A/N: This entire chapter has been reworked.
In no way shape or form do I approve any form of abuse. Some events throughout this story are drawn on from personal experience.
Trigger Warning: Domestic abuse non-physical
Ch 01: It Begs the Question
Whap.
A newspaper slaps the coffee table, startling Rangiku awake.
"Wake up!" Her father's voice, loud and abrasive, rings in her ears. "Why're you sleeping when you know there's shit to be done around the house?!"
Bleary eyed and barely conscious, she lifts her head from the pile of books and papers. Within seconds adrenaline floods her nervous system, panic swelling its way to her vocal cords.
"I- I-didn't mean t—" She stammers.
"I don't care if you didn't mean to," her father barks. "Get your lazy ass up and go clean the fucking kitchen."
She knows trying to explain anything will be futile. Nothing she can say will ease her father's wrath. More than likely he brought his resentment of life out to the surface, agitated by the work of a dead-end job, to dole it out on her; a re-occurrence that will not be broken until she leaves his home. Whether to a place of her own, or if death comes quicker.
Mom will not be home until a few hours later.
She gets to her feet, quietly cleaning up the heap of books.
"Don't worry about that; just do what I told you."
So, she stops.
Beneath the curtain of strawberry blonde hair, she dares to look him in the eye. Her father was that of "lumberjack" appearance: average height, medium build, thick beard; but those beady brown eyes should never be stared directly into. Quickly she breaks eye contact and goes about finishing her afternoon chores.
The sound of his footsteps retreating to the bathroom, the door clunking shut, and muffled music was her signal he had lost interest in her. For now. Her mind, however, still rattles with fear of her father's next move. Will he yell at her more? Will he strip her down further of any expression of self? Will he find something—anything—to use as justification to continue the torment?
Her hands scrub the sponge against a plate, beneath the ream of plastic she can feel her nerves being frazzled. Her head shakes briefly to clear the fog of oppressive fear and panic. She stops washing briefly to lower herself like a cat stretching, inhaling deeply before exhaling longer.
"I just got to get through." She murmurs to herself. "Just a little while longer."
And the wicked will be no more, a part of her chirps in the back of her mind.
She frowns outwardly, finding no comfort in the scripture lingering.
The "wicked" will always be around. There will always be "good apples" and "bad apples."
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She sets aside her gloves, fishing the device out. A small smile creeps to her lips.
Where there are good and bad apples, there are also bruised apples.
You plan on coming over? :o I didn't see you after class. :|
There are two of these bruised apples Rangiku considers close friends: Rukia Kuchiki, and Ichigo Kurosaki. One could argue these bruised apples were no more than degenerates, bad influences, and not the best pick for company. Yet these bruised apples were her small support group. Potheads with wild tastes in music and each other. With them she could be free, find herself living in the moment. Living with no thought to consequences.
Her thumbs hesitate over the keys.
I don't think so, she replies after some calculating of her odds, Dad's pretty pissed off right now. I can check in a bit tho? Got church tonight (god help me lol), so maybe after?
She taps the side of her phone with her thumb anxiously. Time has a way of distorting itself. Seconds can appear as minutes, and the longer the span, the more agonizing its passing.
Totes! Keep me posted chica 3
She exhales softly, pocketing her phone. Rukia's support, despite knowing little of the inner-family dynamics Rangiku endures, always brought her some comfort. She takes note of the time, and heads back to the living room to clean up her books from the coffee table.
Her home is nothing extraordinary, nothing posh and pristine. Moreover, throughout the house it held an air of tension. That no matter how nice and lavishly decorated it could be, the walls held their share of secrets. Even still, all around her the furniture seem to be stuck in another time. Hand-me-down in appearance, undeniably passed over without a second look. Just like herself.
The sound of the front door opening pulls her from her thoughts, her mother's voice drifting in the air.
"Oh good, I see your father's home." She states in a tone Rangiku always struggles to understand. Disdain? Apprehension? A mix of the two?
Her mother sighs carefully, setting her keys and purse on the kitchen table. "Go get dressed, we leave in thirty minutes."
With an arm full of books and paper, Rangiku makes her way up the stairs; peering to the side to see each step she takes. Along the wall photos hang. Photos of her as a child when they first adopted her. Yet the small child in the photo appears foreign to her own eyes. Logic will have her believe the child is her, yet on a deeper emotional level, all she can see is a stranger.
