Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from the breakfast club
John wiped the sweat on his forehead with the back of his ungloved hand. It was amazing to him that in the cold April air, which usually would be accompanied with at least three layers of clothing, he was able to unzip the whole upper part of his work uniform, having nothing but a wife-beater to insulate him, and he was still hot.
"Hey, Anne Frank, boss man wants to talk to you." Mark stated, receiving glares from another worker that John had to assume was either Jewish, or felt deep compassion for someone who was Jewish, because every time Mark opened his mouth and let a Jew-joke out, the same man looked like he wanted to slit his throat. John was waiting for the day that Mark got his stupid ass shot.
"Fuck." John said under his breath. His fucking shower had given him problems starting up again that fucking morning, and it had made him thirteen minutes late to work. He had figured, at the time of clocking in, that it wasn't that big of a deal. After all, it was his first offense, and there were men who were twenty minutes late daily. He couldn't get fired over a fucking shower; he needed that job.
John obediently made his regretful pace to his boss's office. He was told to close the door and take a seat on one of the slightly tattered leather seats. This demand ordered another "fuck" to quietly escape from John's lips. If it were going to be a quick chat, his boss would say what was on his mind and let it be that, no sit down needed. He was definitely getting the axe.
"First off, John, I wanted to congratulate you on your excellent work. You're doing a phenomenal job for this being your first experience in the work place. You have a natural talent with cars, and you are an expert at doing things with your hands. I'm very happy you decided to join my work force. You're probably the only one of these assholes I actually like." His boss explained, saying more with his deep Boston voice than John had heard from him the whole time he worked there.
"But?" John asked, knowing his boss would never call someone into his office, and waste valuable work time, just to tell him that he was doing an excelling at his position. John did, however, fully appreciate it. The only other person to call him talented was his shop teacher, and this fact aside, if his boss liked him so much, he was doubtful he'd be fired for being late. Maybe just receive a stern talking to.
"But nothing. I wanted you to know because it's not often I get workers who aren't shit. Now, onto business," his boss said, pausing for a moment to find the right words and making John's heart pause with him, "John, do you live at home with your parents?" He asked, bringing his heart to a full out stop all together. Why would he think to bring up his home? What did home have to do with anything work related? Unless, it had to do with taxes…
John slowly nodded his head, swallowing hard but trying to maintain his cool at the same time. There was no way his boss could have suspected anything. Unless, of course, that fucking idiot Mark had showed up to work drunk again, which he was notorious for doing, and blabbed John's fucking home life to anyone with fucking ears.
"Alright, I figured that much. So you care to tell me how you got all those bruises?" His boss asked, watching awkwardly as John's head shot up. John's boss wasn't the type of person who specifically gave a shit about people, so he had no idea how to approach a sensitive situation. All of this was making him slightly uneasy, but he couldn't have one of the only workers he liked going home and getting the shit beat out of him without doing something about it.
"Yeah, I," John started before clearing his throat, at a loss for words for once in his life, "got into a fight the other day." He said quickly, hoping to God his boss would buy something as generic as that. He felt like such a fucking idiot. All his life he had been careful to wear any amount of clothing necessary to hide his home life. He'd done so well at keeping it all a secret for so long, then as soon as he got the opportunity, he waltzed around like a fucking moron in fucking short sleeved shirts, lifting the bottom of it to wipe his face and fully exposing his collection of abdominal scars and bruising, and he could only imagine what the visible parts of his back looked like.
"Mm hm," his boss said, pausing for another uneasy moment, "you come here everyday and that back of yours looks different. Have you seen the ghetto in Boston John? I know what it looks like when someone has fresh bruises and old bruises, and, not to mention, the back is a pretty interesting place to injure by accident. Are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me?" He asked, watching as John shook his head but not taking his eyes off him after, still demanding more.
"It wasn't injured by accident," John started, "I was in a fight. They meant it, just the same as I meant to do what I did to them. Coming from the ghetto, you should know fights are common," he explained, trailing off to see if his boss looked like he was actually buying it. All John could concentrate on was the obnoxious beating sound of his own heart.
"Alright. If you say so. But just so's you know, I saw all kinds of things growing up, and I understand police don't treat us all equally, so I'm giving you this key to the shop. There's a spare office in the back with a coach in it, feel free to stay there anytime you feel you need to. It's not much, but it's okay for a night to crash." His boss said, handing him a key and officially marking himself in the book of the few people who made any impact on John's life. Hell, he fucking got the front page.
"You look like fucking Michael Meyers with your uniform zipped up like that." Mark stated, not failing to take notice of John's new "safer" approach to keeping his home-life secret. It no longer mattered how hot he got on the job, he was going to cover any part of his body that had any significant bruising so to be careful not to raise suspicions from anyone else. Even in the summer. He couldn't afford another slip up.
