Back to school on Thursday. Humph. Anyway, a couple of people asked if this was going to be continued, and although I wasn't originally planning to, I changed my mind. I don't own Yugioh.
DOLLS
His steps were as slow as always; he never wanted to go to his house. That man would be there, and although there was a 50/50 chance that that man be asleep in front of the TV with an empty beer can falling out of his hand, he didn't want to take the chance. But he couldn't walk too slowly; that man would scold him for being late back. If that man was sober enough to be able to tell the time.
His eyes were bloodshot and downcast so no one saw the sadness. One hand was scrunched up in his pocket so no one saw the cut up knuckles. His bag was heavy on his shoulder and digging painfully into a large bruise. No one seemed to care as he walked down the street, past both strangers and familiar faces. But why should they care? He was just another teenage screw-up. No one seemed to notice when his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth were gritted, with nothing to do but walk and wonder whether he'd last the rest of the day. He could only dread what that man might do when he got back.
The closer he got to his destination, the more intense the fear of beatings grew. Upon reaching the stairs which led to his front door, he had to pause and take a deep breath. He couldn't go in there while he was panicking; it would just increase the chances of his legs getting broken. He had to be as calm as possible. At least that way he'd have a chance of getting to his room and locking the door before that man did. Taking the first step, it made a clang the way metal steps do. He found himself fearing for his life all over again, with the sense of dread making a horrible feeling in his stomach. There was nothing he could do to prepare himself for what he might have coming. Just take the stairs as quietly as he could, go inside as quietly as he could, and lock himself in his room as quietly as he could.
He put his key into the lock and turned it until it stopped, but he didn't push the door open. He just couldn't, however much he knew that he should and however much he knew that that man might have heard him unlock the door and would be making his way to the hallway just to greet him and welcome him home from school. He physically couldn't push the door open. His body wouldn't let him because in the back of his mind, he knew the potential consequences.
For a good five minutes he stood, holding the key in the door, trying to calm his breathing. He couldn't stand there forever. At one point or another, he'd have to go inside, and there'd be nothing he could do to escape except run as fast as he could and hope that man was drunk enough to stumble. He had to go in. Squeezing his eyes shut and hitting himself on the head briefly, he pushed the door.
Upon opening his eyes again, he was surprised to see a lifeless hallway.
Nothing except bottles and cans littering the floor. That man must've been watching TV, or with any luck he was asleep. Wherever he was, Joey certainly wasn't going to waste this opportunity to go without getting hit. He shut the door behind him quietly, and made his way down the hallway to peer into the living room. That man wasn't on the sofa either. He figured that he must've been in the kitchen getting another drink. It was a rare occurrence that that man didn't notice him coming back, but whenever it did occur it was like rain after a drought. He didn't stop to ponder; he just legged it down the other hallway to his room and rapidly turned the key to make sure the door was locked.
Joey was safe up until the moment he turned around and found himself face to face with that man, and there had never been a time when he'd felt so sick.
The horrible mixture of shock and fear caused him to gasp seconds before a fist came sharply into contact with his stomach. His legs gave way beneath him and he fell to the floor, choking, desperately trying to replace the air which had been knocked out of his lungs. He wasn't quick enough. The man's foot had caught the side of his nose with a sickening crack before he had managed even half a mouthful of air and the force of the kick made his head shoot back into the wooden door. The impact created splinters.
Joey knew he needed to move. If he stayed in the small space between that man and the locked door, he'd be beaten unconscious. There would be no escaping the strikes to come, and he'd have to go to school the next day covered in nasty looking cuts and bruises and patches of raw skin, making up an obscure but believable story as to their origin. On the other hand, however, there wasn't any time to move. Not with the blood pouring from his nose and the difficulty he was having with opening his eyes and the extent to which his hands and arms wouldn't stop shaking. There was no way he could move as quickly as he needed to in that state. Blow after blow, kick after kick, they were just coming too fast for him to do anything but shift enough to change his expression to match the pain.
The man was snarling. "You ungrateful shit. Who do you think you are, huh? I'll tell you who you are, you're scum. Cheap, pathetic, filthy scum. I wish I'd never had a son."
He continued, but Joey didn't hear what he was saying. This was partially because the repetitive attacks on his head had distracted him, but another thing was distracting him more – while the man was talking, he wasn't hitting him. If Joey was going to have any chance at getting out, this was it. He shifted onto his belly, and then forced himself onto his hands and knees. The man, fortunately for him, was too drunk to realize that his son's movement had a purpose. He glanced over the floor, looking for anything that might aid him, and for a moment the outlook was bleak. However, just as the man was finishing his little speech, Joey's eyes fell upon a white wire, and he remembered he lamp on his desk. It was his only hope. With all the strength and speed he could muster, he reached out to grab the wire and swung it in the direction of that man.
Joey couldn't believe his luck when he heard a cry of pain and saw that man fall to the floor with his legs together and his hands in his groin. He recovered enough to pull himself away from the corner he was in, and furiously searched for something a little more helpful. Drawers were pulled open and the contents glanced at, and clothes on the floor were flung aside in case anything was hiding beneath them. He began to panic when he heard groans coming from that man and he still couldn't find anything he could use. He went through the drawers again, this time taking a second or two to pay attention to what the contents were and whether they could be used in any way at all. It was when he heard the man beginning to get back up that he looked up at the window with wide eyes and prayed to whatever almighty powers that might exist to help him.
"You useless fuck! I swear to God I'll kill you!"
Time had run out. That man had recovered sufficiently, and there was nothing left to do except hope and pray. From the corner of his eye he saw the form of the furious man approaching him, his fist pulled back and his face a murderous image; he grabbed the closest object to him, swung it with all the fear, anger, sadness and hate he had towards the man and screamed.
His eyes were shut so he couldn't see the consequence, but he felt the impact of his object coming into contact with his target, heard the shatter of glass and the resulting thud of a person falling to the floor. He didn't want to look. As long as he didn't look, he wouldn't know what he'd done, and wouldn't have to think about it. He was afraid. But, at the same time, he had to know. Slowly he brought his arm back down to his side, still clutching the object like a lifeline. He was breathing so quickly and his heart was beating so fast and he found it in himself to open his eyes and survey the damage. The first thing he noticed was the motionless form of that man on the floor in front of him, and very soon afterward the shards of glass that not only covered a small area of the carpet but were also embedded in numerous places over the man's body. Then the blood; it streamed from a large wound in the man's head and was forming a small pool on the floor beside him, and was surrounding many of the pieces of glass stuck in his skin. But it wasn't only his blood. Joey's own blood, when he was able to look elsewhere, had produced a thin trail on the floor from the broken lamp to his desk as well as made a huge, dark red patch on his white door. When he looked down at himself he found that the front of his shirt had also been stained red during the confrontation.
He didn't look back up. He couldn't. The damage was too great for him, and however much he would try later to convince himself otherwise, deep down he knew that what he had done was irreversible. He could feel a lump in his throat, and he decided that he wanted to deal with this later instead of now. He considered going to sleep, or going for a walk, or making a sandwich, but all of those options would involve moving, and he didn't want to do that. So he just stood, stared at his feet and let his trembling hand drop the broken vodka bottle to the floor with a soft thud.
Well, yeah. I'm not quite sure how people react when they kill someone. There'll be one more part to this, I think. Review please.