Disclaimer: All characters recognized in the Faculty movie are under copyright of Robert Rodriguez and Dimension Films.
-oOo-
Chapter 12 – Confronted
At first, there was silence. At least, what felt like silence to Casey. The television still had its blaring news reporter informing others of stories that fell on deaf ears, and Casey could still hear the various dogs barking outside in the cold dark.
However, all of that didn't seem to exist in Casey's mind. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the tension in the room growing louder. His parents' eyes fixed onto him and ran him through, like lasers on a gun.
"Oh...Casey..." Lorraine finally whispered, crunching up one of her many tissues in her trembling fist. More tears formed behind her eyes – questioning ones.
The boy didn't know what to say. She sounded so...so disappointed, as if she were harbouring a house for a stranger on the street, and had just discovered he was a fugitive. He felt like a criminal, the way that his mother was shaking her head in shame, and his father's grip on his arm was increasing and becoming more painful.
How did they even find out I did it, anyway? he wondered, staring down at the floor, still continuing to pray for that black hole that was about six years too late. I never told them. Hell, that was the last thing they were supposed to know about.
"How did you –?"
"Your mother was cleaning out your room today," Frank said coldly, answering his son's question before he could even finish. "She said she found this under your bed." He produced the blade from the pencil sharpener and the tissue, spotted with crimson blood.
What the hell was Mom doing cleaning out my room? Casey thought wildly, feeling a warm wave of anger sweep through his body for a second. I can clean my own fucking room – it wasn't even messy, anyway! Doesn't she understand that I have a right to privacy? I mean, I'm a teenager, for fuck's sake...
He hoped that his parents weren't able to notice the small blush blotting his cheeks in the dim light as he secretly wished his mother hadn't discovered those magazines under his bed as well. He had a feeling that that would turn out a lot worse than this situation.
"We wondered why you'd been wearing a jacket in this kind of weather," Frank spoke again, a triumphant gleam in his words.
How long have they known? wondered Casey, unable to look at them. Have they known as long ago as when it happened? Or did they just find out tonight...? Is that why they just sat here? And waited?
He couldn't find his voice. It was as if the words we clogged at the back of his throat, and he couldn't breathe, or think. Everything in the room was spinning. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He couldn't stop staring at his mother's tear-streaked face and his father's icy glare.
I've let them down...again... he thought sadly. Look at them...they're wondering how in the hell they managed to get such a fucked up son.
"I'm sorry..." he found himself whispering, although he wasn't exactly sure what he was apologising for. After all, wasn't it because of them that he cut himself in the first place? Shouldn't they apologise for what they said to make him do this?
"Sorry?" Frank growled, forcefully letting his son's arm drop to his side, as if he was too disgusted to even touch him anymore. "You're sorry, now?"
"Frank..." came Lorraine's quiet voice from across the room, in a warning tone. She seemed cautious to upset her son any further than he already was. Perhaps she thought that he would harm himself again if things got ugly.
Casey didn't know where to look, so instead he gazed at his sneaker laces. "Dad..."
"Why did you do it?" his father interrupted, although his words didn't sound any friendlier. It sounded more like an interrogation again; something his father seemed to be very good at. "I just want to know why, son."
Why? Why? If I answer that, I'll be here all fucking night, thought Casey, with loathing. How he can just stand there and make me feel like it's all my fault, when if it wasn't for him it wouldn't have happened!
"I...I don't know..." he mumbled, feeling a desirable urge to dash to his bedroom and hide beneath the covers. "I just –"
"You must have done it for a reason!" his father barked, his brown eyes flashing. The whole room seemed to grow darker and more dangerous. "No one cuts themselves for fun!"
It wasn't fun, thought Casey unhappily. It fucking hurt. But what hurt more, Dad, were the things you said about me. I realised that that tiny slice of pain could never replace the pain of the words I heard you say. That's why I didn't do it again. There'd be no point.
There was nothing Casey wanted more in the world than to say to his father those exact words at that moment. He wanted to tell him how he had been feeling...all of the pain he had felt...how he had been hurting and was unable to tell anyone...
