"Now that's rude, isn't it? Leaving without saying anything to us? I thought we taught you better than that, Mikey." Opening and closing his mouth like a fish starved of water, Dash couldn't move, couldn't breath, trapped with his hitching breath as the voice his father boomed over the looming silence. Trapped in the air was the rush of blood in his ears, choking back the suffocating urge to run, but the boy knew that would only make things worse.
Much, much worse.
He'd have to come back home that evening to take in his father's wrath, multiplied tenfold.
It wasn't worth it.
Besides...he'd earned it.
Of course, his father was still staring at him, eyes burning into him, and with a strike of horror, he realized that he had looked away from him, his lips moving on their own.
What was he even doing?
But his father smiled, but there was nothing kind there, nothing holding any degree of warmth as far as the boy could tell, not so long as he stood there, stupidly, blinking in a gaping silence the older man had little trouble filling when he couldn't, but that didn't please Dash anymore than the empty grin itself, his words churning with something deep, disquieting, as the boy squirmed from across the room.
'You just can't help yourself, can you?'
"And not responding when someone is talking to you, let alone at least look at the person? Now where did all of this come from, hm? Surely you don't think that's okay to do, right? You can't think it's okay to be this rude, and to your father no less. Just who do you think you are, hmm" Allen, clicking his tongue as if scolding a small child, leaned against the doorway of the small bedroom, appearing to wait patiently, the question seeming so innocent, so unassuming, like another parent gently scolding their child, and in a way, his father had been doing that too, right?
Reminding him that he should do better, be better, yet he always fell short, far shorter than his father's expectations.
And now was no different.
That he should have known better.
That his father shouldn't have to remind him of something so simple in the first place, so, the boy considered with a heavy heart...
...
...whether he responded or not, the result would be the same, wouldn't it?
He could try to say what he thought would be the right thing, he really could. He could try his best, but...but that didn't mean it would work.
It was always so difficult to tell, what to say to recover from his failures, but what hadn't changed was the feeling of unbridled fear, so deep and engrossing that even attempting to speak was fruitless, accepting that even if he did manage to scrounge together a few things to say in his defense, it wouldn't have matter anyway. As if bricks had been set on his chest, his throat squeezed and sealed shut; faintly, he could hear the swish of a liquid, and immediately he knew that his father had his bottle, not that it surprised him.
There was never a moment that he could, in recent memory, honestly say that he had his father without alcohol; strangely enough, it was more normal to see him with it than without it, you know?
But it was even stranger to think that others didn't think the same way?
Kwan's Dad never did, at least, in the few times that he had been over their house.
And neither did Star's...or Dale's, as far as he could tell, though Dale's did occasionally drink, but not as often as his own.
Yet...it wasn't weird, still?
Maybe his Dad just liked it a lot, or he needed it.
He didn't really know.
All he knew was that life became harder when he did, when he drank.
And that he was just trying to distract himself from what he knew was coming, but that was pointless, too.
Right?
But standing here, saying nothing, shaking like the little bitch that his father said that he was would only wear on the older man's patience more, so with a trembling voice, he spoke, cringing as it cracked and sputtered past his dry lips.
"S-sorry, sorry, sir. I was just...I have to go to school, and I didn't want to bother you, and it was early, but I messed up and my leg-," Through the word vomit, the boy was trying to make sense of his own story, stumbling over every other word as he tried his hardest to articulate himself, but the crash of glass near his head halted his thoughts without anymore movement needing to made by the older man, caused by the clenched fist of the other, having clearly thrown it though his hand was still, steady despite having drank.
The air was thicker than glue, like molasses in his lungs as the boy resisted the urge to let budding tears fall.
In his mind, he made a quick note to say nothing else.
It would only make things worse.
"You know how I feel about excuses. You did something bad, so just own up to it. I hate when you try to cover up for your own fuck-ups, boy. You know that, Mikey, you know that." Stepping forward, beginning his trek from across the trailer to close the gap between them, the older man noticed the boy stiffen as he came closer. Placing a heavy, calloused hand upon the boy's shoulder, pulling him to turn around, something the former didn't attempt to resist, though there an unmistakable flinch that racked the boy's rather thin frame under his grip.
However, his eyes couldn't bear to look up, to meet those empty pits that were sure to greet him.
Black, empty holes that held every fear that he could muster in his mind.
So he chose to focus on his dirty white shoes instead, like buds of snow against the murky carpet, his burning eyes snapping shut as he tried his best to silence the growing inky dark that had begun collecting his gut, the shaking the throttled his body beneath his father's grip, but it wasn't working.
It never worked.
It never would.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't silence his terror.
That familiar nausea, that siphoning black that made him feel rooted to the ground like an immovable tree was all too familiar, and yet the boy couldn't help the dizzying discomfort as his father clicked his teeth again.
