A/N: Ok peeps, firstly, I don't know when I'll be posting this, since the internet at my house was shut off on Sunday, and I'm only at my dad's for the day, so... :'( great sadness. Secondly, I owe a really big apology to MomentOfZen. I was out of line for being as rude as I was in my last author's note, since she had brought up a good point. I mean, honestly, I can't really expect all of you to just know what it was like in the 70s. At least... I kind of assume that nobody reading this was old enough to remember the seventies, since that'd make them... mid to late forties? Minimum? Anyways, so yeah, big apology. Thanks to everyone who's read, and a big thanks to the people who've reviewed. :D
P.S. For all the H/J fans out there... BE PATIENT! It's coming, I promise lol. Within the next two-four chapters, I swear. :D
Red knew something was wrong the second he set foot into his house. There was no noise from the kids in the basement, and -most out of character- there was no dinner on the table, or by the looks of things, even in the making.
"Kitty?" He called out warily.
"In the living room, Red."
Instantly, he knew what was wrong. But he prayed he was mistaken, even as he walked into the small living room, and seen the couch empty except for his wife.
"Where's Steven?" He demanded, still hoping that maybe the boy was with the other kids outside or downstairs.
"He went home," Kitty sobbed, head in her hands. "Edna called, and told me to send him home. I begged her to let him stay, but Steven came out, and told her he'd be right home. And I... I didn't stop him, Red."
Red sighed as he sat down, and pulled his wife into his arms. "There was nothing you could've done, Kitty. We can't kidnap him; Edna's already called the cops on us when Steven runs over here to hide. And until the boy admits what's going on, CPS won't remove him. There's nothing we can do."
Even as he said it, he fumed. Child Protective Services, his ass. He and Kitty had called those bastards more than twenty times, only to be informed that unless Steven admitted to the abuse, or they could come up with three witnesses who saw the abuse take place, they couldn't do anything.
He'd thought long and hard about just taking the boy; he'd seen that poor kid beat to hell so many times it made him sick. But Edna had already called the cops on them twice, and that was just when Steven ran to their house for a few hours to get away from her.
He couldn't go to jail for the boy. He had to make sure his own kids were taken care of. And if he went to jail, there would be nowhere that was safe for the poor kid.
"Red, we have to do something," Kitty pleaded. "She's going to kill him. You seen those burns; we can't just leave him there."
Red stood angrily. "What the hell else am I supposed to do, Kitty? You want me to call CPS again? Just so that you can hear one more time that they won't do a damn thing about it? You want me to kidnap him, so we can both go to jail, and our kids can end up in foster care? Huh? Is that what you want, Kitty? Because that's all I can do!" He yelled, storming off upstairs, leaving his wife crying on the couch.
Eric heard his father yelling, heard his parents bedroom door slam shut. He glanced over at Kelso and Donna, who were sitting morosely on the couch.
"So, uh... I guess Hyde went home, huh?" Kelso asked slowly.
Eric nodded as he flopped down onto the couch in between them. "Yeah. His mom called today, told him to get home."
"And he just went," Donna said in disbelief. "No arguing with her, nothing. He just told her he'd be home in twenty minutes, and ran out the door."
"I don't get it; why does he keep goin' back?" Eric asked, shaking his head. "It doesn't make sense."
"He has to go back, at least until he tells somebody what Edna's doing to him," Donna explained. "Otherwise, nobody can do anything, and he has to go back. If your parents try to keep him, it's kidnapping."
"So why doesn't he say anything?" Eric demanded angrily. "Why the... hell does he keep goin' back if all he has to do is say what's goin' on?"
Donna looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "I don't know, Eric. I just... I just don't know."
Hyde had given up on trying to fall asleep. He knew it was getting pretty late, since it'd been dark for at least four or five hours. Edna was out in the living room, calling everyone she could think of apparently, trying to find out where Curt was. Every once in awhile, Hyde would hear her cuss, before slamming the phone back into the cradle.
She had thrown a jug of water into him. Granted, she'd practically bounced the damn thing off his head, and only a quick movement had saved him from being unconscious, even though he'd knocked his shoulder out of socket to avoid the jug. It was a good thing his shoulder had been dislocated so many times; it was relatively easy to pop it back into socket now.
He really hoped Curt didn't come home any time soon. They'd have one of their screaming matches, maybe even hit each other a bit. Whoever didn't storm out -or pass out from the booze and drugs- would then go into Hyde's room, and beat on him, like he was some sort of freakin' prize or something. But as long as Curt stayed gone for the night, Edna wouldn't bother Hyde until she came in to let him out Sunday night or Monday morning for school.
He sighed as he lit on of his cigarettes. To think he'd passed up on a pot roast and cookies for this.
Edna always dangled that over his head. Called him a stupid little shit every time he came back, laughing that laugh of hers.
He wasn't really sure why he kept coming back. It was just automatic, instinctual. It never crossed his mind to defy her, to stay away, to not come home, until it was too late for him to leave.
Flicking his cigarette as far away from him as he could -no need to get covered in ashes since he was stuck like that for at least another day- he slowly drifted away, into his stories.
He wrote. Often. Nobody else knew about it, not even Donna. He wrote stories of different people, in different places, doing different things. Some were happy. Most were sad. Some involved life, others death. Some were humorous, while still others were downright morbid.
He'd started it when he was eight. Certain times, he could just shut down, and completely disappear into the world he'd created, spinning stories together like a weaver with a rug. Later, when Edna let him out, he'd put the ideas, the thoughts, and the stories to paper.
