If there were a color Dash that hated most, it was grey.

Stunning, ominous clouds twisted and swam overhead, dotting the old car with massive droplets that pelted and slid along the window, and the teen couldn't stand the noise, the look of it, the cold that grazed his skin.

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter, all along the metal box that made him want to curl away, to run, to do anything to make his head stop hurting, to make the endless stream of sound that radiated and bounced between his ears go silent, and in his efforts, he focused his attention on the lonely figures about the wet streets until, slowly but surely, the streets turned to paths, to underbrush, and in just moments, he knew that they were closer to home than he would have liked. The radio turned over static, recalling how long it had actually been since Dash had ridden in the car, and how long it had been since it had worked at all, and that didn't help at all, the teen lulled with an agitated click of his teeth, freezing at the steely, cold look in the rear-view mirror before he turned on his side, resigning to close his eyes for just a moment...

To feel the cool sprinkles of rain hit his skin through the window, left ajar as the car had aged too much for it to be closed.

To try to still his mind, to let him feel at ease for just...just a moment.

Just...one...moment...

...

...

...

...

And a slap against his face shook him back awake, his face erupting in flame as his father yanked him from the car, gripping him by the arm and dragging him along, ignoring the subtle limp as Mira paced along, appearing unbothered by the action as she had finally found her lighter, igniting the cigarette even as rain poured around her. The older man threw open the door to the trailer and pulled him inside, the boy struggling the keep up as his forearm screamed, screamed as red began to erupt from them, and even more so as he went to catch him, finding that he had been thrown to the murky carpet, his father stepping away into the other room.

Dash flinched at the sound of the creaking of the couch, though he didn't relax once he'd seen it was his mother, cigarette in hand as she fished out a new syringe from her bag, the tool caked in old blood and residue, and a small baggy of a black substance that looked more akin to liquid soot; he turned his head as she filled it, trying to close himself off from sound of his mother's relieved sigh as he could only guess that she'd shot up.

Again.

"I'm going to give you chance to try your luck explaining yourself about what the fuck you thought you were doing. Go one, try it." Allen had returned, bottle in hand, taking a long gulp of the poison as his face remained trained on Dash, beady, dark eyes watching, staring, and the boy could find no words to say, nowhere to move, as he tried his best to speak, but all he could manage was a desperate whimper, backing away until he felt his back press up against the door of the trailer, but his father didn't move, only taking another drink before he clicked his teeth.

"That it? That's what you have to say?..." In the same motion, he began to stand up, watching as the boy cried, thick, salty tears coming full force now, but he didn't stop.

He didn't stop as he set the bottle down and began to cross the room.

He didn't stop as the boy tried to make himself smaller, putting his hands over his head as he was pulled up by his hair.

No, he didn't stop.

Not when he punched him the first time.

Or the second.

Or the third.

Not when he split his lip, or when his face began to swell, throwing him to the ground, kicking him, stomping him, all the while the boy screaming, then whimpering, then...silence.

But he didn't stop.

No, he wasn't done yet.

Dash couldn't breathe, couldn't...hear.

Something on his face was bleeding, but he couldn't tell what, curled up on the floor as quiet, tiny worlds bubbled and tumbled from his lip, so soft that even he couldn't hear himself, but he knew it wouldn't make a difference.

No, it didn't.

As the crack of leather split his skin, he knew it wouldn't, trying his hardest to defend himself, but he was feeling faint...tired..

To say that he was in pain would have been a grave understatement, the boy twitching in warm agony as welts began to flare and swell along his skin, some bleeding as the edges of the leather sliced and cut him clean.

Over, and over, and over again.

Vaguely, just like many times before, his father was speaking, but not much of it came through his muffled ears, blood rushes silencing the air around him until all he could hear was his breathing and the slicing of the belt through the air, and then, slicing through his skin.

But he knew his father was screaming at him.

He was angry.

He deserved to be.

He deserved this.

Crack

He deserved this.

Crack

Every...last...bit of it.

A thud on the ground as his father's belt collided with it meant nothing as his body didn't move, holding his breath as his blood and breath still filled his ears, snuffing of Allen's words as the older man stood over him, cast in shadow, or, the boy pondered tiredly, was it because blood had gotten in his eye? He could feel it, a trickle that came just about his brow, folded, torn skin allowing the liquid to cloud his sight, though his eye was swollen, too.

It was when he felt his father force him to his feet that the boy felt his body jerk instinctively, an echo of pain rushing along his arms and torsos, and he looked down, and his bandages were dyed red, dark blood seeping through them.

That wasn't good.

- (Warning for molestation and non-consensual themes including graphic rape; please skip if disturbed) -

"Do you see what you made me do, huh? Look at what you made me do, you little shit!" Dragging him along to a hanging mirror in his parents' room, he could see himself, but only a bit, his remaining eye also swollen, but the visage of his bruises, his body, and marks didn't really move him.

Allen smiled, though; what was once anger seemed to melt into something else as he purred in his ear, snaking his hand down to Dash's belt buckle and zipper as they came undone in his grasp.

