Author's Note: Well, I lied. This isn't a crappy oneshot. It's a crappy twoshot, or maybe threeshot. To be fair, I didn't know I was lying when I lied. I thought this was going to be a oneshot, but I got a few suggestions to make it longer. So I did. It should be noted that the following text does not take place after any specific period of time following the first chapter, but does fall in continuity with the game. I think anyway…Mentioned the chick in the manga and that obviously differs, so I don't even know...Craving some cup noodles :l
You know you should pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and act like everything is normal. That's what you always do. To keep up a benign charade and even pretend it's real for a little while is another constant in your life and it's one you don't want to lose. So really, instead of just laying here on the carpet and wondering what part of you the ruby that stains said carpet has come from, you should get up and kick yourself into gear like you do every day. But you just can't.
Because today is different. Because she ratted you out to him.
Your sister told your father everything about that stupid band and concert you should have known better than to participate in. Honestly, why did you even offer to be their drummer? Did you really think your parents wouldn't find out about it? Although in truth and to give you credit where it is due, you had almost gotten away with it. You had your fun and they were none the wiser for awhile. About what, three, four days? Until you yelled at Amber. Well, yelling would be exaggerating. You're very patient with your sister. All you did was firmly suggest she leave Lynn alone and grow up a little.
So what did she do? She went to your parents and told them everything, flashing you that spiteful, victorious look of hers with her round aquamarine eyes. Eyes as precious as gems to Daddy Dearest, who wasted no time punishing you. Lying to him about where you where for three weeks? Participating in juvenile recreation when you could have been doing something useful with yourself? Wasting all that time to learn how to drum to begin with? Oh man, he was pissed off. All it took was the icy incensed glare he shot you to know you were really in for it this time.
The whole time he was smashing you into the wall, you clenched your jaw and refused to apologize. Apologizing might've ended your punishment sooner, but you didn't care. With each furious slam into the bluish gray wallpaper, your own anger burned in the pit of your stomach. Not at your father, not really. You expected him to act this way. This was the norm, and though it irked you, you stopped getting worked up over it a long time ago. But you didn't expect Amber to blab about the concert and willingly throw you to this kind of pain. You've always found your sister to be conceited and uncaring to the difference in the way your father treats you, but not outright a factor. You never ever thought her cruel enough to have her hand in subjecting you to abuse (you hate that word, why is that word even in your vocabulary?).
When your legs gave out on you, he grew tired of thrusting you into the decorated concrete that held up your roof. He settled on beating you with your mother's ironing board and you spent this brutal duration of bruises forming to reflect on what you consider your sister's betrayal. Bitch. If you had the energy left you might even be bitter enough to subject her to your own subtle, passive aggressive punishment. Never anything she would think to pin on you, because then she would just have a field day whining to your father about how mean you were to your precious little sister. A punishment that could pass as a teacher's doing or simple bad luck. Being student council president has such perks.
You reach out and touch the small red imperfection in the ecru carpeting and absently realize it's going to stain. Heh. You're probably going to be punished for that too. You'd smirk at the irony, but with ceaseless agony riddling your torso and persistent pangs in particular places, you can't even bring yourself to do that. The soft sound of footfalls diverts your attention and you refrain from touching the blood, lest he thinks you're spreading the stain on purpose. It is honestly another passive aggressive act of rebellion you might have considered if it didn't hurt this bad. But it does.
"You really should stay home this time," breathes your mother in a quiet rasp. You relax slightly knowing its not him, and he's already off driving your sister to school. And likely stopping to pick her up a small breakfast sandwich from some greasy fast food joint to make her feel better, since her brother was so mean to her. "I plan to," you answer simply. For once you allow it all to just get to you. You allow yourself to not even try. There's no point in trying when there's nothing left in you. "Do you need help, Nath?" She takes a few dithering steps closer.
