Hey everyone. I apologize for my superlate update. I've been working really hard on my first every Naruto fanfic, and its had my complete and utter attention for the past few weeks. I just got carried away and forgot all about this. Thanks for tolerating this and reading my fanfic. I'll update again very soon. Thank all you wonderful reviewers for reviewing and waiting so patiently me me to get my lazyass up and write this freaking chapter. Disclaimer: I don't own beyblades. Thanks to all the reviewers out there who like my fanfic!
WARNING: This chapter contains semi-gory descriptions and death. If you cannot handle this, then please don't read it. You will still be able to pick up off from chapter 7. You have been warned!!
Chapter 6. Reliving a Nightmare
Tyson pushed the answer button on his cell phone with a trembling finger and held it up to his right ear.
"Tyson..." a creepy voice oozed over the speaker.
He dropped the phone as though it had burned him. He stared at the small, brightly lit screen on the floor, breathing coming in sharp, sudden gasps. Fear burned a hole in his chest, sped up his heart so loudly he could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. Somehow he could still hear the tinny sound of laughter that floated up to him. Slowly, he picked up the phone and gripped it tightly in his hand.
"What do you want..." Tyson said, cutting off his sentence before he could say "dad". He couldn't bring himself to belief that the dispicable man on the telephone line was his father.
"You know what I want, Tyson. Meet me at the bridge in thirty minutes, or that blonde-haired friend of yours is going to take a little trip with me. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
The man on the line laughed as he heard his son's sharp intake of breath.
"You...were watching us?!" Tyson started to yell, but then remembered that it was nearly nine-o-clock and the others would be settling themselves in for the night.
"30 minutes, Tyson..." his father let his voice trail down to an ominous whisper.
There was heavy breathing on the other end of the line, a click, and then silence. The midnight-haired teen shivered and closed his eyes, trying to force the images out of his head. He could still the reak of booze on his father's breath...could still feel the sharp point of his boot digging in under his ribcage...the taste of blood...the look in his father's eyes...
What Tyson feared the most was not his father's alcoholic rages or the pain that accompanied it, but instead it was the safety of his friends. 'Max...Rei...Kai...Grandpa...You all are my friends. I can't let you get hurt. I will find a way to get out of this mess.' he thought.
The round digital clock on the nightstand next to his bed displayed 8:53 p.m in sharp, green numbers. That meant he had until roughly 9: 20 to reach the bridge near the park. He didn't want to think about the consequences if he was late. He knew what his father was like. He knew the enormity of the secrets he kept inside him, hidden to all of his team mates. Even his own grandfather didn't know half the things Tyson locked away inside him.
His father, Michael, became an alcoholic after his mother lost her third child when Tyson was six, a little girl named Alexis. Drinking washed away the pain of the loss, but anger took its place instead. He blamed his wife, Helena, for the mishap. After he drank, which rapidly deteriorated from once a week to every night, he acted violently towards both Tyson and his wife.
The only one who was ever spared from the agonizing punches, the sharp words, and the non-stop negative criticism was his older son, Hiro, whom often blatantly ignored the accusations of his six-year-old brother and dismissed them as things thought up by his imagination.
The four years that followed this became a living nightmare for Tyson and his mother. Helena rarely went out in public, barricading herself inside the house instead, because she knew that leaving only seemed to provoke her husband even more than her desperate tears.
She tended to Tyson's cuts and bruises in the wee hours of the morning after Michael would finally pass out in their room. Only too often would he cry out in pain as she dabbed another bit of Neosporin onto a nasty slash drawn by the jagged edge of a broken beer bottle. It hurt his mother's soul to see her little boy so grave and solemn all the time. At school, his teachers all considered him to be a brilliant child with deep cerulean eyes that seemed to possess an abnormal amount of understanding.
Tyson isolated himself, though not intentionally. In his six-year-old mind, he associated that talking with someone a lot made that someone important to him, and that the person would end up getting hurt like his mother, who was also an important person.