No matter how many times she asks about herself as a child, it's as if she can never remember much, let alone the stories. She cannot say when her father's behavior became the way it has, or why even her mother seems to be a stranger to her, it has merely always been this way for as long as she can remember. She shrugs off the wary feeling bubbling up. No time to process, no time to question these things. There is only time for survival.
She lets herself drift into auto-pilot, momentarily turning off her thoughts. With ease she changes into Sunday Best attire, shoving down the disgusted feeling to wear such clothes. She may have a five foot seven-and-a-half-inch voluptuous frame, yet some part of her never grew out of being a "tomboy." She saunters to the bathroom, dreading the mirror.
She smooths out her skirt, consciously aware in front of her is her own reflection. Her eyes will traverse the pane of reflective metal, skittishly darting everywhere but her own eyes. She knows there's no luster, no life in them. She could never look upon herself for too long, a few seconds at best; any longer and the overwhelming feeling of being a stranger in her body flourishes. Only one question begs to be answered: Who is She?
With a shake of her head she dismisses the question without an answer, staring into the sink as she brushes her teeth. She grips the counter's edge, her heart racing as the feeling of watching herself rolls over her. Quickly she rises her mouth out, taking a moment to splash water on her face. It helps her return to the front, if just for a moment.
As she exits the bathroom, she can hear remnants of her parents locked in an argument. Most likely about her father being dragged along to the meeting. She sits at the top of the steps, her arms resting on her knees. Slowly a memory plays out in her mind, one she'll never remember what the context is; only the moments itself.
He was drinking scotch. Mom wasn't happy. There was bickering over something, finances most likely. Or religion. I was only six then, right? Dad was so angry. He never hit her, not once, ever. They didn't know I was there. But when they saw me, they quickly told me to go back to bed and not to worry. I still don't get it. Why do they fight so much? Aren't parents supposed to love one another?
"Rangiku, let's go!"
Her mother's voice snapped her back to reality. She brushed a hand under her eye. When did she start crying?
Service is nothing like in the movies. There's no rowdiness, or anyone speaking in tongues; no theatrics of any sort. Merely long-winded sermons and readings.
"I have no God, no Master." She whispers slowly to herself.
A pang of guilt rifles its way through. She feels blasphemous for admitting such a thing beneath God's roof. She reminds herself to not cave into the fear that God is an all-pervading being who can read her thoughts. Such a concept is there to thought control, nothing more.
How can anyone buy into this? She wonders quietly.
Of course, when life seems perpetually bleak and some of the Big Mystery of life goes unanswered, rational religious principles are accepted. Yet, even still, clergy members or church-goers have admitted to not knowing what they were talking about. Let alone, a full understanding of what God "wants from me."
Rangiku shifts uncomfortably as the thoughts begin to unfold.
These same individuals will go to work on Monday, cursing in their cars due to traffic. They will allow themselves to live vicariously through the mode of their choice; be it sex, drugs, or anything that is deemed "sinful" in over-indulgence. Yet, as Sunday comes, they will parade about in their finest clothes, presenting themselves as Saints.
She frowns slightly.
Moreover, the existence of God itself begs question—
"Just like with old radios, once you hear the Truth; it cannot be shut out."
Her eyes follow the Brother exiting the podium, an emotional conflict unfurling. Part of her agrees with his statement, and yet more of her feels threatened by the notion of religious teachings forcing conformity. For much of her life she day-dreamed during service, wondering about anything that was not religion. No matter how much, Mother especially, would love to see her dedicate her life to this branch of Christianity, Rangiku herself could not do so.
Every time she sat back to imagine wholehearted dedication; the fear of God became more real.
Wolves in sheep's clothing, apostates.
She flexes her fingers, uncrossing her legs only to cross them in the opposite direction. Anxiety gnaws happily on her brain.
Am I one of those?
She glances at her mother beside her, her eyes locking on her hand. She remembers momentarily the only time as a child her mother held her hand, and how it felt to have her mother's thumb brushing softly on her skin. Just as quick as the memory passes, another one blooms fierily in the back of her eyes: being told to sit on her hands for simply fidgeting in her seat.
At this she tears her gaze away and crawls farther inside herself. She listens passively to the sermon, processing nothing.
"Mom?" She gets to her feet gently at the end of the service.
"Yes?" Her mother gives her a two-fold look. The first being a sign of annoyance for interrupting her conversation with another Sister, and the second a half gesture of kindness.