...but he couldn't. He knew just what his father would say if he told him that:
"...Affected this much by a few words? Jesus, Case, I expected more from you than that...!"
"...You always have to be so Goddamn dramatic..."
"...I thought you were stronger than this, son...I thought you could stand up for yourself..."
He'd call me weak again, Casey thought sadly. He won't listen to me at all. He'll just insult me all the more and make me feel even worse. There's no point telling him why I did it. He wouldn't understand anyway.
"Just tell us, Casey," his mother croaked from the couch, finally speaking up in desperation from the silence. "If there's something bothering you, you should let us know. We can help you."
Like fuck you can, the boy thought bitterly. If you could help, you would have done so years ago. But you can't help me. Not now.
"I-it doesn't matter," Casey said softly, still not looking at them. "I'm not going to do it again. Just forget it –"
"Is it school?" his mother broke in, a stroke of realisation in her tone. "Is it about what happened with your wrist?"
Casey frowned to himself. What the hell? No. What the fuck does it have to do with that? Why would I hurt myself when I already got hurt? That makes no sense!
"No," he said sharply.
Lorraine chewed on her lip again. Casey was amazed that she even had any lips left, with all the aggravation she had been giving them in the last hour. "I was right, wasn't I?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling. "When I called you at the hospital...it's those bullies at school again, isn't it? You're harming yourself because of them..."
"No!" Casey cried, cutting his mother off, staring directly into her face. "No, Mom! I already told you, it's got nothing to do with –!"
"You never fell down the bleachers, did you?" his mother sighed, her voice sympathetic and almost babysitter-like. "It was those boys at school, beating you up again, wasn't it? That's how your wrist –"
"Mom!" Casey whined, hoping he didn't sound as helpless as he felt. "Will you just listen to me?! I did fall –!"
"I can't believe this is happening," Lorraine whispered to herself, reaching into her handbag for yet another tissue, shaking her head all the while. "I just can't believe it...I never thought it was this bad – I never knew it would come to mutilation as an answer for this..."
Casey felt blood rush into his throat at the mention of the word "mutilation". Aren't they taking this a little too far? he secretly wondered. Mutilation? It was one cut, one that's never going to happen again...why are they treating me as if I've lopped off a leg or something?
"It's not a way to deal with them," Casey snapped, becoming cross with the ignorance. "I'm not depressed, or anything...Mom –"
"Perhaps you should talk to someone about it," his mother cut in, getting to her feet with a newfound awareness, heading towards the house telephone. "Like...a professional, you know...they could help you –"
"I don't need help!" Casey found himself screaming, halting Lorraine in her tracks. "I don't need anything! Why is that always your answer for everything?! Therapy won't help me, Mom – I don't need it!"
He was rather surprised at how frightened he sounded. But he felt afraid. He didn't want to be treated like this by his family, as if he needed to be in a psychiatric hospital or something. He wasn't crazy – he wasn't anything!
"I think you do," Lorraine spoke up, her own voice quivering and growing louder. "You sound hysterical...really upset. I'm just trying to help you..."
"Not like this!" Casey cried, clenching his fists at his sides from the injustice of it all. "I don't need a stranger talking to me all the time...I want you and Dad to talk to me about stuff! That would help me a lot more than some crappy shrink!"
His parents stared in shock at him for a very long time, wondering what had gotten into their son. In fact, they were gawping at him as if they had no idea who he was. It wasn't like Casey to yell at his mother like this. They exchanged glances, as if planning as to who should speak next.
Instead, Casey chose to. "Look," he sighed, making his way towards the doorway. "I don't need to see a professional, okay? I just need to be alone –"
"You're not going anywhere," Frank snapped, stepping closer. "Not yet."
Casey blinked at him, wondering what else he wanted to hear.
"You still haven't told us why you did it."
The boy could have bubbled over with rage. Haven't they figured it out yet? I'm so tired of their smothering, and their constant need for perfection! If something – one tiny thing – goes wrong with me, it's as if they treat me as if I'm broken! So they hire therapy. To fix me. They can't stand me being anything but perfect in their eyes!
