Title: Creeping On A Stranger
Word Count: 6,351
Summary: Seblaine Week 2014: Day 1 (Alternative Meeting). Sebastian has always had a habit of getting in the way and making a nuisance of himself. Since his little sister had gotten sick when he was eleven, he has spent years trying to gain back the attention of his parents.
Warnings/Notes: Underage drug use and drinking exist heavily in this chapter, as well as a fair bit of language (modelled off what I hear some of the boys I teach say...)
Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with Glee, FOX, Ryan Murphy or anything else related to the FOX universe.
Sebastian wastes the following day by sipping just enough brandy to be numb without drinking so much that he topples off his chair at dinner to give away that he's drunk off his ass. His parents barely even look at him though, which he supposes helps with his attempt at concealing it. His dependency is increasingly getting spurred on by their neglect and he wants to throw it in their face, he wants to stand up and wave his arms up and down and scream, 'Hey! Remember me?!'
Instead he swallows another mouthful of dry, overcooked steak and leaves the table without saying a word.
In between sips, he'd tried to read more of the stupid book for Literature, which he's woefully behind in. His eyes just couldn't get past reading the same sentence over and over and the words had a habit of drifting over the page, probably because he was intoxicated. He couldn't concentrate on it for shit and it had finally caused him so much frustration that he'd thrown it in and knocked an athletics trophy off his bookshelf. The tacky plastic figure had cracked upon landing and Sebastian had felt traitorous tears fill his eyes as he surveyed that the raised knee and outstretched arm had snapped off, leaving the trophy in three pieces.
A part of him can't help but think of Blaine and his broken body.
Mostly though, it feels as if Sebastian's mourning the loss of his childhood, mourning the loss of the last time he did anything his parents truly acknowledged and said they were proud of, and mourning the last time he was the most important child because he was the first born and the son.
It's not like he hates Lillian, he adores his sister above everything else, but sometimes, he really wishes she hadn't been born.
And then the guilt creeps in with sickeningly strong tentacles because he thinks maybe the reason she's so sick is because he's made that wish so many times.
Irrational?
Him?
Never.
Blaine doesn't call that night and Sebastian can't decide if he's disappointed or not, fretful about the delicate position of their friendship or not.
It's impossible to deny that there's still part of him which is worried he majorly fucked everything up by being high the night before, though he doubts Blaine calling when he's teetering on the edge of being drunk would be any easier to swallow than his mother's overcooked meat dishes. He'd probably receive the same polite smile as Blaine assured him that it was fine as his father offers in his attempt to reassure his mother that the inedible meat is, in fact, delicious.
Christmas Eve dawns cold, dreary and boring as fuck.
The plastic Christmas tree has been up in the corner of the living room for several weeks but his father hadn't brought the decorations down from the attic. It had always been something for the children to do, something Lillian took a childish delight in decorating with Sebastian until it was hopelessly mismatched and teetering to one side from the weight of the decorations.
This year, without Lillian around, their hearts haven't been fond of the idea of celebrating. There's a certain irony in the lack of heart they feel given Lillian's condition, and he can't help looking sourly at the naked tree which looks thoroughly vulnerable and lacking any sort of festive spirit or life.
He can't help but think of Lillian when she had the ventilator down her throat last month.
Given the state of the empty tree, it's impossible to miss that that there aren't any gifts under either. He keeps looking at it while a movie plays in the background, as if he can will it into blooming with colour and decoration.
His mother enters the room to see what he's watching, her eyes falling on the tree. She moves towards it, her fingers running over a plastic branch.
"It's not the same, is it?" she says, sounding puzzled by what she's looking at, as if she can't comprehend why the tree isn't the same.
He can't help wondering if she's lost her mind. The tree lacks the fucking decorations or any sort of present. Instead of promoting Christmas, it's just a green piece of plastic in one of the corners of the room.
Rather than expel his frustration at how stupid she sounds, he clamps his mouth shut and looks back at the TV. He has no idea what it is he's watching. Some crap holiday movie special with happy smiles and loving families that, in hindsight, makes him want to puke and throw the remote through the screen.
"Sebastian?"
It's that patient, almost desperate, tone in her voice which makes him pause the movie he isn't really watching to dramatically turn his attention back to his mother. Pretending to be annoyed because she wants to pay attention to him now is the only play he has available.
Amelia Smythe sits on the edge of the couch, cautiously keeping her distance as if her mere presence might make him explode and set the chair on fire. He thinks it's more likely that having her this close will make her the direct target and he'll spare the fabric, but maybe those thoughts are a bit too dark.