He didn't want to eat in a big hallway crowded full of other kids, both younger and older. He much preferred out-doors, where he wasn't trapped by loud noises and walls. Instead, Tyson would sneak outside and hide in one of the slide tunnels to eat the lunch his mother lovingly made him each day.
In those days, whether it was sunny, raining, or cold, he could pretend, even if it were just for a few hours that his life was okay and that he was normal. That was, of course, before his mother decided to leave.
Memory...3rd person a POV.
A thin, blue-haired boy wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a dirty red t-shirt grew frightened the odd stillness of the house as he searched for his mother.
"Mommy? Mommy, where are you?" his small voice rang through the empty rooms.
He checked his room first, and then the kitchen and laundry room. He found nothing. Tyson gathered his courage and approached the door that led to his parents' room. Normally the door would be locked because he was forbidden to enter, no matter what problem he had. He swallowed down his fear and pushed the door open.
His mouth opened to scream, but it caught in his throat and sank down into his stomach in an ice-cold bucket of water. He took one breath, held it, and slowly moved towards his mother. Something didn't look right.
Why was there a rope around around her neck and why was it tied to the ceiling fan? Why was her skin blue? Why did her tongue protrude grotesquely out of her mouth like the slimy, red slugs that Tyson used to poke at with a stick in late spring? Why was her delicate neck twisted back at such an ugly position? And why...god...why wasn't she moving?!
"Mom..." his voice came out shaky and no higher than a whisper.
He reached out with a trembling hand and touched his mother's dead body. Gasping, he pulled back. The skin...the skin was so cold...Suddenly, her neck fell and her slightly bloated face was looking directly at Tyson. Her dull, blue eyes bored lifelessly into Tyson's own.
This time a shrill scream ripped itself from his throat, so raw and loud he thought his mouth had torn open. His mother's face kalidiscoped in his vision and then everything turned black...
End Memory...
Tyson was only ten years old when his mother committed suicide. He later found the note his mother had written for him in the few minutes before she took her life, and though he was unable to fully understand the meaning of the barely legible writing, he kept it safely hidden away from his brother and father.
The funeral was days later, and the painful memories that followed were pushed to the back of Tyson's mind and draped with a black cloth so that even he had trouble rememebering them...not that he actually wanted to remember watching his mother's corpse dangling from a rope.
Tyson shook his head, snapping himself out of a daze, and glanced once more at the clock. '9:15' he thought. 'Shit. What the hell did I do, zoning out like that!'
He locked his bedroom door, shoved his cell phone into his back pocket, climbed hastily out of his window, and took off at a full-speed dash towards his destination.
When he reached the bridge, he scanned quickly for his father. There was no one in sight. He panted heavily, bent over and placed his hands on his knees, letting the tension drain from his body.
"Tsk tsk, Tyson. You're two minutes late. Well then, I'll have to teach you how to be more punctual. Guess this means I'll get to have twice as much fun with you, Tyson. Just like old times, buddy. Just me and you." his father appeared from above, limber form jumping easily to the ground from his spot on the bridge.
Tyson shot upwards, blue eyes filled with a mixture of panic and absolute terror. He knew the sadistic meaning behind the "friendly talk" his father used. He tried to swallow, but didn't succeed. The memories were rushing back to him...memories of his mother laying naked on the floor with blood pooling around her legs...memories of the times his father would come into his room late at night to snuggle...memories of the times his father made him take a shower with him...the pain... 'Oh God no...no...please, no...no...'
"NO!" he shouted out loud, without meaning to.
A deadly gleam came into his father's midnight blue eyes. The last thing Tyson saw before his vision went dark was the pure white imprint of his father's smile.
Alright. I'll admit it. If there are two things I don't know in Beyblades, it is the names of Tyson's parents. I went ahead and made those up, so just bear with me, please. I also want to apologize for this chapter. I had no idea it was going to be this dark and so...creepy... And whats worse is that the next chapter will most likely be even worse. I'll try not to write any more chapters after this next one. I can hardly believe I wrote this chapter. Ehh...whats wrong with me? This is just way too much. Again, I am sorry for the late update.