John, rubbing the back of his head and pressing the cool kitchen rag against it. She gently kissed his forehead and, with much difficulty, carried him up to his small bedroom. After laying him softly on his bed, she placed the kitchen rag on his forehead. She ran her hand through John's think brown hair, and then pulled up a chair, waiting for him to regain consciousness. Looking around his room, she caught sight of John's book of poems, and she picked it up and opened it. She flipped through the pages and found that one page's corner was folded over. "To Hope." Margaret began to read aloud.
"When by my solitary hearth I sit,
When no fair dreams before my - mind's eye - flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.
Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moon-beams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.
Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night."
Age 17
John sat in the kitchen with Margaret as she prepared dinner. While reading his book of poetry, John would continually glance up to look out the front window. He wondered when his father would come home from the pub, and dreaded it with all of his heart as he watched the night sky continue to darken, small white stars twinkling through.
As John looked back down at his book, they both heard a knock at the front door. John looked at his mother cautiously as he put his book down. Margaret placed down her spoon and took off her apron. She opened the door to find, not her husband, but a police officer. "Hello, officer." Margaret greeted him, hiding her confusion. "What can I do for you?"
"Hello, Mrs. Bates, is it?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm Mrs. Bates." Margaret confirmed.
"May I come in?" the officer asked.
"Of course." Margaret moved aside, letting him in. "John, could you please put the kettle on for us?" she directed John.
The officer took off his hat and lifted his hand. "Thank you, but there is no need." The officer said slightly solemnly. "I am Officer Oliver Harrison. Mrs. Bates, you might want to sit down."
"Beg your pardon?" she replied, more muddled than ever. The officer sighed.
"There is no easy way to tell you this, Mrs. Bates, John, but Mr. Jack Bates was killed today in a violent fight at the Frog and Toad Pub." The officer finished. Margaret gasped. "I'm so sorry for your loss." The officer said, clutching his hat.
John tried to look surprised. So, the bastard's dead. He thought, glancing at his mother.
"T-thank you officer." Margaret stuttered.
"Again, I am very sorry for your loss." The officer showed himself out of their small home.
Margaret turned to John, who was now much taller than her, and wrapped her arms around his large frame. John hugged her back, slightly swaying them rhythmically, back and forth.
No tears were shed over the death of Jack Bates. John and Margaret were finally free of him.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