"You want to know why?" he almost yelled, much to his own amazement. "I heard you the other week! Talking downstairs, after we came back from the hospital! Saying just how messed up I was, and how you want me to be different! And –"
His voice caught in his web of tears, building up behind his eyes and burning there. No. He didn't want to cry. He didn't want to cry when he was trying to show them that he could stand up to them. But yet...he couldn't stop the tears. They were reflected in his throat.
He saw Lorraine turn her head away out of the corner of his eye, as if she had just remembered what she and her husband had said that night.
"That's why," Casey choked. "You don't want me as I am...you want to change me...you hate me –"
"Oh, Casey..." Lorraine sighed, in a sugary-sweet voice, slumping back into her couch again as if her ankles had just given way. "Oh, honey...we don't hate you. We just want you to be happy."
They want me to be perfect, she means, he thought sadly. They want me to be perfect and happy, and living in a sunshine-rainbow fairytale. The world's not like that, Mom. It's fucked up and filthy. It's messed up, and I've been lost in it all these years. You just don't give a shit – you just make-believe that everything's okay!
"I'm not happy," he whispered out, clenching his fingers firmly around the side of the banister.
"Well, this isn't the way out," Frank said firmly. "If you're upset, you should talk to us –"
"You wouldn't listen!" Casey yelled, the tears growing all the more, threatening to spill down his cheeks. "You never do! You'd just look at me like I'm scum! You'd just want me to be perfect – you'd be ashamed of me!"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I do feel ashamed that you wouldn't come to us!" Frank shouted; half in shock, half in revenge. "I would have expected that from you! You shouldn't be suffering in silence, just because you're afraid! You shouldn't be afraid of your parents, Case!"
I am, Casey thought to himself, with a low moan. I'm afraid of you, Dad. I'm afraid you don't want me. I'm afraid...you don't love me.
"I just wish you weren't so scared, all the time!" continued his father, on a roll with his point. "You don't seem to want to try anything, son – because you always seem afraid to try! It just...drives me nuts that you don't want to sign up for any sports or social activities –!"
"I'm –!" Casey protested wildly, trying to scream to his father that he took photographs for the school newspaper. Wasn't that a social activity? Or didn't that one count? However, he was cut short before he could get his words through.
"You just come off as very anti-social to me," declared his father, his voice lowered and sounding incredibly stern, as if demanding respect. "I mean, you don't stay out very late, you're always locked away in your room, you don't visit friend's houses very m –"
"I've been seeing Grace, remember?" Casey almost screamed. The tears were beginning to rise deeper into his throat and higher behind his lids, causing them to throb and burn. Nothing that his father seemed to be saying was very fair.
What else does he want me to do? I don't have that many friends anyway...before Grace came along, I couldn't talk to anyone! And now he's giving me this? I don't get it! His thoughts were like a stampede of despair, raining down and trampling his happiness again and again and again.
"Yes, but she's the only one," said Frank calmly, crossing his arms across his chest, almost like a shield. "That's what I mean. Perhaps if you joined a club or something you'd make lots of new friends. Like that Stan guy who's often on the field, I suppose he..."
It was at this point that Casey selected to stop listening to what his father had to say about Stan. Stan Rosado: typical meat-headed jock who was loved by all and respected by parents. He was the kind of guy who Casey knew – just knew – his father wanted him to be like. Sometimes, Casey wondered that if his father had full control over his own son, he would craft the boy into something very similar to Stan Rosado.
It didn't help that he had managed to catch Delilah's eye, either.
Fucking jerk.
"...But that's what I'm trying to tell you, Casey!" his father continued, as Casey chose reluctantly to zone back into the conversation again, "your mother and I hardly see you, most days! You leave for school; you come straight home, and hide away in your room all by yourself –"
"I have homework," mumbled Casey, somewhat cheekily.
"Well," Frank scoffed, rolling his eyes to bore his enraged face into a nearby wall. "We all know that's not the only thing you do in there now, don't we?"
Biting his lip, the teenager was doing all that he could to hold back the burning sensations in his eyes and mouth. After all of this, his father was trying to make him feel guilty for what he had done. Wasn't this all of his fault? He wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for him! What right did he have to make him feel so small?
