a/n: Look!. So yeah. Review. I want seven before I update again. Seven okay?
Charrie Submission. I am need in of a minor charrie to add to this story. So give me ideas. I will incorporate into the story.
Disclamier: Still not mine.
Of Dark Houses and Greek Lore
I press my foot down on the brake until my car is creeping along over out long driveway. I expected to see the house brilliantly lit up when I arrived, my father's silhouette in the window of his study as he waits for me. Instead it is just as dark as I left it, the security lights the only things illuminating the outside of the building. My head lights bounce off a window back to me as I near, once again showing how empty the house seems to be.
He told me he would be looking for me. But he would never actually do that, because he knows he holds too much power over me. He says he is coming to look for me and I come back like a kicked dog with its tail between its legs. But if he is waiting for me I think the lights would be on and he would be drinking the liquid that burns on the way down and then turns his anger into something even more vicious.
Yet the lights are off and the house is silent. What if he is lurking somewhere in the dark? Has he become the imaginary monster from the cellar that I feared for so long? He could be waiting for me in the dark, swirling his drink and glaring at the driveway as I make my way to the house.
I park in my spot and climb out, running a hand down the smooth side of the car as I take a breath to steady myself. He is getting in my head and making far more worried about what is to come than I ought to be. A lecture, a few bruises, being sent to my room to think about my actions. Surely that is all that is in store for me. Yet my mind keeps coming up with horrible punishments he could use instead and my heart pounds away in fear of them being dealt out. He smells to smell fear and if I walk in like this he will know that he has already won.
After a few minutes the motion sensor clicks off and I am left alone in the dark with nothing but his car and mine. There is no putting it off any longer-I have to go inside the house and face my angry father.
The keys are tucked in one pocket and I take one final breath before a relaxed smile appears on my face. The strong Jace that attends the school is firmly in place and the scared boy is locked away behind my skin. My steps are even as I step to the door and open it. The lights flick on instantly and I have to blink to deal with the sudden, unexpected change.
"Well, well, well." His voice is low and comes from down the hallway. My tawny eyes move towards him, seeing the fierce lines drawn across his face as he sits in an arm chair in the living room at the end of the hall. "Look who decided it was time to drag their worthless corpse home." I shift and shrug, keeping my expression as purposefully relaxed as I can possibly manage.
He snaps his fingers together and points to the ground in front of him. It's clear that he wants me to move there and I silently follow his directions though I move as slowly as I can get away with. Still it's far sooner than I would have liked when I'm standing in front of him. "Don't slouch." I roll my shoulders back at his critique and raise my chin, back as straight as if there were a board down the back of my shirt. He sits and studies me, taking a sip of brandy as he does so, "You've once again proved that angels' faces hide devils' souls."
A bit of an overreaction, I think. I left and went to a party without permission, not gone on a killing rampage at an orphanage. It was something every teenager ever has done and he was treating it as if I were the first person who had ever disobeyed their parents.
Still I nod my head in a quick motion, "Yes, sir." I have to catch the tip of my tongue between my teeth to keep from making a snarky comment. I know for a fact that saying anything like that won't be appreciated at all at this point. So I have to content myself with allowing the voice in my head to say it and imaging his reaction. He studies me with his dark, suspicious eyes for a few minutes before he stands.
I am taller than most of the boys in my year at school, a trait that has helped me with my athletic pursuits. But when my father stands in front of me I have to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. He dwarfs me both physically and mentally, it is times like there, when he is more destructive than a bull in a china shop, that I become accurately aware of that. If he wanted to he could break me as easily as a troublesome child smashes a china doll on the floor when throwing a fit.
This isn't a very comforting thought considering how upset he is. Who is to say that he won't do something like this and leave me bloodied and bruised on the floor of our living room? Like he said earlier-the maid has the weekend off. There would be no one to see what he was doing until he was too late for anyone to help me.
His footsteps are even and his gaze even as he approaches me. I do my best to keep my posture and expression neutral though I'm sure his predatory senses have locked on the way my pulse flutters under the pale skin of my throat as my heart betrays my fear-speading up the closer he comes to me. He chuckles as he places his hand on my shoulder and I flinch, "I was just like you once. Thinking that my father knew nothing. That I was a big seventeen year old who knew what was best for me." He sounds friendly but I know this is the calm before the storm; we have been through similar situations too often for me to be comforted by his genial tone. "But guess what?"