He was growing impatient, and Dash was no closer to knowing the answer. At least, not the one that his Dad wanted.
But he had to say something.
He had to break his silence because not doing might be worse.
Maybe he would luck up and say the right thing, but he'd learned long ago that getting his hopes up wasn't in his best interest.
Things sort of had a weird way of going the exact opposite way than he had wanted them to.
Drawing in a shaky breath, the boy went to speak but couldn't find his voice, a meager whisper in the desperate silence of the early morning that was quickly snuffed with uneasy precision.
...
He tried again, mumbling softly, so softly that he couldn't even hear himself.
...
He had to try harder, but it wouldn't come.
...
When his father's face, falling into an agitated scowl, the boy felt his body visibly shrink.
Not good enough.
He knew it wasn't good enough.
The growing tightness of his father's grip on his shoulder was beginning to hurt, it hurt really, really badly, but the boy didn't dare look up.
'Please don't, Dad. I'm sorry, I didn't...I didn't mean it. I promise.', The boy couldn't help but think, but knew that no one could hear him, just like only he could hear the voices.
Words only he could hear.
His father was scowling, scowling at his silence, his disappoint, as he watched him mess up over and over again.
Over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.
Forever and always, the cycle continues.
Maybe one day he'd learn.
Distantly, the clock ticks sang, and vaguely, his mind remembered what he ought to be doing, where he should have been, that is, if he hadn't been such a screw-up, that he could have been at school if he wasn't so stupid and careless in the first place.
If he weren't such an idiot.
A fucking dumb-ass.
'A fuck-up.'
'Stupid.'
'Retard.'
And he couldn't disagree with them.
All of it was true.
Every bit of it.
'Already late, and it's only day one. Of course I couldn't even manage to do the bare minimum. Of course, how could I? I couldn't even do that.' There was no surprise there, just cold, idle acceptance as turmoil turned and writhed in every portion of his mind, his eyes still firmly planted on the ground despite the ever-growing pressure of the hand upon his shoulder, or the treble of his father's voice growing through the haze of rushing blood. It was the only thing he could make sense, sounds, sensations, voices, blending and merging until there was only noise.
Screaming, screaming, screaming...inside his head.
Screaming, screaming, screaming...from his father.
Even the tv was screaming.
Everyone was yelling at him.
Louder and louder as he felt his father's hulking body tower over him, burning holes into his skull, and pressure begin to burn and build, then all at once, it was delivered as the first punch landed on his face, and even he was surprised to hear his own voice curve and bend with chorus of agony that plagued his hearing.
The world flickered white, then red, as it was sent just over his eye, landing on his eye brow as pain radiated along the side of his face.
He could see his father's own face, twisted with something like anger, maybe, but for some reason, it was hard to tell.
It just wasn't...making sense.
Nothing was making sense.
He'd made him mad again.
That's all he could make sense of.
Then the second punch came.
Then the third.
...
Then another.
...
And another.
...
...
...
When he was younger, he would sometimes count them, the times his father, or mother when she wanted to, punched him.
Count how many it took until he wasn't angry anymore, until she grew bored.
Count how many it took for him to forgive him, for him to feel that what he had done wrong had been made right, for her to love him again.
Sometimes it was ten.
Others fifteen.
Most times more.
Sometimes it was too many for him to count, more than what his young mind could make it to before losing his place, blacking out...or both.
Other times, through the fog, he could just make out what he was saying. Through the anger, there were words, feelings, emotions, that were hard to see otherwise.
This time was no different.
And it was familiar.
"Look at what you made me do-...,"
Punch
"This is your fault-...,"
Punch
"You did this-...,"
Dash thought about it, and the older man was...right.
He was always why this happened, why he got what he deserved, and the voices agreed.
As they usually did.
Above him, Allen left his vision for a moment before returning with a bottle, taking a swig before taking a swift kick to boy's abdomen, expression muddled with irritation as he screamed at him to get up, profanities and illicit speak littering his words, but the message was clear, even as he felt his stomach heave dangerous from the shock of his father's foot to his torso.
"Get up! Come on, get the fuck up! Next time, when someone asks you something, you'll think about what you say. Don't make me repeat myself, boy." Almost mechanically, he turned onto his side, though not without a bit of a struggle as his body almost seemed to scream at him as well, the dull, burning ache of new bruises making it difficult to move. Wordlessly, the boy, knees horridly close buckling beneath his meager weight, came to a kneel, but felt his breath hitch as his arm was snatched up by that same, calloused hand, it responding to his slow movements with an impatient throttle that seemed to make his body sing with pressing agony.
God, he was going to be sick.
"Did you hear me? Answer back when someone says something to you; now what are you supposed to say, or do you need reminding?" The man could feel his mouth pulling up into a crooked grin as he watched Dash string his thoughts together, piece-by-piece, until from his lips tumbled the softest whisper, the youth placing little trust in his voice as he went to respond.
