"Concentrate, Number Six," his father said, voice ringing slightly through the thick glass behind which he stood, safe. "Breathe"
When he exhaled, his body erupted with the monster contained inside, tendrils shooting outwards with his breath. He gasped. The tentacles tensed. His vision dimmed and, when he blinked, went red. He felt his pulse quicken and his knees weaken, and he ground his foot down into the hard tile to steady himself and the monster. He felt the tentacles, wound like springs, ready to leap and lash. He felt the unrestrained energy coiled up inside them.
One long tendril swept across the window separating him from the rest of the world and left a row of white scars on the previously untarnished glass. The glass chipped.
Number Six was four years old, and had enough power in him to cut notches into the thick glass wall.
And he panicked, and his father was shouting, "Concentrate, calm down," but he couldn't not with whatever was inside him bursting out, unrestrained.
The first feeling that filled him was horror at his own power, and evidently, he wasn't the only one.
The Horror.
The Horror was the name he was given.
The Horror; Number Six of the first inaugural class of the Umbrella Academy, monstrous being, weapon of mass destruction, dread-inducing and terrifying.
The Horror; scared of himself and the monster he could become, a boy.
His father smiled, adjusted his monocle, nodded.
Mom hummed cheerfully, trilling, notes fluttering, as she wrung the blood out of his uniform, scrubbing at the slivers of dried blood that hardened the white fabric, the sharp odour of bleach barely covering the pungent, metallic one of the blood. The clear water in the washtub turned murky with soap and blood. Number Six wondered how the porcelain of the washtub had remained unchipped, unstained over all those years.
She hummed as she stood him, thirteen years old at the time, in the shower and helped him lather the white froth of the soap with the rusty red. He watched the dark clay-coloured foam swirl down the drain, leaving streaks, as she rubbed his face with a washcloth that would soon be replaced as it stained.
The smell of blood made him feel sick, and the soap and bleach could only do so much about it.
Number Six lined up with his siblings for dinner, the water having taken away almost all physical evidence of the blood but not the lingering, crawling, sticking feeling on his skin. He picked at the dark crescents of dried blood that lined his fingernails that no amount of scrubbing on Mom's part could have taken out.
Beside him, his siblings squirmed and grinned at their father's praise and their success.
When Number Five disappeared, their father attributed it to his losing control of his power and, with a steely glint in his eye, warned them all to prevent the same thing from happening.
Numbers One through Four nodded in understanding. Said their "Yes sir"s in confident voices.
Number Six couldn't, not when the Eldritch being that exploded from inside him had never known control. Not when the ripping tentacles rose with the panic inside him and tore at the flesh of others with a mind of its own.
"Do you understand?" their father said again, hard eyes resting on Number Six in particular.
Number Six had never tried to hold back The Horror.
He had seen Number Four, frightened of the ghosts that haunted him the same way Number Six was frightened of The Horror, being locked in the mausoleum, screaming and pleading. He had seen his bloodshot eyes and shaking hands, collapsing onto the floor once he emerged again, heaving with silent sobs.
No one had dared move until their father turned his back and left, and then they all dropped to their knees around their brother.
He had felt Number Four's tears soaking through his shoulder, felt his trembling against him.
He had noticed the silence he fell into for days on end afterwards.
He had seen Number Two, glaring, hands twitching, heard him mumbling, "You'll never go back there. I'll kill him, I swear I will," even though they all knew the threats were empty.
He had even seen Number Seven's face, piteous, bewildered, her eyes shifting to their father and back to Number Four, backing away slightly.
Number Six knew what holding back The Horror might inflict upon him.
He wondered if any of them had yet begun to realize how they were like rats in a lab, enduring the punishments and experiments but knowing nothing else.
"Ben!"
Ben was what Mom had christened him, smiling, sighing with contentment, nodding. Ben, coming from the Hebrew word meaning "son".
Ben was the name that gave him a separate identity from The Horror.
The Horror was the one that did the killing and the saving, that leapt out during missions and became drenched in blood.
Ben was the one who had dance parties with Klaus in the middle of the night. Ben was the one who reprogramed Allison's teddy bear to say "Luther smells Dad's underwear", per Diego's request. Ben was the one who lay down in the dirt in the courtyard, basking in the sun, much to the delight and amusement of everyone else.
Ben was the human, and The Horror was the monster.
And right now, Ben was what his siblings were calling, screaming, when he lay choking on his own blood and knowing he wouldn't get up.
"Ben!"
He felt his arm.
Someone's nails were digging into his arm, the pain sharp and fresh against the dull, pulsing, unbearable pounding inside the rest of his body. He wondered if blood was drawn, remembered the crust of blood dried under his own nails that never seemed to wash out for years.
There were hot tears falling on him, like warm rain, although through his own blurred tears he couldn't see who they belonged to. The salt of the tears stung wherever they touched. He flinched. Even the littlest movement turned the pain into hot, roaring fire.
"Ben!"
He felt multiple hands squeezing his own, jostling him as if expecting him to get up. His hand felt numb with cold and pain. He tried to tell them to stop, to tell them it hurt, and felt his lungs fill with blood again. He swallowed, coughing, and felt the burning in his chest.
Someone grabbed him by the shoulders and tried to pull him up, and his body screamed and he tried to pull himself back down.
He couldn't move. He could only breathe shaky breaths that hurt like hell, jaw clenched and body limp.
At least, he thought, The Horror couldn't come back this way.
It has been years, and the smell of blood still made him feel sick. He wished Mom could come with the bleach and the washtub and the soap and clean it all off.
"Ben!"
His breathing eased, and slowed.
His pain ebbed away, and so did his life.
Only Vanya, little Number Seven, cried at Ben's funeral, trembling, inhaling, tears leaving tracks down her cheeks.
The others had gone numb and stood silent, hollow gazes fixed to the tombstone, a myriad of emotions on their blank faces.
Regret.
Fear.
Guilt.
Grieving.
Ben stood with them, filled the space in the horseshoe where they stood in the courtyard, umbrellas up and heads down.
He help up a hand and the rain fell through him, hit the ground as if nothing had happened.
His father was speaking. Lecturing. Typical, Ben thought sourly, that he would be lecturing them all during a funeral.
e heard the words "lost in battle," and then he wasn't listening.
This, he was thinking as he looked at the cold stone eyes of the statue which was erected, was what he had died as.
The Horror.
The Horror was the name he was given.
The Horror; Number Six of the first inaugural class of the Umbrella Academy, monstrous being, weapon of mass destruction, dread-inducing and terrifying.
The Horror; scared of himself and the monster he could become, a boy.
I was studying the factor theorem and thinking about Ben Hargreeves (because who doesn't love to make themselves horribly sad?) when inspiration struck, so obviously instead of continuing to be productive and finish my math, then write, I whipped out my phone, opened the Notes app, and began writing. Then I logged into the account that I made a while ago and never used, solely because my friend read it and it made her sad.
Please please please leave a review! Scream at me or point out typos for all I care! Attention will make me feel validated!