Now she wants to help. Now that he's done acquainting your appendages with the wall, now that his shouts are a memory stale in the air, now that her ironing board has returned to its occupation of household utility instead of weapon. Of course she wants to help now that the damage is done. But you swallow down the sour taste in your mouth and the resentful insults on your tongue. Don't take it out on her. You're in pain and your resolve is frayed so you're being unfair. Your mother is your last ally in this house. So she wants to help now, that's better than not offering her hand at all. "No," you reply, "I think I'll just lay here for awhile."
"Okay..." She lingers in the room. She's probably really worried about your condition and waiting for a signal to appease these worries. A word or a gesture to let her know you're fine. But even though you told yourself not to be aggrieved, you honestly can't give her one. You're just too empty. "I'll go call you in sick." She lingers for another few stilted moments and then you hear her low, departing footsteps. You should get up, you know. But you can't even find the motivation to search yourself for the strength to make an attempt. That in itself should be of concern to you. But it isn't.
Things are better when you wake up. You don't even remember closing your eyes, let alone falling asleep, but you know you must have. The ruby on the floor has congealed to a crimson-turning-brown and the sun is shining brightly through the window. You are in its warm, shimmery beam. And you illogically think to yourself that you must be soaking up its nutrients like a photosynthesizing plant, because things are better. Your aching body is still aching, but the pain is dulled enough for you to get up. Wincing softly, you lean back against the very wall that battered you this morning and take a moment to get your bearings right.
You limp down the hallway and to your bedroom, closing the door with a soft click. The alarm clock on your bed reads that its noon and you're surprised that you were out for so long. Then again, it makes sense. You didn't sleep very well last night because you knew what you would have to endure this morning. Last night was when Amber told him about the concert. Last night was when he gave you that glare that promised your demise. Penalty, at the very least. You pull open your closet door and stare into the attached full-length mirror, gauging what damage said penalty has done.
One side of your jaw is swollen and faintly bruised. This is a rarity because he usually avoids the face. It just goes to show how much you really pissed him off this time. Your lip is open on the same side, leading to a generous trail of dried crimson down your chin. A similar spectacle trails from your nostrils and collects in an unsightly crust on your upper lip. Your nose itself is slightly tumid and for a brief second, you consider the possibility it's broken. How stupid of you. Your father has never gone that far before, and even if he did slip up, it would appear worse. It'd be discolored or misshapen. Such injuries are obvious that way.
You conclude that your facial impairments must have been suffered when he took the ironing board to you, because they're all on that side and consistent with where you were struck. Wait...You're starting to sound a lot like those detective novels you read so much. You smile faintly in amusement at the realization. But it vanishes with the next realization that smiling hurts. It's mainly your upper body that being smashed into the wall afflicted. Serious bruising and welts creep across your pale flesh, looking even more painful than the twinges you feel. But you didn't need the mirror to see those. You're shirtless. You didn't even have time to dress this morning, when he dragged you out of bed and to your retribution. You set the alarm early this morning hoping to evade that, but alas, luck was not on your side (it's never on your side).
With one last glance over your damaged reflection, you make your way over to your bed. Your mattress is much more comfortable than the floor and it welcomes you into its cushy embrace. You know you should be in the bathroom, cleaning the blood from your face, but you're not going anywhere today so there is really no point. Instead you sink into the comforter and thank the universe for small pleasures. It hasn't completely screwed you over today. Trying to imagine not thinking about your sister's untimely betrayal, you pick up the book that rests against your alarm clock.
It deviates slightly from your normal reading choice. Though still a crime novel, this one is not a lone, detail-rich, lengthy story. It contains various shorter stories from different authors. From psychotic arsonists to methodical serial killers, it's chock full of mystery and diverse aberrant entertainment. As your bleary eyes skim over the vacant flyleaf, you make the observation that today has just been one contrast from what's typical to the next. Laughing at this for whatever inappropriate reason, you choose to put the book down and bury your throbbing face into your pillow.