"I don't know, sir."
And just like that the storm hits just as hard as he does, causing me to stagger back a step with the force of the blow. "I was just as wrong as you are. You are a weak, idiotic little boy who needs me to help make his choices just like I needed my father. I only what is best for you Jonathon Christopher. I make all of my choices to make sure that you will turn out to be the best man you could possibly become. But you insist on defying me by making the worst choices you can."
Valentine steps towards me to close the distance between us that appeared me when the back of his hand caught on the side of my face. "I learned my lesson. You'll learn yours too, boy." Now that he has gotten through the act of calm I can see the furor burning in his eyes as he narrows them. His hand is a vice on the back of my neck as he pulls me towards him.
And suddenly all I want is to be out of there-to be a six year old boy listening to his daddy tell him about their vacation plans. But I'm not; I'm a seventeen year old who, at the moment, is very, very afraid of the man in front of him.
He knows it too, I can see it in the glint of my eyes, and he sees my terror and is enjoying it. He is enjoying my terror and that is almost worse than anything he could do to me. This man, this monster, is my father that I used to adore and now he is watching me like it is some sort of horrible sport. "Dad, please." My hand is at his wrist, eyes turned up to him, "Please."
He doesn't seem to hear me as his hold tightens again, keeping me firmly besides him. "Enough. Don't you dare think you can get away with what you did just by asking. You need to learn your lesson."
I can't even try to get away from him as he keeps the firm hold on the back of my neck and uses this to steer me from the room. And if I did manage to break free where on Earth would I go? I would still be stuck somewhere in the house and his anger would just be worse than it is now. So, for the moment, I am silent as he directs me into his study.
I don't know what it is about this room that he enjoys so much, why this is where he always brings me for a scolding or for a punishment. But I know that by this time I hate being in the room lined with books and antiques as much as I hate the cellar. There is nothing in this room but anger and pain, nothing in the least bit good.
When he pushed me into one of the chairs besides the desk I remain where I'm put. I'm here now and I'll have to accept the consequences of my actions. I made the mistake of going out after being told I was to stay at home, but more than that I made the mistake of being caught. Maybe if I had been a little more careful and listened to my phone he wouldn't e this upset. But as they say hind sight is twenty-twenty and there's nothing I can do to go back in time. I'll simply have to do better next time.
That is if there is a next time. Which I doubt there will be for a good long time, he won't be leaving me alone in the house anytime soon. I'll be his little prisoner until this blows and knowing him this may never blow ever, I may never ever be allowed out of the house by myself again.
And I know that my mind is running wild, but sometimes that has to happen. Sometimes you have to imagine the worst so that even when the reality is bad it isn't as awful as you imagined. If any time called for imagining the worst to prepare for what lies ahead now would be it.
He's moved away from me now, gazing pensively into the fireplace in front of him. He always has a fire burning in there, even when it's summer and much too hot to handle, and now is no different the wood popping occasionally as flames chew through it. He most have built it while he was waiting for me to return home, the warmth of it only adding to the tension of the room.
"Did you honestly think you could get away with it?"
Suddenly all I want to do is laugh. This can't be real; it's all too much, like some seen out of a badly done thriller movie-the lights off, the fire crackling, the question. It's overdone and dramatic and exactly like my father likes. But a part of my mind finds the whole situation ridiculous that all of this is simply because I did what every teen has done and snuck out to a friend's party.
He draws the iron fire poker out and prods at the kindling as he waits for a response from me. When none comes he turns his head in my direction, "Come now, Jonathon, you know you can speak freely with me. Did you think you could actually get away with it?"
Speak freely with him? We both know that is just as much of a lie as pretending we're a happy family so I keep my silence, better to do that than answer the wrong way and upset him even further. Eventually he seems to accept that I'm not going to answer him and returns the poker to its stand beside the fire. He steps towards me again and I can feel my muscles tensing as I watch his feet approach.
"Do you think that you can just do as you please? Do you think that I don't know how impertinent little bastards like you act when they get left alone." His voice is a low purr as he inspects me from above, "Do you really think I'm as dumb as you seem to?" I hear the pop of his joints as he crouches in front of me so that he can look into my eyes, a sound that reminds me that this man so much larger than life is slowly growing old.
His hand is practically gentle as he takes hold of my arm and rolls the sleeve of my jacket up past my elbow. I want to question him and ask what he is doing but I know I'll find out soon enough. He is going to punish me, 'teach me my lesson', and I'll find out then.