"It was just the one time..." he said again.
"I'd just appreciate it if you thought to spend some time with your mother and I," said Frank coldly, gesturing towards Lorraine, slumped on the couch, still with her head in her hands. "You seem...like a hermit to us, son. We always have to speak to you first, otherwise the only time when we see you is when there's food on the table –"
"But when I want to talk to you, you never listen!" Casey cried out, unable to hide his feelings away from himself much longer. He wanted to smack himself when he felt a pent-up tear squeeze itself from the corner of his eye and singe its way down his cheek. "You never..."
You never tell me you're proud of what I do, never, he thought sadly. I don't do drugs, I don't drink, I don't smoke...I always do my homework and get good grades...and he doesn't praise me for it. Not once. I try so...so hard for him...and he doesn't give a shit...
"What else do you want from me?" he questioned quietly, hurriedly staring down so that his father wouldn't notice the misery pouring from his eyes.
"I want you to learn to deal with these kind of things in the right way," said his father, after a short silence. "Whatever the problem...this isn't the right way. I wish you'd be a little stronger in the way you deal with your problems. Everyone else has to."
I knew it, Casey thought, wanting to slam his fist against the banister from the unfairness. I knew he'd say that...I knew it...
"Everyone's a little weak sometimes," he choked out, remembering Grace's advice; the one thing that only seemed to stay in his mind nowadays. "...Even you, Dad."
Then he dashed upstairs before his father could reply.
-oOo-
Casey could hear his mother screaming tearfully at Frank through the floor and through the sounds of his own misery, flowing out in frustrated sobs as he slumped against his locked door, his chest tight and painful.
"Fuck him," he growled into his jeans, soaking them with his tears.
His body curled into a tight ball, some part of him swore to never open the door again as long as he lived. He didn't feel like eating. He didn't feel like talking to anyone – no one would listen. All he wanted to do was to hide here and protect himself. He couldn't get hurt in here. If he went outside, he was alone. He was always alone.
I'm so tired of being alone...
But – sadly – some part of him knew that he could never be hurt when he was alone. No one could hurt him. He was safe. Lonely, but safe.
Minutes later, once he had heard the shouting calming down from below, soft footsteps sounded on the hall carpet and a timid rapping at his door followed.
"Casey?" Lorraine's voice; quiet and sniffly. "Honey? Are you in there?"
The boy chose not to answer. How could talking make it all right? Too much had been said already. Too much had happened. Only avoidance could solve things for now. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted to be alone, where not even words could hurt him.
He covered up the mark on his arm with his sleeve and turned away, more tears burning.
"Honey? Casey...you know you can talk to me..." Lorraine continued, in a dangerously calm voice. It sounded like she was dealing with a patient in an insane asylum. "I can help you...I can talk to you and make everything all right again –"
"Go away, Mom," Casey croaked, crying even harder. "I don't need any help."
"But, Honey –"
"You'll just make things worse."
A silence. Casey chewed fervently on his lip and begged with all of his might for his mother to disappear so that he could have his cry in peace, and then be left alone. Alone forever. However, he knew that that was too good a request to come true, and it wasn't long before she was tapping coyly on the door again.
"Casey...sweetheart..." she whispered, sounding ready to explode into another bout of tears. Her words trembled on her tongue. "Please...while you're in there...please, don't do anything stupid..."
Oh, Jesus Christ...
If it were humanly possible, Casey swore that he would scream so loud the entire sky would crack and shatter into a million pieces. After all of this, after everything he had said downstairs, she still wasn't listening.
He placed his head against the door and held his shaking body close. "I won't," he snapped.
"Unlock the door, Casey, please," she begged. "Let me talk to you –"
"It doesn't help!" Casey argued back, shouting now, showing her how much pain he was bottling up...how angry he felt at their blindness. How dare she stand there and act like nothing downstairs had even happened! How dare she suggest talking now, when she couldn't even say two words downstairs!
"Casey..."
