Rewritten with help from (read as rewritten by) my wonderful beta, Brook. :forced smile: This must be how writers feel about their editors. :chanting: It improves my writing, it improves my writing, it improves.... Lol!
DISCLAIMER: If I owned it, my wallet would not be anorexic.
Suspicions
This morning, Harry's alarm sounded like a death march. Dum dum dum, go to the executioner and get your head chopped off. Ugh. It's too early for this, Harry mentally sighed. Nonetheless, he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and prepared for another school day. Going to school sounded... appealing. That was a first.
His dad would probably try to hit him again. Despite their differences, Harry loved his father. He would prefer to find a way around fighting. But there wasn't a way. So, a resolution formed, planting itself firmly in Harry's mind. He would fight back. Hitting Harry would come with a price from now on. He thought he could hold his own pretty well.
Trepidation crept into his heart though, as he made his way downstairs. Then a voice stopped him in his tracks. Harry was almost to the front door. "Harry!"
He slowly turned to face the voice's owner. "Yeah, Dad?" Every sense was focused now. Harry heard the slow tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hall; smelled the bacon and eggs Norman had deserted a minute or two ago; he saw a small moth that had somehow slipped in and was currently batting against the chandelier.
Fight or flight reaction, that's why I'm so alert now, thought Harry. I'm going to fight.
His dad held out the morning edition of the Daily Bugle. Harry's eyebrows went up from not one, but two surprises. First, his dad hadn't hit him. Second, they never read the Bugle. It was an unspoken rule. After all, that paper had a tendency to print lies, like the rag magazines at the checkout counters in grocery stores. 'Just print something stupid, people will read and believe it,' that seemed to be the Bugle's motto. Nonetheless, Harry took the paper from his father. As he did, Norman said smugly, "Those fools at Quest Aerospace came to their rewards."
Harry read the sensational headline: "Quest Labs Bombed!" His mind wandered. Did Dad do this? He has been violent lately... and-- No! I can't think like that! Dad might hit me, but he would never kill anyone. Would he? Harry focused again on the front page article of the newspaper he held. Reading a few more lines revealed the killer, to some degree. According to the paper there were no survivors. One security camera on the grounds, some distance from the building, had captured a few seconds of film on the killer though. The maniac was on a thin platform that hovered in the air, and he was dressed in some type of green armor. Kryptonite? Harry wondered jokingly, a slight smile coming to his lips at the thought of the criminal wearing a suit made of Superman's one weakness.
His smile faded. Whoever blew that place up was sick. How could anyone want to do something like that, much less go through with it? Disgusted, Harry tossed the paper on a sofa to his right. It slipped off the leather material, landing on the hardwood floor with a light thud. He walked toward the kitchen, leaving his father behind him. Not looking back, he said, "What that psycho did was gross."
A fist connected with Harry's back and he realized his mistake in turning his back on his father. The blow knocked him to the floor, and he landed on his face with a wet crack. Scrambling to his feet, Harry saw blood dripping from his nose. Instinctively, he spun around and punched his father in the jaw, as hard as he could. He hadn't wanted to hurt Norman, only to make him stop. But to his surprise, his father was completely unhurt. The only evidence of the punch was a stunned look on the elder Osborn's face. Taking advantage of his father's shock, Harry turned and ran from the house, grabbing his backpack at the door.
Not until he had started the car and driven halfway to the school did the weight of what he had done hit Harry. His stomach turned, threatening to spill contents it did not have. Oh my God. My father. I hit my father. Harry pulled over and stopped the car. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Does that make me as bad as him?
At the school
Peter glared at the clock on the wall as the bell announced the end of third period. He hadn't seen Harry all day. Pete had asked around a little too, worrying about his friend. No one else had seen him either. He just hadn't been at school.
Peter had worked hard the first three years of high school, so he only had three periods instead of the usual six. Two of those were just electives he had wanted to take. Now he was grateful he'd worked so hard. Those three periods he didn't have would be all the more chance to look for Harry.
Half an hour later
Peter was surprised he had found Harry so quickly. The little black Honda his friend was so fond of was parked on the side of the road, halfway between the high school and the Osborn mansion. Inside, Harry was asleep at the driver's seat, using the steering wheel as a pillow. Peter didn't notice the small smile of relief that snuck onto his face. Looks like Harry's okay, he thought. Now I just have to wake him up. He rapped lightly on the window. No response. So he banged on the top of the car, and Harry awoke. The curly-haired teen jumped so high his head almost hit the roof of the little car.
Blue eyes noticed the bruise and broken nose Harry had, and watched him breathe a sigh of relief when he realized where he was and who had wakened him. Harry unlocked the front passenger door to let the other teen in.
Once Peter was in the car, he unleashed a battery of questions on his friend.
"Whoa, slow down Pete..." Harry sighed. "... because I didn't feel well. I pulled over, and just kinda fell asleep. I have a broken nose because I was trying to get a box from behind my stuff on the top shelf in my room and the stuff fell down and hit me. And as for whether I'm okay, I'm feeling better now. Alright, Mother Hen?" he teased.
Inwardly, Peter wanted to sigh in relief. Harry' s okay. Nothing catastrophic happened. Har can take care of himself. Why was I worried in the first place? He answered his own question, and felt his relief slip away. I was worried because of the way Mr. Osborn acted the other day, and the way Harry acted around him. Of course the black eye didn't exactly squash my suspicions either. I wonder if Harry was lying about how he got those injuries. It wouldn't be the first time a victim of abuse lied about something like that. But how can I find out the truth? Hmm... I guess I'll have to let it go for now and just keep my eyes open and my spider-sense alert.
Love? Hate? Lemme know. Click the little purple button next to the box that says 'Submit Review.'
Wow, I just realized my habit of writing shorter chapters for my Smallville fic, 'Numb,' is rubbing off on 'Tangled.' Uh-oh. Don't throw rotting fruit and veggies! Plz!