God, he hates Christmas.
"I know the past month has been really hard for you," she says, struggling to meet his eyes as if he's Medusa and will turn her into stone. Her hands fidget in her lap with a piece of red and green ribbon which is far too festive for the oppressively cold atmosphere within the house.
It's her attempt to make eye contact with him though which is about the only thing that stops him from derisively rolling his own. He's wanted his parents to remember he exists for four years and this is the crap that gets spouted?
"I just… I just hope you know that Lillian's really sick right now and we-"
The change in his mood is so abrupt, so swift, that it's like lightning has just struck the room. He throws the remote at the coffee table he's been resting his feet on, although by now he's already on his feet. It skids across the wood and lands on the opposite side with a dull clunk. His mother is watching him with wary, wide eyes. He supposes she knows he got his short fuse from his father.
"I'm well aware of Lillian's health, thanks," he says, his voice that same sharp tone he's heard his father use when preparing an opening address to the court.
"Seba-"
"I get it. We can't have a happy family Christmas because we're not happy and we're certainly not a family."
The words fall off his tongue with as much bitterness as the brandy had held the day before. He's glad to note that his mother's mouth has finally closed and her head is bowed in defeat. It fills him with a sick sense of pleasure that she can't even argue with him, that it's true.
"Would it just be easier if I stayed out of your way and you focused on giving Lillian a wonderful time?" he says, his fingers curling by his sides. It's one of those questions he usually doesn't have the guts to ask and it makes him sound so resentful towards someone he truly does love in his own way.
"That's not-"
He realises once she starts speaking that despite his usual inability to spit out the tough question, he doesn't actually care what her response it. He's still too angry that everything always comes back to Lillian's health.
He waves his hand dismissively and walks away, ignoring whatever she's saying by humming loud enough to block her out. He pulls on his shoes and has his coat, beanie, gloves and scarf to pull on once he's out of the house and just before he starts running down the street with nowhere to go.
Anywhere is better than home.
The worst part about late December is how dark it gets at such a stupidly early hour.
Sebastian loves spending warm summers in the park with Terry and his mates, passing bottles and joints until his limbs won't pass anything anymore. It's nice when the dusk just seems to go on and on, when the sun kisses his skin with warmth and reminds him that he's alive for a few brief hours. It's nice to walk home when there's still enough light to see, when the heat has faded from the day. In summer, everything is alive for hours, even after the sun has gone down. Couples walk their dogs and children ride around on bikes or play soccer in the streets and you can't help but really feel as though you're a community.
Probably some of that warmth he'd felt from the previous summers had been from the alcohol and weed he'd consumed, but that's nowhere near as romantic.
On the other hand, the best part about late December is that other people hate Christmas just as much as he does.
"Seb!" Aiden cries, throwing out a wobbling hand towards him with a pleased but drunken grin plastered on his face. "Dude! So good to see you!"
"Hey, man. How's it going?"
He shakes Aiden's hand before turning to grasp Terry, John and Mitch's in brief, manly grabs. Nothing like that lingering hand-holding stuff he does with Blaine. He doesn't hear how Aiden's going but he doesn't think it matters. The four of them are obviously pretty baked so he thinks they're probably absolutely stellar to cover a whole lot of feeling like total shit.
Mitch flicks his lighter against a cylinder of white, passing the freshly lit joint without him even asking for it. He mutters a "Thanks, man" before he inhales, deep into his lungs, urging it to work faster than usual so he can forget everything from back home, and passes it back. John gives him a bottle in a brown paper bag and he chases the recently exhaled smoke with a few mouthfuls of vodka. Brandy's better but he's not too choosy at this point. He just wants to forget.
"So… Christmas, huh?" Mitch murmurs, leaning against the oversized coloured balls that Sebastian thinks is for kids to use as an oversized abacus. "Fuckin' hate this time of year."
"Cheers to that," Aiden mutters, raising his bottle for a toast with Mich.
Sebastian leans his head to the side, using his beanie and scarf to shield his face from the freezing temperature of the play equipment pole. He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift for a few moments, searching for that cloud he found the other day before Blaine called and he fell off the swing to land back on Earth. Literally.
"Hey." Mitch nudges him with a snow-dampened boot and he opens his eyes to the outstretched joint again. He accepts it, breathes in as deep as he can before inhaling just a little again, and releases the breath. He can feel the high creeping in, like a slow moving fog in the spring time. After a third inhale, and knowing he probably shouldn't take anymore after that, he passes it back.
