Scenes from the Aftermath of a Train Wreck, a wolfenstein series fanfic

He flexes in the mirror, curling his small arms to push the muscles to the surface. He's seen his father do it once and like all little boys he wants to be like his father.

At least he thinks he does.

Afterall his father is smart and strong. He says all sorts of smart sounding stuff and while BJ doesn't quite understand it, he's not going to argue with him.

He also doesn't understand the look that crosses his mother's eyes when he says that. Whatever it is passes like a cloud across the sun. here and gone. She smiles, smoothing his hair away from his face. Indulging him in the way mother's do. In the way his father hates. But that is for another time. Right now he wants to be strong like his dad. Right now he would give anything for his father to look at him with shining pride.

His father gave him a choice.

Either climb down the well and get the pocket watch or else he won't like to see what would happen next. Which meant he was climbing down that rope and into the dark well.

Their family has always been poor. His clothing threadbare, old shirts made from old sheets that barely kept him warm during the cooler nights of winter. He had long since outgrown his boots and without any money for replacements he walks barefoot. Even when he makes the trek down the road to the school. In some ways he is glad that he isn't alone in his situation. Other kids in his class are just as barefoot as he is, some even worse. Of course this doesn't stop some of the better off kids from making that an issue. Asserting that they were better than the others because at least they wore shoes. That at least their shirts weren't made from threadbare, moth eaten sheets. Better but not. The distinction clear now but then it stung.

Here in the dimly lit well, old rain water sloshing around his knees, feet sinking into the mud and debris that slicked the stone floor. Here in the fetid scent of hard water, algae climbing the wall in green spirals turned a yellow gold flare by the oil lamp his father lowered after him. Here he searches. Long past the sun's descent from fiery orb to orange sliver on the horizon. Long past the muffled sounds of his mother calling for him with concern and his father telling her to stop. He searches in the dark, oil lamp lighting his way. Looking back now he finds it ironic that while he had found the golden watch, he never could find his father's respect.

Billie was beautiful. Beautiful in the way he thinks his mother is. Her dark brown hair so different from his. Tight curls spiralling out into a halo around her head. The white bow in her hair holding some back. He likes the way their skin contrasts when they are side by side catching frogs. When she would grab his hand and lead him off on an adventure. Deep smooth brown against his pale often sunburned skin. He liked the way she smiled. That she had a small gap between her front teeth. The way her eyes crinkled from laughing or the way her nose scrunched when he'd show her something gross. He liked her voice. He liked her.

As crushes go this was his first.

He had secretly asked his mother what he should do if he liked someone who wasn't like them. He by this time had already learned some of the lessons his father taught. The ones that involved fists instead of words. He still searched for that pride, illusive as it was, but he was starting to think that maybe his father wasn't as smart as he sounded. His mother just told him to be himself. Be the boy he wants to be. He thinks he understands what she is saying but he asks Billie about it later. She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. He guesses maybe this is what his mother meant.

His father told him that if he likes a girl, BJ was smart enough to not mention she was an "other" as his father would call them, then he should be a man about it. Whatever that means. So he shows Billie the rat he trapped in a bucket of water. "A man has killing instinct," his father had told him when he gave him the BB gun. So he'll show her his and she'll like him more. Maybe give him another kiss.

She didn't.

She pleaded with him to let it go. It was drowning! Can't you see! But men were supposed to be hard and tough, right…? He was supposed to enjoy this but all he felt was sick at the tears staining her face.

His first real kiss was with Billie under an oak tree far from the gaze of his house. He liked the way that his stomach fluttered from it. A swooping feeling he's only felt when he finds himself cornered by his father. He likes this version better than that. As brief as it was, he carried that lightness with him. It made him feel bold. Made him feel strong. He whispered about it to Bessie at night, her furry head laying against chest as he told her that one day he was going to marry Billie. Use the ring his mother had shown him. He was certain in that way all children were that his mother would love her. The issues and problems of the adult world did not factor into this childhood fantasy.

Those dreams only lasted for so long.

BJ had made the mistake. He had kissed Billie again beside the house. He had just shown her the carving he made on the tree in his yard. He made sure to carve it in a spot that was covered by vines. Out of sight to his father's increasingly hostile gaze. Both children thought of it like a secret kept between them. One of many they had passed between each other over the years. He told her of his dream to marry her one day and then they'd have all sorts of adventures together. His father had caught them, sending Billie fleeing into the woods.

That was the end of everything.