"May I stay over at Rukia's?"
"Ask your father, dear. I'm sure he won't have an issue with it." Her mother smiles.
'Ask your father?' What am I? Twelve? Rangiku thinks bitterly. Of course, I have to ask him, he's 'head of house' and will probably say no.
She nods softly, grabbing up her books. She knew where to find him. He would be in his truck, a Marlboro hanging between his fingers out the window, waiting on his wife to shut her gob. He will make a comment that will show his mood.
She walks out the hall doors, her heels clicking softly on the pavement. The nighttime sky dawns overhead, a few stars visible through the haze of light. She approaches his truck, gnawing her lip.
"Dad?" She says, stopping at his window.
"Your mother still talking?" He sighs.
"Yes sir." She affirms.
"For Pete's sake." He curses, flicking his ashes. "Well, what do you want?"
50/50 chances.
She glances at him, taking a breath.
"Is it okay if I stay at Rukia's tonight?"
"That black haired girl?" He glances at her.
"Yeah." She nods, unsure of his tone. Disapproval of her friends? Or just reaffirmation of who he thinks she means?
"Why not?" He sighs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Just stay out of trouble."
"Thank you, Dad."
She walks around to the other side, climbing into the middle seat.
"Have her pick you up." He says, watching as his wife approaches, still in conversation with another Sister. "Hurry it up, woman!"
"I'm coming Danny, hold your horses!" Her mother calls back, giving the Sister a wry smile.
Rangiku watches her father tap his ashes in the ash tray, the smell wafting up. Secretly she doesn't mind it. It brought her comfort. She reaches for her phone in the center console. She composes a quick text to Rukia, instructing her to pick her up in about thirty minutes.
She sighs softly, relief lifting an unknown weight off her shoulders.
She steps through the door on her father's heels. Eager to enjoy a taste of freedom, she heads up the stairs swiftly. She peels off her heels and undresses. She grabs her sweats and a long shirt, throwing them towards a gym bag. She reaches under her bed for a slim lock box, switching in the code before popping it open. She triple checks that its contents had not been tampered with, before wrapping it in her sweats and shirt. She places the bundle in the gym bag.
"Music!" She gasps, reaching over to her desk.
She scrambles around the mess for her iPod and earbuds. Ichigo always had new music to introduce to her. She grabs it up, fishing around for the charger. She stuffs them in the bag as well, quickly switching into a black mid-riff top and ill-fitting jeans. She hops around for her shoes, swiping them up. Worn-out high-top Chucks.
"Rangiku!" Her mother calls up the stairs. "Rukia is here!"
"Coming!" She calls back. She mentally checks off her contents and grabs her wallet before heading down the stairs quickly.
"Coat, Rangiku." Her dad barks, his gaze immediately affirming his disapproval of her attire. She grabs her jacket hanging by the door, Rukia waiting on the doorstep.
"I'll call when I'm on my way home!" She says quickly, wasting no time to leave.
The door shuts behind her as she looks at Rukia. Rangiku quickly sizes her up. Oversized sweatshirt, torn black jeans, and sandals.
"We have quite a bit to discuss." She says softly to the smaller girl.
Rukia links her arm with hers, staring up at her.
"That we do." She agrees with a smile.
They head towards the Rust Bucket, Ichigo's affectionately named 1995 Plymouth Acclaim. Despite the fact the car showed no signs of issues, it is merely the age that made him consider the nickname. The passenger door swings open as the tall, lanky fellow in the driver seat opens it for his petite partner.
"Your chauffeur has arrived m'lady!" He crows happily.
"Knock it off," Rukia smiles wide towards him. She gives him a quick kiss. "or else."
Rangiku slips into the back seat, tossing her bag beside her.
"And where the fuck was you?" Ichigo addresses her teasingly. He puts the car in drive, speeding off, mindful of the fact Rangiku's father will be watching as he leaves.
"Had to be home early." She retorts, watching Ichigo flick his gaze between her and the road.
"Ahh." He says with a bob. "Pops wasn't giving you trouble, was he?"
Rangiku's muscles stiffen at the question, and her brain fires off potential responses.
"Not too much," She admits. Rukia reaches for the volume knob, cascading them all into a quiet moment; punctuated with the low hum of rock music.
"Matsui," She says gently. A warm feeling floods Rangiku. It was a term of endearment. "Tell us what happened?"
"I..." She starts, a nervous laugh escapes her. "I'd rather not."