Andrew had come to pick John up from work by surprise. He said that he, Brian, Allison, and Clair had all decided to get ice cream, and they wanted him to come along too. Mark got invited because John and himself already had prior engagements, though he honestly could have had no plans and he probably would still have been asked to go. Both Clair and Andrew liked Mark just as much as John did, despite the fact he was an obnoxious asshole most times.
"Fuck off. The fucking boss called me into his office to talk about my bruises. I don't have a fucking choice." John said, in a rather irritable mood. He couldn't do anything normally. He couldn't be a normal son, a normal fucking child, a normal student, now he couldn't even be a normal shop boy at work? It seemed that no matter where he was, his home life was tugging at his leg by the fabric of his pants.
The table suddenly got quiet as everyone thought the same thing. John rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet on the table to the dismay of their waitress. He didn't get what they all didn't understand about the fact that if he could just go to the cops, he would have done it already. He needed a hell of a lot of evidence before the cops were going to even listen to him,let alone examine his injuries and case.
"If you say so buddy, you still look like a fucking insane-o. Anyways, I wanted to tell you something really important," Mark said, waiting for John to enthusiastically ask what, but when this didn't happen, he continued all the same, "my old man got a new job. It pays double what the old one paid, so we're moving to this nice ass condo a few streets over in a month. Looks like we'll be getting out of the fucking ghetto together." He said, smiling at the thought of not having to worry about break-ins anymore, despite missing some of the thrills the ghetto life had to offer.
"You know, I've got good news too. This thing I made for the science fair, it's like, I took different samples of water of all different temperatures and exposed them to different amounts of light, then tested the dissolved oxygen using," Brian rambled, trailing off upon noticing that everyone at his table was suddenly playing with the assorted ice cream topping jars on the counter like a bunch of third graders with ADD, "Right. Well it made it to the finals. If I win I'll get, like, this huge science scholarship and I can go to almost any school I want. I won't even have to worry about my grade in shop." He said, his pale cheeks almost bright with color.
"That's great Brian! I'm really happy for you!" Clair said, giving out her friendliest smile, even though in actuality, she had only listened to the very last part of what Brian had said. This, however, was a reaction that Brian was used to whenever he started talking about biology. He honestly didn't mind if other people didn't care to listen to him go on about it; he just liked hearing himself talk intelligently. It reminded him of how smart he was.
"My mom's got a job as a secretary," Allison chimed in, wanting to be a part of the good news; "she's finally given up on being a model. She wants to get legal custody of me and then we're buying a house." She said, her smile brighter than the day Clair revamped her and got her noticed by probably every man in town. Her mom was finally being a mom, and she was going to finally receive the home life she deserved where she mattered to someone.
"I've, uh, got wrestling finals tomorrow night. After this I'll have time to think about if I really want to keep wrestling or not, you know? Before next year." Andrew said, overjoyed to not have to go to another fucking wrestling practice for at a least a few months. He'd be able to concentrate on the things that really mattered for once, like finding out who he was, hanging out with his friends, and for Allison.
"I'm so happy for all you guys! God, I can't believe everything is going so well." Clair said, her smile genuinely wider than it had been in a long time for anything not dealing with John. They'd all made it out of the storm that was their teenaged lives, and were going to enter adulthood in a year with their biggest demons already defeated. What more could anyone wish for?
"Yeah, what about you?" Andrew asked, noting her particularly cheerful mood. She had good news, he knew it, everyone did, but Clair was the type of person who didn't reveal things about her life until she was asked first. He assumed this was because she had people surrounding her all through life, all asking questions and trying to find out about herself. She never had a reason to purposely bring herself up, because she was always the center of attention anyways.
"My parents are finally going to therapy. I knocked some sense into them the other night, and they called up, like, the best therapist they could find. My brother says that if they stick to it, he'll start coming around again." She said, smile getting wider yet. She couldn't believe that she, all by herself, had done something to improve her life. She'd made a difference in her own life, and it didn't take John or anyone else in the breakfast club to help her like previous times.
Things seemed to be looking up for everyone. It was like nothing could bring anyone in the breakfast club down anymore, no matter who they were.
Soft flakes of snow fell sporadically on the window of Andrew's bronco as he dropped everyone off at their homes. He remembered Allison saying something about the abnormal snowing in April being a sign. She'd said that she had expected something big to happen soon, but he had disregarded her statement as her just being weird again. It was one of the things he loved about her, but he didn't wish to explore it any further than he already had.
"John, can I talk to you real quick before you guys leave? Alone…" Allison asked as she hopped out of Andrew's dad's truck. She was the very last stop before Andrew and John went home, and she had anxiously waited the whole car ride to make it back to her place so she could get a few words in with John without anyone else around to influence his response.