"You're growing up fast, man," John says, pointing at him with a thoughtful look on his face. "I remember you choking like fuck when you first tried to smoke."
"Fuck you," he grunts and the other guys laugh. He remembers it too – mostly because he was so mortified at his utterly epic fail that he'd wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
"Remember when he had his first mouthful of whiskey and spat it back out again?" Terry teases, nudging Aiden beside him and they both start cackling again.
He sticks up his middle finger but he can't help the weak smile that plays on his lips. It's good to be around the guys, to trash talk each other and forget everything else for a while. He's never said anything to them about why he does what he does and to his knowledge, they've never offered explanations either. They have no idea who Lillian is or that she's sick. They don't know that he's hooked up with a couple of terrified-of-being-outed sophomore guys from school. They definitely don't know anything about Blaine. He probably comes across as another straight-laced drug user keen to forget his teenage years like them, capable of handling the verbal spars despite the difference in age.
"You know what we need to do?" Mitch muses, teetering dangerously when one of the yellow balls threatens to slide away from supporting his head. "Find us some chicks to bone."
"Hey, man. I got a girl," Aiden says, which surprises Sebastian enough to look at him. What sort of girlfriend lets their boyfriend get high and drunk like Aiden so frequently? He's pretty sure no one in their party of five drinks as much as him.
"Jerking your junk to the same hot chick in a variety of porn videos doesn't count, fuckwit."
Ah.
Not a girlfriend then.
"That's the last time I cover your tab, Johnson," Aiden grunts, tipping his head back to swallow another mouthful of lemon vodka.
"You know, I was serious," Mitch continues, looking around the group hopefully. "Terry? Seb?"
Terry nods slowly like he's thinking about it with a deep contemplation and reverence that only Buddha could compete with. Sebastian shrugs, not because it's the thought of sex with a girl but because he's found that fucking someone doesn't make him forget for as long as all of this does. His anxiety over Lillian's health usually returns within minutes, around the time that he's buttoning up his fly.
"Duuuuuuuude. What sort of fifteen-year-old guy are you to shrug at sex?" Aiden says, something in his eyes a little too calculating for Sebastian's liking considering how much alcohol he's put away. It makes him think about Blaine, about why he might have landed in the hospital, and he remembers why he's chosen not to come out to anyone.
"Alcohol and weed are better distractions to my problems," he says, trying not to seem like he's being so careful that it's a constructed lie and he's avoiding the question. "I've never found any chick on her knees capable of helping me forget for very long."
"He's got a point," Terry says with a nod. Sebastian tries not to be grateful that his excuse – which isn't wholly a lie – is apparently accepted by their unspoken leader. "Chicks weep too much about it hurting and be gentle and do you love me?. It fucking kills your buzz before you've had the chance to get off but this," he holds up his brown-papered bottle with flourish, "this will linger with you for fucking hours."
"A-fucking-men, dude," Sebastian says with a fist bump to Terry's outstretched hand, and he knows his little secret stays hidden a bit longer.
"And for that ability to keep Mitchy's dick in his pants, for which we are all very grateful, I think you deserve another drink," John says, passing the bottle which Sebastian accepts. Mitch is spluttering and protesting at the hoots, hollers and howls of laughter he's receiving.
The hours move by in a haze. It only really registers that time has passed because the bottles are empty, the joints have been puffed down to the filters, and all that's left is the five of them swaying on the playground equipment as Mitch and Aiden sing some terrible 90s song out of tune. Sebastian thinks it was by that group of British girls – one of them was named after a spice like cinnamon or nutmeg – but his brain stopped properly functioning a while ago and it's a pretty irrelevant detail anyway.
"Fuck, I don't wanna go home," John mutters, interrupting the intoxicated revelry by flinging a misshapen snowball at the ground. It breaks apart with a soft poof sound and Sebastian kicks his feet at the snow feeling despondent. He doesn't want to go home either. He's been putting off the thoughts about returning there for hours.
"Survive Christmas night with your dick of an old man and you can come crash on my couch the rest of the holidays," Aiden offers, his hand strongly gripping John's shoulder. Sebastian can't tell if it's to offer support or because Aiden's in need of something supportive to hold.
"Thanks, man," John says, struggling to stand straight and climb off the play equipment. Aiden's hand slides down until it's in his lap and he looks about ready to fall over – apparently Aiden was in need of something to hold onto – while John probably would have toppled headfirst into the snow if Sebastian hadn't been at the bottom and caught his arms, narrowly sparing him from getting a face full of freezing or injuring his skull. There's a drunken laugh from someone and muffled thanks as John adjusts his scarf and grips the play equipment as, Sebastian suspects, the spinning in his head stops.