BJ was a quiet kid who grew into a quiet and withdrawn teenager. He had a small group of friends though none would ever match Billie. He never saw her again but sometimes he would find notes for him tied to the thin vine. Simple notes that let him know she was ok. That she thought of him. Sometimes a joke or two. He kept them stashed in the lining of his thin mattress. They stopped when he turned 13 and he wondered if maybe she got tired of him not leaving any notes for her.

In reality, his father had gathered some men from a nearby ranch. Promises of beer a worthy payment for taking on the arduous task of threatening a family.

Summer bleeds into fall then into winter. Time passing on in its steady way regardless of the things in its path. He thinks about her less now though she will still be a significant part of his life. One of the foundations he will base all future relationships on. Building upon on it with all the mistakes, triumphs he will discover. He wishes her well wherever she is. He hopes that she was able to survive the chaos of their current world.

When he looks in the mirror, he doesn't flex. He doesn't posture or preen. He stares blankly at his reflection, eyes scanning his features. He knows he is handsome having been told many times by the ones around him. His mother as she fusses with his now short hair having eschewed the longer hair he favored as a child. From a blushing girl in his math class who passed him a note to meet after school where she presses her body into his emboldened by the seclusion of the dark underside of the bleachers. By a boy with false confidence, though BJ can see the shyness underneath, as they showered after wrestling. They linger in that hallowed hall of tribute to man's athleticism, exploring each other with a gentle firmness careful of the bruises on each other.

Yes, he knows he is handsome but he doesn't enjoy it.

His reflection like this house brings nothing but quiet misery. More and more he sees his father in his reflection. In the silent anger that sets his shoulders and lowers his brow. He doesn't react to things the way his father does. With thinly controlled violence or biding his time to get back at them later for their "slight." BJ internalizes that anger, carrying it as he carries everything else in stoic silence waiting for a chance to let it bubble to the surface.

He relishes in the weight of his fist. In the way that it collides against the fabric, knuckles scraping across the hard material on the inside. He circles the punching bag, jabbing it again and again until his muscles burn. Until sweat pours down his body in rivers. He likes to imagine that all the words his father had ever said to him. All the anger and resentment he carried was what actually was seeping out of his pores. That when he stood under the gentle spray of the makeshift shower that he was performing an act of purification.

He would turn his face up into the spray of water, washing away the stinging in his eyes and the burn in his muscles. His mind is quiet and present. It is a ritual he will always perform until he can't anymore. When he would much rather carry the weight of his guilt and sins upon his ruined flesh than shed this armor. He will tell the one who makes him weak that he fears without it he will fall apart. That not even they would be able to pick up the tiny fragments he becomes. But he doesn't know what is to come. That there will be oceans of blood that no water will ever wash off.

He stands in the room that was once his. Memories both good and bad filling the quiet spaces, hiding in the darkened corners. His bag was already packed, sitting on the edge of his too small bed. It's said isn't it. The entirety of his life fitting into a small bag. His mother stands in the door frame silently watching him. Her hands clasped the sides of her apron in an attempt to keep from reaching out to him. To keep from stopping him and keeping him here. But he was a grown man now and he needed to go as much as it pained her to do so. He turns to her watching her with sad eyes. He memorized her face, the grey in her hair and wrinkles around her eyes.

He steps across the wooden floor to her, taking her hands in his. He doesn't promise that he will be back in one piece. That he will be ok. They both know that it would be a lie. But he does promise that one day he will be back to see her. To ask for the ring she had promised. She smiles at that through her tears.

This will be the last time.

The cicadas scream in the trees as he stands in front of his old home. He didn't expect the memories to flood back to him so suddenly at the mere sight of it. Despite the years it still smells the same. The scent of water and mud. The dry scent of summer air smelling like a freshly lit fire. He closes his eyes and breathes in. Feels the heat of the sun on his skin and imagines its warmth on the parts that the armor covers. He wonders if Anya would like Texas. If she would ever want to live here after it was over. If he would somehow be here too with her. He hopes so.

One day he will tell her all about this home. About the people both good and bad that flood his dreams from his past. He feels like he shouldn't be so hopeful, that he should remember that he had planned to distance himself from her. That he was dying and there was nothing they could do about it. But something about her makes him want- need- for more.

When he destroys the last spidery claw of the Ausmerzer digging into the wooden frames of the house for a brief moment he thinks of the future. Of Anya and his children, smiling and happy in front of him. She mouths his name, hands reaching out to him to draw him into her arms. He can almost feel her body's warmth before the freefall pulls him away.

He wished-