"Art has a double face, of expression and illusion, just like science has a double face: the reality of error and the phantom of truth."- Publilius Syrus
Over time it had become a dance. Midorima would wait for his father to come home, and when he did… They'd dance. Not the normal father-teaching-son to dance. No, they'd waltzed to another tune. A darker tune the only tune allowed to be play in his house.
And when he'll wake from this dance, he will drag himself to his room and fall asleep. The next day he will wake up, go to school and repeat. He will pretend like nothing happened.
It will for forever be a waltz, even his mother knew it. But his mother would avoid it. And he will take all the blame, for both of them. Because that was just the sad tune that is always playing in the life of Midorima and will probably be the only one he will ever hear.
When he was younger, his mother would continuously hum a little poem to him as some sort of sick joke, or maybe she just found it amusing watching her only child squirm as he awaited the appending doom that always came.
And every time Midorima waited he'd pray below his breath that maybe today his father would not come home. As bad as it sounded, that is what the boy wished for more than anything. He wished his father would one day go to work and never come back. He wished that one day he would no longer be forced to live this way.
And now here he waits. He awaits his dance. Midorima stares at the door, his prayers echoing throughout the house, wishes searching for someone to hear them. Maybe he's just being childish. Maybe he's being a fool believing in things such as fate, and luck, but if he doesn't hold onto something, then what does he have left? His stupid little dance? He has to believe in something, hold onto something, but tonight just like every other sick demented night of his life. The door opens. And Midorima thinks once more, that maybe he should just stop believing, because there was no one to answer his cries.
"Father," his voice is not his own no now it is the voice of a small child, not the young man that he is in the day. Because he knows that in the night, he no longer possesses the strength to be the fighter he is on the court. At night he is once again a small frightened child.
"Did I say you could speak to me Shintarou? I mean really what kind of son are you, being unable to follow the rules?" He's not drunk. Midorima knows this. It only makes his heart break more.
Senior Midorima is a doctor. To be more specific he's a surgeon. And he likes to make his only son suffer.
Midorima does the only thing he can to take his mind off of reality as his father pulls out a scalpel. It doesn't faze him. It's not the first time. Midorima thinks of his mother's poem, because as sad as this may sound it's the only comforting thing his mother had ever given him.
It is the only thing that takes his mind off the world.
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
And he has to remind himself. It is just a dance. That is all it is, a dance. If his father really meant it, it'd probably be worse. So he just had to remember that this, whatever it was, was just a dance. It wasn't real. Because what father would honestly want to do this to his only child?
No not his father, because his father is supposed to be some great respected doctor. He wouldn't do this on purpose.
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
Midorima always thought that somewhere deep inside his father, that he did love him…maybe. Because it was only a dance to his father's sad tune after all it was his mother that said she would come home and fix everything.
That is what she said, after all.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
That's what she promised.
But in reality Midorima knew that hope was a false allusion. His mother lied. She made up any excuse to get away from this place. She had given him a false hope to hold onto, and he guessed it didn't really matter anyway.
My mother's countenance
…could not unfrown itself.
But in all honesty the mask that Midorima Shintarou wore was to protect himself, so yes he acted like a tunsudre but that was only to protect himself. And it's not as if he cares if his father finds the need to hit him once in a while. For all he knew the man just had a bad day. For all he knew, the man just needed to blow off some steam, though of course there were tons of other things he could do if that was all it was.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
Midorima also knew that he didn't really have it bad, if he did, he would have gotten the hell out of that house ages ago, plus it was only now and then that his father actually laid a hand on him. And it's not as if the man just takes a bat to him and goes crazy, no his father is always calm. When he does hurt Midorima, he usually takes a scalpel or knife and just makes a few unnecessary cuts to the boy-not the end of the world.
Yet Midorima can't say that it doesn't hurt, because in all honesty, it hurt like hell, but it's not like anyone's every died from just a little pain. Though scientifically speaking if he did loose enough blood he would in fact die, so he was always careful to watch for that.
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
But something was off today his father seemed more agitated than normal, as if he wasn't in complete control of himself, seeing this Midorima took a mental note of the observation. The routine was the same as always once his father was happy with the scalpel he would look at his son expectantly and Midorima would slowly roll up his sleeves revealing his scar covered pale skin. Midorima slowly gave his arm over to his father, never taking his eyes off the man.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
At first it was like every other time, he would start with the oldest wounds leaving the fresher to heal a little more, that work his way down the line to make newer ones. Midorima always made sure to watch out in case his father ever came too close to an artery or vein.
He was also a bit rougher than normal, cutting deeper, and more furiously and when Midorima found that he had finally had enough, and tried to pull his arm back, he found he couldn't. "Father-san I believe that is enough," he whispered, "FATHER-SAN," it was louder than the last time; desperate. No matter how hard he tried, he could not pull his arm back. No matter what he said, his father did not stop.
And slowly Midorima's world began to blur, his heart racing faster as he knew what was about to come. He was going to die from loss of blood, he was…
Then you waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
