AN: I own nothing, again. This chapter doesn't have much physical abuse, but it is a little frightening. Just thought I should warn you guys. I love hearing from you, and am so glad to see that there are some new readers! Not quite as many as I'd hoped, but that's okay. I love you guys and your long reviews and all of the great things you bring to the table. If there isn't anyone in your life right now who treats you like you are valuable, who makes you feel okay, I just want you to know that you ARE valuable and you DESERVE to feel okay. If things aren't okay for you right now, I promise they will be. Why? Because you deserve it. Read and review. Much love- message me if you need anything. xoxoxox
"L."
The voice calling his name was not soft, nor warm, nor inviting.
It was the voice of his mother.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to collect himself, and walked downstairs before she could yell for him again. He descended the stairs to find her waiting at the bottom, impatiently tapping a foot. Her eyes were cold and had all of the hard, flat clarity of a polished stone. His sister, Sayu, stood beside her, a beacon of sameness. It was eerie, really, how alike the two were. Not necessarily in physical appearance, just in personality. L thought it strange that a ten year old girl could have internalized every characteristic his mother displayed- the charming false façade, the vast capacity for manipulation and cruelty, the desire to be in control- but Sayu had certainly done it. She'd learned well, and quickly, too.
As L reached the bottom of the staircase, the twin glares of his mother and sister pierced him, the intensity of one magnified and doubled by the other.
L already wanted to cry, but he wouldn't. Only about a year and a half less of the constant fear, the shame, the ceaseless and unending pain of existing under the pressure his mother provided.
He drew strength from the thought that Light loved him, and thought him valuable. Thought him worthy of his time.
"Yes, mom- how was your day?"
What had he done wrong this time?
A slight tightening around the mouth and a quick, cat-like flick around the living and dining areas told L that she hadn't found anything yet, but that she was looking.
L felt his heartbeat quicken, and his palms, already slightly moist, began to perspire more intensely.
His sister threw him a quick, cool, "Hey, L," before flouncing over to the couch and turning on the TV, deftly maneuvering to the red Netflix welcome screen.
L stood, completely still, on the last stair. He grabbed and released the carpet clothing the stair rhythmically, as one would slide prayer beads between their fingers. His hands itched to rise to his mouth so he could chew on an already ragged thumbnail.
His mother sat her things on the dining room table gracefully, and strode into the kitchen, her heels making a slight clicking noise as she surveyed the room.
L watched, with breath stalled in his throat.
She continued to move, continued to evaluate the kitchen, running her hands over the counters, the top of the fridge, opening the cabinet doors to make sure everything was properly stacked.
It was. L was certain. He'd done that last night.
Then she turned towards the sink.
Holy fucking shit.
He'd forgotten to put the few dirty dishes they'd used for dinner the previous night into the dishwasher, and his mother had noticed at the same time he had.
Her heels stopped making their clicking sound. She'd ceased all movement- her body was stationary in front of the sink. Her arms and neck were tense.
On the TV the introductory strains of Gossip Girl were playing.
His mother slowly turned towards him. Her face was deceptively impassive- a frightening dream carved out of marble.
"L," she started. Her voice was even yet filled with venom. L began to breathe again. He'd known, after all, what was coming. What was always coming. What he always needed to be prepared for, regardless of how good he'd been or what he felt or what he needed. This was the one sure thing- the one constant- in his life.
'No,' he thought, 'now I have Light, too.'
"I remember specifically telling you that these dishes needed to be done before I got home."
She had not. She never did. Last night, she'd lain on the couch while he'd vacuumed, swept, and cooked dinner.
After that, he'd been allowed to begin on his homework.
That morning, they'd spoken exactly three words to each other before his mother and sister left- "get up" she'd said, to which he'd replied "okay"- and none of them, obviously, had been related to doing the dishes that had been left by his sister and mother. None of them.
And yet, here L was, nodding, swallowing down the rage and hate it invoked in him.