John sighed in dismay and rolled his eyes but obediently followed Allison's request. The two walked to her front door and stopped, starring at each other while Allison searched for her words. The last time she had taken part in a one on one chat with John, he'd gotten so pissed that he left her and somehow had gotten himself a concussion. She wasn't prepared to make that mistake twice.
"I know…I know it's hard for you to get out of your situation, I understand cops don't like you, but I wanted to give you this. It's a business card with the phone number of people you can call for help or even just advice. These are the people I called, so I know they're good. I just…can't stand to see you having no control over this." Allison said, watching John as he looked away from her and swallowed hard.
"Who said I don't have control over it? I got a job, don't I?" John asked, finally looking back to her as she smiled her head and quickly nodded, handing him the card anyways. She kept her eyes on him until she closed her front door and disappeared behind it, proving only weird to John.
"What was that all about?" Andrew asked as John got back in his car, slamming the door behind him and putting his feet up on the dashboard. He twisted the card in between his fingers and muttered the single word "nothing" quietly, not caring to bring his family life up for a second time that night.
"So, do you have work tomorrow?" Andrew asked, his voice a little higher. John laid his head back and nodded, not bothering to open his eyes. He knew exactly why Andrew wanted to know. He wanted him to go cheer him on at his fucking match, as if John Bender was going to be seen at a national gay fest.
"Oh." Andrew said, a little disappointed sounding. Out of everyone in the breakfast club, excluding Allison of course, Andrew was closest to John. He liked how John was the type of person who challenged other people to look at themselves and their lives, and truly change; and he didn't even realize he did it. He thought he was just being an asshole, when in actuality, if John were never at that detention, nobody in the breakfast club would have become friends with each other, and none of their lives would have changed.
"If it's any consolation, I wouldn't have gone to your molest-a-thon anyways," John said, cocking an eyebrow and turning his head the tiniest bit to see Andrew's reaction. To his amazement, the jock laughed. Normally when John would make fun of Andrew's sports, he'd become defensive or annoyed; this meant he had to have been glad wrestling was almost over.
"So you like it? You're job?" Andrew asked, changing the subject to something he felt might lift John's agitated spirits. If talking about the one thing John had in his life, aside from Clair, that made him truly happy didn't help, then the only other alternative would be to get him wasted.
"You have no idea Sporto. If I could fucking live there, I probably would." John said, thinking about how much simpler shop life was. At the shop, all the people around him listened to him as if he were the fucking manager. He demanded authority, and they all looked up to him for his talent and his ability to get with someone like Clair and have an actual relationship. At the shop, his boss didn't hit him, or burn him, or kick him. His boss actually gave a damn about him; his boss thought he was talented.
John Bender was a fucking prodigy at the shop.
"John, you get your no good fucking sorry ass in here!" Joe Bender called just as soon as he heard John walk into the house. From the way his voice echoed, John could tell that his father was in his room. This meant that he'd either found his booze or the fucking earring he'd already disposed of once, and he sounding fucking pissed.
John considered running back out the door. His father would never chase him down the streets, but truth be told, he was already ready to pass out from fatigue, and was prepared to just take his beating and get it over with so he could go to bed. After all, he'd gotten rid of his stash, so what residing in his room could his father have discovered that would have gotten him more than a hit in the face?
As soon as John entered his room, he was grabbed by the hair and whipped into his dresser. He touched the blood coming from his freshly bitten lip and looked at it for a moment on his hand, before slowly looking up to glare at his father. What the fuck was that?
"What the fuck is this you fucking asshole prick? You think you're fucking smart? Think I wouldn't fucking find this? I outta hang you by the fucking neck to the fucking tree in the front fucking yard!" Joe shouted as he ripped the business card that Allison had given John just a day before into halves and tossed both pieces at John, who lay frozen on the ground.
John's eyes widened. He was fucking dead. His father had to have thought that he had planned on calling the cops, and he was going to fucking kill him for it. After all, if he didn't, what was going to stop John from getting another card and picking up a phone? No, this was it, Joe Bender had told John long ago that if he ever contacted the authorities, he'd slit his fucking throat, and now he was going to do it.
John immediately darted for the window before being thrown back down to the ground. Suddenly, for reasons unexplainable, John's fear turned into sheer rage. He'd been getting the shit beat out of him since he could even fucking remember. He always did miserably in school because he was always too busy concentrating on his number one priority: making sure nobody knew what daddy did to him. He wasn't even going to fucking graduate. He was fucking sick of it, and now his fucking father was going to kill him, because he didn't want anyone to find out that he was doing something illegal? And when John never planned on using any of the information on the card anyways?
"Fuck you!" John shouted as he spit on his father's boot. He prepared himself to be kicked as hard as his father knew how to kick, but instead found Joe Bender looking down in an awkward angered shock. It wasn't often that John talked back to his father, and never had he shown enough disrespect to spit.