"Okay." Ichigo sighs softly. "We'll respect that. You know we're here for you."
Violet eyes peer back at her from the passenger seat. Sincerity bleeds from them.
"Always, Matsui, always."
"Yeah, yeah." She says, letting a smile creep across her lips. "Can we please not talk about my life?"
In the dark she hears fumbling up front as her gaze shifts to observe the outside world passing them by. Beneath the passing street lights, she folds her hands in her lap. After a few minutes, quiet cursing under their breath, Ichigo crows happily as he sits at a stop light.
"Oi, Matsui, wanna get high?" He smiles widely in the rearview mirror.
Rangiku shifts to the middle seat.
"Uh, yeah." She laughs, reaching between the seats for the joint between Rukia's fingers.
The jet-black haired pixie thumbs up the volume, Ichigo howling without a care to the metal blasting around them. Every so often, Rangiku sees the spittle fly past his lip ring. She envies him.
"What have you done with me? You ruined everything. I bet you don't even see I want peace. Don't know where to start. I don't wanna feel like this. I'll cut out this heart, feed it to the pigs. Salvation!"*
The car halts into a parking space at a gas station, the metal music being cut short. They pile out, laughing and stumbling. Ichigo fluffs out his loose plaid flannel, a grey shirt adorned underneath. His dark green pants are torn at the knees. He kicks a pebble from underneath is flip flops, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Aye, yo, guys, what're we getting?" He asks coolly, his flip flops smacking the pavement.
"I dunno," Rukia looks to Rangiku. "Drinks maybe?"
"Oh yeah." She nods, sauntering after them. "Anyone else got cotton mouth like a bitch right now?"
As they enter the gas station, they split off to grab their snacks. Rangiku stays in tow with Rukia.
"Oh, yeah, Ichigo's meetin' up with dude later; that cool?" The short girl intentionally stops in front of Rangiku, causing her taller friend to collide into her.
"Christ," Rangiku curses with a smile. "Yeah that's cool."
She reaches over Rukia's head to a bag of chips. She can feel the violet eyes watching her.
"What Rukia?" She asks absent-minded, over analyzing the packaging.
"Dude wants to meet you, personally."
Rangiku looks to her friend bug-eyed.
"You're," She lowers her voice. "you're shitting me, right?"
"Nah Matsui," Ichigo chirps, staring between them. "She's not."
"Oh." She follows them to counter. "But why me? Did you tell them about me?"
"A little bit, but guy says he's got connects to you somehow." Ichigo explains. "You'll have to ask him yourself though."
They pay for their stuff and leave.
"It's my weed guy." Ichigo clarifies as they drive towards Rukia's place, leaning over to take a drag off a blunt held to his lips. He stifles a cough. "Known this dude almost as long as I've known you, Matsui."
"He's not a bad guy." Rukia pipes up. "Might look it, but it's just a front. Y'know? Like a business thing?"
Rangiku nods. "Totes normal. Everyone has a front."
Jus' mine is a bit fucked up, she thinks.
She sits back in her seat, eyes out the window again. She could tell she was high, details stuck out more to her when she was. Yet it was never that of the external world; it was her own internal world.
"Hey, Space Cadet," Rukia snaps her fingers a few times.
Rangiku jumps a bit, unaware that she zoned out.
"Here." A cigarette is handed back to her. "You look like you need that."
"Thanks." She takes it gently, followed by the awaiting lighter and lights it.
Another poor decision, a voice chirps in her head. She dismisses it like all the other noises she hears internally.
My life, she retorts back mentally, my choice.
She steps out the car, exhaling the last of smoke, and grinds the butt under her shoe.
"Freedom!" She grins. Rukia smiles wide as Ichigo swings around the front of the car, swamping Rangiku into a vicious grip.
"Gods!" He grins. "It's so good to see you Matsui~!"
She pats his back warmly. "You too, Ichigo."
"Now," He grins. "Let the party begin!"
She follows them, tossing her gym bag onto her shoulder.
"The hell would I be without you guys?!" She calls at their backs, watching Ichigo twist on his heel, backpedaling.
"You'd still be a straight-edge-prissy-lil-bitch!" He cackles. Rangiku tosses a piece of gravel at him.
"Would not!" She shakes her head, her strides catching up to them.
She knew he was right.
A/N: Chapter Two will hopefully be done by next Monday night (May 13th).
* The Ocean - Calymmian