"Nothing helps!" Casey cried out, moving away from the bedroom door and collapsing on his bed, screaming into his pillow as he hid himself even further away. "Leave me alone!"
And then he hoped that that would be the end of it. He wanted his mother to walk away from him with her tail between her legs, understanding that the fate of her son was to be in isolation for the rest of his life. He was expecting silence and for her to return to the living room with that bastard.
He didn't expect her to slam her palm against the door in frustration, causing it to shudder and rub violently against the brim of his carpet.
"Fine, then," she spat, in an extremely cold tone. "Fine! I give up! I give up with all of this! You're just being pathetic, Casey! Pathetic and selfish! Just like him! If you don't want to talk to me, then stay there! I'll be ready to talk to you when you've grown up!"
And then she left, her footsteps clomping viciously down the stairs. Each one thudded loudly in Casey's ribcage.
He squeezed the pillowcase tightly between his fingers as more tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes.
"Fuck you, Mom," he squeaked out.
That's telling 'em, his thoughts taunted.
"Fuck you, too," Casey growled, verging on a scream.
How long can you keep using that comeback? It can't last forever. This won't go away, just by saying that.
Casey moaned under his breath, shedding more unwanted tears into the pillow. Then how do I make it go away? he wondered miserably. What can I say to make it go away? Who will listen to what I have to say? Who...will...?
Without giving it another thought, he scrambled madly from the bed and lunged for his phone on the side table, clumsily pounding a number into the machine and holding it to his ear, tapping his fingers on his knee.
"Pick up, pick up," he chanted, blood shedding from his lip. "Be home..."
It didn't take very long before he got a reply. The receiver clicked and he heard her cheery voice come streaming down the line, sounding disgustingly pleasant and bright.
"Hello?"
It was so wearisome to find out that he couldn't speak. He couldn't utter a word without feeling the presence of more tears forming or sobs bouncing around in his voice. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.
"...Uh, hello?"
His hand trembled. His brain was screaming at him.
Say something, you dork! Say something to her! Tell her what's happened! Say something – say anything!
"...Is this a prank?" Her voice grew a little more threatening.
He hung up.
Then he growled in frustration, kicking the bottom of his chair, allowing the fresh tears to come racing down as he pummelled his pillow and allowed his senses to roar loudly back at him, punishing him with humiliation and hot rushes of guilt. Why, why, why did he hang up?
She's the only one I can talk to, and I fucking hung up on her!
It seemed like forever had passed as he sat on the edge of the bed, trying to calm himself down, when his phone beamed and rang loudly. He jumped in surprise and grabbed it quickly, answering it without thinking about the condition of his voice this time.
"...Hello?" he whispered.
"Casey?" Grace replied, with a hint of playful teasing hovering in her words. "Why'd you hang up on me? Where you prank calling me or something?"
"...No," the boy croaked, wanting to hit himself at how upset he sounded.
There was a short silence.
"Casey? What's wrong...?"
"Um..."
He had no idea where to begin. He wanted to tell her everything, and yet nothing at all if he could help it. He didn't know how to start. His father and his hurtful lecture, his mother's tears, his own pain, those inner demons that kept haunting him...or what about...?
"Are you okay?" Grace seemed worried now, all the mischievous element of her voice washed away by a wave of her own concern. "You...haven't been crying, have you –?"
"What if I have?" Casey said coldly.
He heard her sigh sadly. "W-why? Casey, what's the matter?"
"It's just..." he choked out, squeezing his bright eyes tightly shut at the comfort she was offering over the phone. For some reason, right now, he wanted her here so that he could talk to her face to face. He wanted her here so that he could perhaps find some solace in a hug rather than a stupid phone call.
"Yeah?"
"...My parents," he decided to finish.
"What have they done?" she asked helpfully; calmly. "Have they said anything to you?"
"They just...said some things..." he mumbled, feeling a little silly now. He didn't plan on telling her what they had said. He never wanted to think about or repeat what they had said ever again. It was too painful. And besides, he wasn't sure whether Grace would completely understand how he felt just from those words. Not completely.
"Must've been pretty bad..." she said quietly, sighing again.
"...Yeah."