"Y-yes...s-s-sir...I'm s-sorry...sir. I'm sorry...," Shoved away into the door of the trailer, Dash was stock still, blistering blue eyes plastered on the carpet, stiff, unblinking, for fear of the wetness that crept ever deeper in his eyes.
Fine.
This was fine.
It was all his stupid, stupid fault.
All his fault.
The sound of a cabinets opening and closing, and quiet footfalls padding from the back room, the boy didn't chance a look up, only just noticing the droplets of blood on the carpet and the coppery stench of the liquid that dripped from his eyebrow.
Funny how he hadn't noticed that before, the boy almost joked, though he hurried to use his shoe to scrub in the offending stain, cupping his face with his hand in the same motion, trying his best to ignore the terrible pain that had settled deep in his bones.
Not bothering to look at the clock, Dash tried to speak over the noise of his father's screaming, a small woman in his peripheral view making no move to acknowledge the boy as she sauntered by, silent and undisturbed by the noise.
He had half a mind to speak to her, to greet her, but the words just wouldn't come.
Instead, he was back at the table, plunging one dirty paper towel after another in a feeble attempt to plug the leaking of his face, dark red blood flowing in torrents upon his hand and the murky surface of the table.
He could hear their voices in the background, arguing, but this didn't bother him so much.
It wasn't so out of the ordinary, after all.
That's what parents are supposed to do.
"You stupid, crackhead bitch! Where the fuck did you put my cigarettes?!" Without a word, the woman paused, looking down as if to consider her words, before returning to her shuffling gait, dirty needles in hand, appearing as though she hadn't even noticed he had said anything at all. Making her way to the small couch in the corner opposite of Dash's sleeping spot, she flopped down, cracking open a small pouch of blackened liquid, and chancing it, Dash looked up, watching her eyes grow wide with excitement until a swift hand burned it all away, that hand his father's swift, smacking it out of her hands as he towered over her the same way he had towered over him.
He did that a lot.
The thud of the needle to the carpet and the bag on its side sent the woman to the floor after it, scrambling to salvage what little of it she could as Allen watched her...seething.
"No, no! No, no, no, no, no, no; I don't have anymore after this, and I need this right now. Oh my god, please tell me it's okay." Scooping the toxic substance back into the bag, and with syringe in hand, the woman beamed once she could see that it was, mostly, fine.
"And I need my fuckin' cigarettes. Where the hell are they?!" Grasping her by her hair, Allen pulled her up, the woman twisting around, eyes desperately plastered on her possessions.
"They're...they're in the, uh, cabinet. Above the fridge, I think. Yeah, I think they're there!" Shoving her away, he went to investigate it, grunting with satisfaction when the green package met his fingertips, ignoring the fumbling woman at his feet.
Pulling out a cigarette and going to light it, Allen spotted Dash, only just getting the chance to attempt reapplying the makeup, shaking hands nervously spreading thin sheets of foundation along his marred features.
It was a poor job, a terrible job, he knew, spotting a few patches that could have used a bit more attention, but the worst of the bruises were, thankfully, hidden underneath the heavy layers that caked his face. All he could manage was little more than a fill-in of what he'd already done, looking dejectedly at the now mostly empty cartons of makeup.
What was he supposed to do about tomorrow?
'And who can you blame for that, huh?'
'You deserve it, you know.'
'Stopping whining!'
'You're such a little bitch!'
They were right.
If he'd just done better, not made so much noise, not woken Dad up, then maybe this wouldn't have happened.
'That's right. Everything is because of you!'
'You!'
'You!'
'It is my fault. It was me. Always...always me-,' Stopping abruptly, Dash dropped the brush, his arm caught in his father's grip as the older man's hand laid upon his shoulder, stroking slowly though his body could not be seen, leaning upon his back. Unmoved, he could feel his teeth unconsciously grind against each other, listening as the older man whispered in his ear, much closer than he had initially known him to be to his head.
"Don't you think you should be getting out of here, hm? As much as I love to see you, sitting there as pretty as you are," The boy still remained still as a wet object, smelling heavily of tobacco and liquor, lined the rim of his ear,"...we can't have you miss school, can we?" The older man's hand traveled down his chest before leading back up to his chin, and his father leaned forward, pecking his cheek just a bit too long before leaving his side, and stepping back.
Dash didn't move, didn't breath, realizing with a sudden jolt that he had been holding his breath the entire time.
Again.
Releasing a shaky, shuddering sigh between his teeth, ones he hadn't even realized that he had been grinding the entire time, he didn't dare to look back, standing up and grabbing his bag and easing toward the door, only stopping to try to still the trembling quake of his hand before grasping the knob and opening the door, leaving the trailer.
He could still feel his father's eyes on his back.