It would be infinitely worse if he didn't.
"Why didn't you do them, L? Hmm?"
Oh, perhaps for the same reason that this always happened- being saddled with an infinite amount of responsibilities he hadn't been told about generally meant things didn't get done. Or, maybe just because he needed a short break. It was hard to run a household alone, especially when the household didn't feel like home.
L was exhausted, and was tired of being exhausted. And afraid. And hurt. L was tired of feeling those things, too. They made him feel ancient and decrepit; a being made out of a thousand layers of crepe paper, each blow- physical, verbal, or psychological- ripping large chunks of him away and casting them into the wind, never to be recovered.
Not for the first time, L wondered what it would be like to want to come home; to feel completely safe, welcomed. Loved.
"Well, mom, I just forgot about it- I'm sorry. I'll handle it now, okay?"
L made to walk past his mother to get to the sink. She grabbed his arm roughly, hard enough to bruise.
"No you didn't. You didn't. I know you, L. You're a liar. A liar, L. You were being lazy; you didn't feel like doing them, so you just didn't. You were just going to leave them for me to do after I got home after slaving away all day, working to support you and your sister. Don't you even care? Don't you recognize how much I do for you? I have given up my whole life, everything I could have wanted, to make a good life for you, so it is so incredibly selfish of you that you can't even help around the house the little bit I ask of you. It's disgusting. How do you even think you're going to make it out of here? Because you aren't- you aren't taking care of any of your responsibilities. You're just sitting here, being a drain on my financial resources and you don't even care enough to DO WHAT I ASK."
Her volume had increased progressively until she was screaming directly into L's face, the occasional fleck of spittle hitting him in the face. Her nails were digging into his flesh, and her eyes were no longer cool and flat, but rather were burning with a vast and fiery rage that L could not understand regardless of how hard he'd tried.
And how he'd tried.
She stood, looking into his face, waiting for a response so she could either continue to lecture or possibly disengage and retreat to the couch where she would wait for dinner.
L was unsure.
"I'm sorry. I really did forget. I'll do them right now, and I'll do my best not to forget again."
L wondered if this would be adequate.
Apparently it was, as the woman who was supposed to be his mother took the opportunity to look at him like he was the most disappointing, worthless piece of filth currently in existence. The silence between them extended for what felt like a tense and painfully drawn out eternity before she finally withdrew to take her place on the couch.
His sister, Sayu, made room and his mother adjusted so Sayu could slip up between her arms.
He could hear one of the titled gossip girls talking about the imminent spring party circuit, and how she needed a "hot date" of some kind.
He turned, silently, to the sink, filling it with lukewarm water. He scrubbed without any presence of mind, without any visible emotion at all.
He was still scrubbing when the tears began to stream down his deceptively impassive face.
He opened the dishwasher, put in a few dishes, and then continued scrubbing.
Scrubbing, washed dishes in dishwasher, more scrubbing.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in.
L knew it wouldn't be like this forever, knew that he could get out soon, but a year and a half seemed like eons. He didn't know how well he'd do with the wait- it was the worst it had ever been. She'd taken to hitting him sometimes, with her hands, or even with belts. He felt the house draining him of all positive emotions even as he drove down the street towards it.
It would be so much better if he could just tell someone. If someone knew, even if they couldn't do anything about it, he would feel so much better. Lighter. Less afraid.
And then he remembered that someone did know.
Light.
L closed his eyes and smiled a tiny, watery smile.
Light loved him and thought him valuable. Light wanted to spend time with him. Light did not want to hurt him.
Things would be okay eventually.
L shut the dishwasher, the last dishes having been put in along with the dishwashing agent, and turned the knob until it began to make the noise signaling the beginning of its wash cycle.
Light loved L, and wanted him to be okay.
Things would be okay eventually.
L put on dinner, and then retreated upstairs to his room to text Light.
His mother and sister did not notice his absence.
The next episode of Gossip Girl came on.