"...But I know how you can make it up to me. You know what I want, right? What I need...," Dash didn't speak,

He said nothing as tried to remain upright, feeling his body and mind begin to give in when he noticed his father's hand was touching him, stroking him. The boy could feel himself become hard, but he didn't attempt to resist.

That would only make things worse, his thoughts reminded him.

'You know you want him to, anyway.'

'Faggot.'

'This is all you're good for.'

'You're disgusting.'

Dash didn't respond to it, but he could hear them all the while.

He always could.

Buzzing like torrents, singing empty distortions even as his mind began to fog.

Through his swollen eye, he watched himself, watched as his father's rough hands explored him, touching him, spitting his hand as he watched his son's member swell.

Something in Dash felt...sick.

Wrong.

Wrong as he felt pressure building in his core, wrong as he tried to look away but Allen's hand kept him steady, wrong as he tried to close his eye, but his father would squeeze his member, reminding him, commanding him, to watch.

Watch as his body moved on its own in time with his father's movements, watch as he climaxed in his hand.

And he was forced to lick his own cum, gagging at the taste of it.

But the fuzziness was supposed to come.

Enveloping him in that sweet warmth.

Just as his father pushed him into the mirror, undressing as the boy watched it happen, Dash wished to feel light, airy.

But he could still hear him.

His grunts as he thrust, the slapping; Dash could feel his stomach turn at the thought, and tried to give into the bliss, the silence, the peace.

The stillness as his body went limp.

But something was...different.

Something that kept his mind there, staring a blood dripped down his thighs, as the thrusts became more frantic and the pain began to build, hot agony setting in his core as it went on, and on, and on.

God, he wished this would end.

But it didn't.

The noises, the feelings, didn't...stop.

Even when he tried to tune them out...

...

...

And he felt himself vomit, ejecting yellow bile onto the mirror, but his father didn't care too much.

"Ah, f-fuck!" Gripping his hips, the older man went stock still, releasing his seed in the worn, bruised cavity and pulled out, allowing the boy to fall down as he'd been the one thing that had been holding him up; his breaths came out in ragged gasps. The man stood there for a few moments as his member went soft, bending down to grab the boy's sweaty, matted locks to plant a harsh kiss upon his split lips, sopping up dribbles of saliva and blood that dripped from his mouth. It was long, harsh, Dash flinching as he could feel his father's tongue graze over the cut, but he was tired.

- (End of scene; you may continue from this point)-

So...tired.

Too tired to fight, too tired to cry; it was only when his father had forced him to his feet, ignoring the agonized cry of the teen, that he looked at himself again, but...it was odd.

Even now as his father spoke to him, yelled at him, dragged him along as he felt his thighs become sticky, he didn't feel anything.

Nothing as he was thrown into the corner, nothing as his mother stared at him.

Nothing as he laid there.

Nothing as the blood and semen dried.

Nothing as he laid there, staring at the wall, quaking with pain and fatigued as he tried to will himself to sleep if only to ease the agony that settled deep in his bones.

But his mind wouldn't give.

Just whispers and shouts, running like endless cycles in his head, over and over again, screaming at him to finish it.

Finish it.

How...how nice would that be, the boy thought with an empty, joyless chuckle, clutching his arms as the urge to rip his skin open grew.

'Go ahead, you know you want to.'

'You should do it.'

'Maybe it'll make you feel better.'

'Do it.'

'Why won't you just give in?!'

'But...I...I can't...I can't or I'll,-'

'Just kill yourself already.'

That felt so familiar, the boy thought, remembering vaguely a thought, a voice, saying that some time ago, back when he was bold enough to try.

'Kill...myself?' Dash repeated tiredly, making no move to act but he could feel it, the rush of his heart, the blur of excitement that buzzed in his hazy mind at the thought of it.

'Just die already. Go on, do it, Pussy.'

'You're too much of a coward to do it anyway.'

'You'll just fuck it up again.'

'You should just do the world a favor and just-'

"SHUT-UP! SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP!" His hand moved again, but this time, it collided with his own head, again and again as he threw his head into the ground, screaming bloody murder if only to silence the noise.

The noise!

So much noise!

'Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop! Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop! P-please, please just...just-,'

"If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to make you wish you had, boy! You're lucky you're a good fuck otherwise I'd come in there a make you!" He could hear, funneling from the other room with such vitriol that the boy became still, silent, despondent under the weight of his own misery, all the while his mother didn't mind it, her head and eyes lolling lazily as her high gave way to a comforting sigh, even as her son felt his head grow fuzzy and warm, a sticky pool of blood rushed along the floor from his head, staining his matted and sweaty hair red.

The impact from the ground made his head swim, but he welcomed it, try to grapple with his own thoughts as the voices swooned and twisted in knotted hate in his ears, but it didn't matter now.

They could say what they wanted, the boy mused as his vision swam and darkened.

They could be angry at him, the boy mused as his eyes began to close.

None of that mattered.

Not anymore as he fell unconscious.