(A/N): I've never heard Hannibal having an older sister mentioned by anyone, but he has one now.
Disclaimer: I don't own the A-Team.
Warning: Some language. This story is all about alcohol, so you know what to expect. This is my own idea and also a work of fiction. I know it was never said in the series, but it's my fic and I'm not basing it on facts. Thank you.
THE HOUSE OF GLASS
Young, innocent Johnny tried to block out the sound of slurred shouting and laughter echoing throughout the household. He didn't really understand why everyone was so happy all of a sudden. He didn't like it. He didn't like it when mother burst into his room in a drunken stupor and made him play with her when he was trying to go to bed. He didn't like it when his older sister stumbled through the front door, inebriated, and screamed, yelled and sang her heart out, and then chased him around the living room. He didn't like it when father arrived home from work, angry and intoxicated, abusing him verbally and psychically, while he desperately tried to get away.
And every single morning after, the morning where headaches infected the hungover, the tension would be so thick that Johnny would refuse to leave his room, too afraid to face those drunkards he called "family".
He knew now, that his childhood was not one of his fondest memories. He was older, wiser, and he understood the devastating power alcohol held and what it could do to the fools who chose to put it into their system. John was only a teenager, 15 years old, but had the mind of a man far older than his years. His quality of life made him realise that, not only had he been raised in the midst of a broken home, but was still living in one.
But he was young then, he couldn't defend himself properly. Now though, he knew exactly what he had to do to get his family away from him, even if it meant assault.
His 16th birthday had unfortunately arrived. He thought of it as unfortunate because it was a chance for his relations to get legless, and so he spent the whole day in the safety and seclusion of his bedroom. Sooner or later, he anticipated, his family would all pay a visit to him and wish him well. They hadn't yet.
He heard the clumsy, uneven footsteps of his father coming from down the hall. "Where are ya', boy?" He growled in a barbaric manner. John had locked his door, but he knew that wouldn't stop his old man trying to enter anyway.
The man stopped outside of the teenager's room, breathing labored and heavy, and turned the handle, only to find that it wouldn't budge. He knocked on the door in annoyance. "Let me in, Johnny, you little shit!"
At first John didn't speak as he thought his father would forget he was there in his drunken state. But, the intense knocking continued, and the boy knew things were growing difficult. "Go away." He said defiantly.
His father, a beast of a man, started kicking the bottom of the door and thrusting himself against it to gain entry. The door wasn't a strong one, he had broken it down several times in fits of rage, so John started to panic. He slid his hand under the pillow on his bed and waited until his progenitor broke through.
...The pounding on the door silenced. Maybe he passed out, John hoped. If he knew his father, it was that he was as stubborn as a mule, and that nothing was that simple when it came to his methods of getting what he wanted. He also had a short temper, something John had been at the back end of many times.
Just as he started to relax a little bit, he heard charging footsteps coming from down the corridor, and with a mighty crash the bedroom door blew open. In stomped the red-faced, growling demon he called his father, snorting like a wild boar with fists clenched tightly. "You're a rude little fucker, you know that? Locking doors. What did I say about locking doors!?" The older man advanced on his wide-eyed son on the floor with one of his hands buried underneath his pillow. "What are you doing, boy?" He asked fiercely, eyeing the pillow in caution.
"You come any nearer, and I won't be responsible for my actions, dad." Warned John in a shaky voice.
His father laughed at him and continued to make his way over. The teenager whipped out the item he had hidden under the pillow and held it out in front of him. The older man stopped dead in his tracks. "Is that a knife?" He whispered.
John nodded slowly and stood. "If you try anything, I won't be afraid to stab you in the gut, you got that? I'm fed up with all the abuse I get from you! You don't deserve to be a parent!" He yelled, as the dam holding all the pent up rage flooded open. He paced back and fourth, still gripping the knife tight in his hand, and raved about how miserable his childhood had been, and how much he loathed the evils of alcohol, while his father stood in the centre of the room, paralysed with fear. "I hope you're happy, dad! I hope it fucking haunts you forever that you're the reason I'm holding this knife right now!" He shouted, eyes blazing with hatred. "LOOK AT WHAT I'VE BECOME!"
The whole room shook and then lapsed into silence, save for John's panting. He was hunched over, facing the wall. "Get out." He ordered.
His father scrambled out of the room desperately. Pathetic, John thought, as he dragged out a small suitcase from under his bed and began shoving in clothes. The last thing he put in there before closing the case was the kitchen knife, delicately hiding it under the bundles of cloth. He made his way down the stairs and to the front door.
"Johnny?" His mom slurred, clumsily trying to make her way over to him, "Where are you going?"
He grimaced as the strong smell of wine that attacked his nostrils. "I'm leaving. Say bye to sis for me, will you?" He turned to leave but his intoxicated mother grabbed his shoulder.
"You can't leave, Johnny, not without givin' your momma a hug-"
"No, mom." The teenager shrugged her hand off his shoulder and walked out the front door, leaving his mother in utter shock.
He looked back at the house in disgust for the last time. He was finally free. No more crying himself to sleep as his parents screamed at each other from downstairs. No more cleaning his sisters sick off of the bathroom floor. No more constant fear of his father hurting him. He was done with all of that, and he felt relieved. He hoped his family would realise, after they were a little more sober, that they needed him more than he needed them, and that he was never coming back.
He was a man now, not Johnny, but John Smith, a name that would go down in history. And he could die peacefully knowing that he had escaped the evil clutches of booze. He didn't need rum or whisky to drown his sorrows. He knew, one day, he would be known as the man who avenged those who had suffered an injustice, the man who protected the innocent, punished the guilty, all while never touching a drop of that poison they called alcohol.