And just like always he looks directly me into my eyes and speaks, "You know this hurts me more than it hurts you." I can't help but make a scoffing noise more in the back of my throat, he says that again and again but I still have yet to believe him. He is wordless as he repeats the motions again, leaving both of my arms exposed as he moves away.
"Have you ever heard the story of Icarus?" My father is standing in front of the fire again, poker in hand, "Icarus was the only child born to his father. As the only son the man only wanted what was best for the boy, giving up much to provide for him, to make him happy. The man constructed a list of the wings in order to allow him to fly. "
I note the fact that he omits the fact that the wings were created in order to allow the boy to escape a prison. Of course he wouldn't mention that, it could send the wrong message.
"As the boy put the wings on his father gave him a warning, not to fly too close to the sun or too close to the water. Of course the man had reason for his warning, he wanted what was good for the boy. But Icarus was a headstrong teenage boy, thought he knew better than his father, that be was old enough to make his own decisions. No sooner had the man turned his eyes away than Icarus was taking advantage of the trust the man had put in him. He flew up into the sky, kept going up and up because he pictured himself invincible. But he was disobedient and flew too high, flew too close to the sun. And because he was disobedient he was burned by the sun, the wings were destroyed, and it resulted in his death."
"Because that's what happens to disobedient bastards," The fire poker is still in his hand as he turns back to me, the end now hot from the fire he had been stirring as he spoke, "They get burnt."
I know. I know what he is going to do and I open my mouth to protest. The weird don't even make it to my mouth before he has my wrist in his hand, turned it so the underside is up, and the hot metal pressed to the sun. And everything I was going to say is lost.
I've burnt myself before while picking up hot dishes or toying with a friend's lighter but it was nothing like this. My father is still speaking as I my arm held in his hold but I can't hear it over the rushing in my head. I don't know if its two seconds or two minutes before he removes the metal but I know it was far, far too long of a time either way.
The smell of singed hair and burnt skin cause my stomach to twist and it's only by clenching my teeth that I keep the bile in my stomach down. I have to force myself to take deep breaths to keep my head on straight, to keep the throbbing pain of the burn from taking over, keeping my compusre steady. My eyes remain on my father instead of looking at my arm, afraid of what I'll see there.
But what I see is just as bad. He is once again at the fire, poker to the flames, heating it once more. He must know I've realized he's coming back as my breath hitches and I try to speak again, "Dad. Please." And I hate myself for sounding that pathetic and weak, like I'm five years old again. But I can't do anything else; I can't let him touch me with the hot iron again.
He ignores the words as he steps in y direction, his eyes focused on the arm he hasn't touched. And I can't do it anymore, can't try and pretend like I' stronger than this, stronger than him "Daddy, please." Words. A name. Things that I haven't used in so long that I barely remember them, because he isn't daddy anymore,, hasn't been for years. But maybe something in this, in the use of the name will stop him.
There seems to be a moment of hesitation, like he's remembering that I'm his son and, despite how grown up I pretend to be, a child. But then he blinks and his hand is on my again and the only thing I'm aware of is the pain and the smell and the desperate desire to have not gone to the damned party in the first place.
I don't even take notice of him returning the poker to its spot by the fire as clench and unclench my fists, trying to calm my ragged breathing and keep the pained noises at bay so he can't hear how much it hurts me. I'm just aware of his presence in front of me again and my breath catches. Not again. Please, not again.
It's just two burns, marks that will fade into scars in the crooks of my arms, it could have been much worse, broken bones or lacerations that needed stitches. But there was something horrible about this maybe it was the blank expression on his face or the fact that this was truly deserved, was a proper punishment, which makes the mental distress of it nearly as bad as the pain pounding away in my arms.
His hand runs over the top of my head, patting golden curls the way he did when I was little and trying to get his attention. But even this isn't truly a friendly gesture. Not anymore. Nothing can be friendly from him anymore. Still the motion is almost comforting, a reminder that he isn't just a monster but that he is also the man who has taken care of me for my entire life.
It continues for a moment before the fingers tighten their hold, pulling at the hair instead of stroking it and he leans down to speak into my ear, "Jonathon Christopher, Icarus was burnt by the sun before it destroyed him. You've already been burnt. Let's hope you learned your lesson better than he did."
a/n: Bam. There. Got it. Now your turn. Reviews.