A/N: As always, your reviews are most appreciated and make me happy. And that, my friends, is why reviewing is key.
Asphyxia
Chapter Six
Eggs. Scrambled. Yellow, fluffy, decorated with ground black pepper that was strong enough to make Connor's nose run. Orange orange juice in a tall glass, burnt toast that felt coarse between his fingers.
"Connor?"
The boy looked up at his dad's gentle tone.
"Are you going to play or are you going to eat?"
Play, Connor thought, scraping his toast against the edge of his plate. It was easier to play, to fiddle around with his food instead of putting it in his mouth, chewing, and swallowing. It was easier to poke at the happy mounds of egg with his fork, rather than allowing it to sustain his body.
He couldn't really feel the empty pit in his stomach, anyway. It was as tight as the double knots in his shoelaces.
"I'm not hungry, I guess."
But his shoes were dirty and Connor was barefoot and Dad looked worried.
"Connor..."
And the boy fought the urge, as he always did, to scoot his chair away as Angel took the seat next to him.
"You haven't eaten in days."
"I was sick yesterday," Connor replied, scooting his egg around on his plate. It made a terrible sound, as metal scratching glass usually does. A screeching sound. Like a shriek, or a scream. Of something inhuman. His game was rudely interrupted when the vampire snatched the utensil away. "Hey!"
"Forks," the vampire said slowly, "are made for eating."
That's silly, Connor thought, looking at the multi-pronged utensil. It would puncture a lung.
He balked when he felt it against his lips, gently prying his mouth open.
"Dad!" he spluttered angrily, jerking his face away.
"You need to eat, Connor." And the vampire sighed as his son turned his head around, slouched, crossed his arms, rolled his eyes, sighed, jiggled his leg, and finally stood up. "Connor, please."
"No," Connor answered back, emphatically shaking his brown mane. Dad didn't understand because Dad never understood and Father never understood, either. It was the little things, like telling him to eat, that made Connor not want to eat. That made Connor want to run. That made Connor want to kill.
"Connor, c'mon...just a few eggs?" And Connor tightly clenched his fists, and ground his blunt, human teeth.
"I don't want any goddamned eggs." Because eggs were patronizing, and they stared at him as yellow and fluffy and sunny as the morning turning noon; the sun rising high in the sky to rudely scintillate through the trees and disrupt Connor's shade.
Eggs were for happy people who had light and Connor didn't have light because Connor had skin and light can't penetrate the skin, Connor knew.
It's dark in here...
"Connor." Dad was doing that voice now. That one that he used when he was done trying to be "pal"; the one where Dad tried to be Father, instead.
"No," the boy said again, this time his voice low and deadly. Because Dad couldn't make Connor; because Dad couldn't take Connor. Connor was strong and Dad was weak and that was the way it was. Or the way it should have been.
Because Connor was a good boy, not wicked. He was Father's good boy. He was.
He had been.
"Sit. Down."
That's how it started and this is how it ended:
...get out of my house.
The glass shattered then and the scrambled eggs scrambled across the floor, dirtying themselves with the filth Connor's shoes tracked in.
Connor wasn't sorry. Connor would never be sorry. Never.
"Deserved it," the boy murmured to himself, scratching a sharp, dirty nail over a soft finger. "Deserved it." You. You. You. You still deserved it. Would always deserve it. Your bloodshot eyes would stare at the ceiling at night, shifting in the darkness, flooded blue, and you would hear their screams and your stomach would clench and you'd vomit, and you'd guzzle it down and only stop when the bottle was empty. "You, Dad. You." Connor said softly as Angel wiped his finger clean of blood. "You."
"Shh, Son."
"Don't want any eggs."
"I know."
"It's hot," Connor complained as he trembled from a sudden chill and Dad wrapped him in his arms and Connor let him. Because it was hot, it had been hot and demons had breathed fire; large, flickering, dangerous flames that shot through their ugly mugs. They had traipsed, grand and royal like kings through the land until Connor came along and chopped them to pieces.
He had been so little, so short and malnourished and he looked up at them and the knot in his stomach had grown tighter and everytime he pulled, the knot grew tighter around his wrists, too. The tree bark scraped against his little back and he cried little, pitiful, child tears, but Father never came.
"It's bleeding, Dad," he croaked now. "It hurts."
Dad didn't know what Connor was talking about because Dad never seemed to know. Dad didn't know where Connor came from.
But Dad took the finger still trickling with blood and kissed it.
"What does it taste like?" the boy asked because Dad drank lots of blood. Animal, human, demon...what was Connor?
"Home," the vampire replied and Connor shook some more.
"Why did you kiss it?"
"Because it makes it feel better." But it hadn't, Connor thought. Dad's kisses didn't heal Connor's wounds. "It's an age-old thing, son. I believe the very unmanly phrase would be 'kiss it better'."
Dad kissed Connor's head then.
"Oh," Connor said quietly, still wondering why age-old things never worked like they should.
TBC...
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