"...You can tell me what they said, y'know...I won't laugh or judge you – or anything. Promise."
Casey bit his lip, boring his sight into the wall. "...I don't wanna say, really," he stumbled out, awkwardly. "I don't really wanna think about it."
"C'mon, there must be something you can tell me," she said sweetly, her voice melting like brown sugar down the line and humming in Casey's ear. "Please, Casey? I thought we could talk about stuff like this with each other –"
"–We can!" Casey cut in desperately, not wanting her feel hurt. "It's just...well...ummm. I kinda...did something, and they found out...and said some stuff, that's all...nothing mu –"
"What did you do?" Grace asked now, with relish. "Were you taking drugs or something?"
Casey closed his eyes, willing away more tears. Her eagerness and excited voice wasn't exactly encouraging him right now. In fact, it only seemed to make him feel bitter and worse than he already did. Part of him wondered why he decided to call her in the first place.
"No," he said. "I'd never take drugs."
"Then what, hmm?" she asked now, serious again. "You have to give me some sort of a hint, or I'll be here all night! Besides, you know I'll find out eventually, one way or the other. You might as well just tell –"
"I cut myself," he blurted out, barely a whisper.
He gripped the receiver tighter between his fingers at the deadly silence that followed. He realised that he was shaking all over; not from fright, but from desperation. He wasn't even aware that he had even told her until her voice returned, sounding horrified.
"You...you what?"
Casey sighed. "...It just happened –"
"You cut yourself?" she almost snapped, her voice trembling. "When? Where?"
"A couple of weeks ago," Casey said calmly. "On the wrist –"
"What the fuck?!" Grace almost screamed, tears threatening and sounding in Casey's ears. He winced at the sound and for a second felt pathetic and stupid. "The fuck – you tried to kill yourself?!"
"No!" Casey cried out defensively. "No! It's not like that!"
"Why did you cut yourself?" she asked later, in a much calmer voice. However, the ice had not melted from her words and was in a full state of seriousness. "Did you want to kill yourself?" She sounded sad.
"No," Casey said slowly. "I just...didn't know what else to do. I mean, it says in those magazines all the time that it helps –"
"Those are bullshit!" she hissed out, sounding as if she had just burst into tears. "You shouldn't look to a magazine for help! Why didn't you talk to me – why didn't you just pick up the phone and talk?"
Casey chewed on his lip, reminiscing that night once again. "It was just after I came back from the hospital, remember?" he whispered. "I didn't know you that well...and it just...happened when I got home..."
"I would have still listened..." she replied back, sounding hurt now. "I would have helped..."
"Yeah...maybe," Casey answered now, flopping down onto his bed and burying his face into the pillow. He felt like kicking himself for not thinking about that earlier. Sure, he hadn't been all that fond of Grace at the time, but it sounded like a much better idea now that he thought about it. It would have saved him from all of this grief tonight.
"I just...can't believe you've been hiding it all this time..." she whispered. "All that time I was talking to you...and you were talking about your parents..."
"It's over with now," the boy said quickly.
"Then why'd you call me?"
"I..." Casey began, but found that he couldn't finish his sentence. Why did he call her? To tell her that he cut himself? No, wait...it was because of the things that his parents said to him. He felt that he had to tell someone, and Grace was the only person he could think of that would listen.
Then...she was right. Why didn't he call her all that time ago?
"Are you okay?" she asked softly, sometime later. Her voice was rather distant. Casey wondered if he had somehow managed to hurt her feelings.
"I...guess," he muttered.
A pause. "Casey –"
"Look," Casey breathed out, noticing how late that it was and wiping his eyes stiffly on the back of his hand, feeling them throb and burn. "I'll...tell you later tomorrow. At school. Okay?"
"...Yeah. Sure." Her voice still kept that same, faraway sound.
Casey felt cold just listening to it, and it was still echoing around inside of him, freezing over his bones with waves of guilt as he hung up and managed to climb into bed. He wondered if he felt any better or worse than when he had had before he decided to call Grace. He just felt numb right now. Numb and cold.
But at least he had gotten his therapy after all.