"Excuse me, you fucking sack of shit?" Joe asked, putting his hand behind his ear and turning them somewhat forward. For a moment, John considered making for the window again, but decided against it. Joe Bender wasn't about to let him go anywhere. He wasn't about to go to jail because his no good son got away. He was going to make sure he fucking killed him, and John wasn't going to let him. Allison was right, he just fucking let his father beat the shit out of him, and now was the moment where he had to man up and defend himself.
"Fuck. You." John said defiantly, in his signature threatening tone of voice as he tilted his head and gave the dirtiest glare he knew how to generate. As punishment for his response, he was kicked in the stomach so hard that he lost his breath. He lay on the floor gasping for air and spitting blood. He had known his father was going to be pissed at his statement, but fuck that hurt.
"You're fucking dead, you fucking little prick! All you ever were was fucking stupid ass trouble. I never even fucking wanted a fucking kid, you fucking no good god damned asshole!" Joe shouted as he sent repeated swift kicks into his son's stomach, holding one hand against the wall to keep his stance. He stopped after about seven and crouched down a little to get a look at John's face. He wanted to see every bit of agony he delivered to that fucking prick for even thinking that a fucking shit like himself could call the cops on him.
John, however, took this opportunity and a sudden splurge of energy to jump to his feet, punching his father in the nose hard enough to make it bleed on the way up. If he wasn't fucking dead before, he was fucking ten feet under now, but damn it had felt so good. It still did, as he caught his breath and watched streams of blood fall from the nose of the same man who had broken his very own nose at least once a year since he was fucking fourteen, and as he replayed the sickening snap it had made when he had done it in his head.
"You fucking bitch!" His father yelled, immediately tackling John to the ground. He held a stern grasp around John's neck, sitting on his chest and repeatedly beating his son's head against the ground, all the while keeping his hold on his neck shouting so loud that John couldn't even make out what he was saying.
John tried his hardest to pry his father's hands off of his neck, before quickly realizing it was getting him nowhere. He only had one ticket to surviving, otherwise he was going to suffocate, right on that fucking bedroom floor, before he ever got out of his shit-hole life, before he ever finished making his new future, before he ever made life work for himself.
John hurriedly reached in his pants pocket and pulled out his switchblade. He swiftly flicked it open and slammed the blade into his father's thigh, succeeding in getting free from his grasp as his father shouted long, agonizing wails of pain. The blood quickly came through the fabric of his jeans, making it darker than the man inside of them.
John scooted himself to the wall, holding his neck and gasping for air again, before realizing to himself what a stupid fucking thing he'd just done. He'd given his father a fucking knife. He quickly grabbed for it, but was caught by the wrist before he could even lay a finger on the handle.
Once again, his father shouted some inaudible slurred words, before pulling the blade from his knee and wielding it at John's neck. John instantly threw his head down, attempting to jump from the blade but instead receiving a long, deep, clean cut slash across his bicep.
The blood hastily made its way all the way to his fingers, and John began feeling dizzy. He looked up at the blurred image of his father before falling to the ground and pulling himself against his dresser. He screamed in agony as he held his bleeding arm and watched through watering eyes as his dad threw the blade to the side and made his way over, kicking John in the face once he did. He then took the dresser and knocked it over, hitting John in the head with the edge of it on its way down and making a stomach churning crunch.
John couldn't think of anything else to do but scream. By this point, he was too dizzy to even think about getting back up. He needed help, and he needed it fast. He hoped like hell that Andrew would hear him and forget everything he'd been told and just call the fucking cops, or even better yet, come over with his fucking gun, before John cursed to himself remember the fucking sport's fucking match.
"Shut the fuck up ya' little asshole!" John's father shouted as he kicked him again in the abdomen producing another un-natural crunching sound from his son's body. With every kick, John could feel his ribs taking full force of the blow, being strained to their limits against his organs. He spit up more blood and tried in vain to crawl away, but every movement made him feel like he was being ripped in half.
"Dad," John called quietly through a cracked voice, too dizzy to fully even realize what he was doing. He looked up at his father before receiving another blow to the face, this one hard enough to make his head snap back and bring him out of consciousness, as his father continued delivering his punishment all the same.
a/n: we've reached the climax :) (that's what she said) I changed the title of the story because, honestly, i made it when i was in 8th grade, and it was incredibly lame. like, i'm pretty sure i spat out the first thing that came to mind, and made that the title. I feel that this one is slightly less juvenile.
ghostwriter: it just occurred to me that your name sounds like the movie ghost rider lol. I feel a little slow now. I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter, and i hope you enjoyed this one just as much! thank you so much for the continued reviews!
nisashafield: thank you! that is like the biggest compliment you can give me! thank you so much for your review!
haleboppers: I'm glad :) and thank you for your review!