"Guess I'd better go. He should be passed out by now," John sighs and Sebastian wonders what his story is. He's never really wondered before, he's never made much of an effort to really get to know these guys. Part of it is probably because he's younger or because he's tolerated for his agreeableness to drinking and smoking and offering witty asides. He knows he's not exactly part of the little niche of friends, but he thinks he's okay with that. Even if he doesn't know what sort of dick John's father is like.
But anything he might want to ask really falls in to the categories of either 'not wanting to know' or 'no right to know'. It's easier to keep meeting up with them if all he knows is that they all come from fucked up backgrounds but have agreed to leave that baggage by the fence to the park so they can truly lose their minds.
"Take care, dude," Aiden calls after his retreating figure. He, Terry and Mitch echo the sentiment as John disappears into the night.
"This shit always gets fucking boring when we run out of gear."
Mitch and Aiden laugh at Terry but Sebastian silently agrees. Sometimes he's someone who can't sit still because he's got an abundance of energy. It was part of why his parents got him into athletics when he was younger. He enjoys hanging out but once there's nothing more to pass, nothing more to do but sit around and engage in drunken, curse-filled conversation, it gets pretty dull.
He checks his phone about ten minutes after John's gone and it takes a moment to focus on the fact it's a bit after seven. He'll pretend he saw some friends and ate dinner with them – these guys are technically his friends, right? – and if his parents challenge his lie because it's Christmas and he should have been at home with family… Well. Fuck them. He's still fuming that his mother brought up Lillian, as if he has no right to feel unhappy because he's been forgotten. Instead it's all about how his sister is sick and just… He gets that she's sick but does that mean she's the only thing his parents can ever talk about and use an excuse for their shitty parenting?
Mitch and Aiden start singing again, louder than before. It sounds almost like cats being tortured by their tails getting yanked around. Terry tries to tell them to shut the fuck up before someone calls the cops to make a noise complaint, but Sebastian's too buzzed to really care. Everything kind of feels like it's happening a long way away, that he's drifting through calm currents of molasses and he doesn't have to think or feel or worry anymore. It's one of those rare times that he realises he's delightfully empty of concerns about Lillian's health.
After deliberately ignoring two phone calls from his mother, he knows he'd better get home before she calls the cops to search for him. He bids goodbye to the guys, feeling unhappy about having to leave, and hurries home as quickly as he can when the path beneath his feet seems to twist and turn. He curses the shitty government workers that couldn't put down a godforsaken straight footpath as he turns onto his street and beelines for his house in a bit of a staggering zig-zag.
He can hear the television in the living room and thinks he'll make a quick dash up the stairs before either of his parents can call him and reprimand him. He's probably a bit too unsteady on his feet as it is and the last thing he needs is to give away his antics at the park with the guys.
"Not hungry. Goodnight!" he calls but his mother storms out of the room, grabbing his wrist as he starts on the stairs.
"Not so fast."
She yanks at it and he stills, swaying slightly as he glances over his shoulder with no small amount of distaste reflected in his eyes for her. He might have had hours away from this place but he still feels a lot of resentment. He still can't stand her. The fawning over Lillian has reached proportions too large for him to handle. He loves his sister but enough is enough.
She falters under the look, her eyes narrowing as she lets his wrist go. He considers that a success because at least now he can continue up the stairs.
"Where have you been?" she says, her voice following him on his ascent. It's more determined than he might have given her credit for considering her general failure to be anything other than pathetic.
"With friends," he snaps, his hand gripping at the bannister in a mixture of frustration and dizziness. "You know, those people you see when your home life sucks?"
He looks at her in time to see her flinch. Good. Let it hurt. Maybe she'd gain some understanding of how much he keeps hurting too.
"There's no need to talk to me like that, Sebastian."
There's an element to her words which could almost pass for pissed-off-parent, and yet he knows her well enough that it's all just a front. She doesn't really care otherwise it would take more than his fizzling temper to remind her that he exists.
Fed up, he shuffles his feet around on the step to look down at her. It's potentially a dangerous decision because the stairs look like they're a long way down and he's a bit concerned about teetering the way John did and pitching face-first down them.
"Oh. I'm sorry," he drawls, not in the least sorry. He never, ever, ever will be. "It's just such a surprise you want to talk to me at all."
She flinches again and he knows that she's so ridiculously weak. She can't handle anything and he may as well be invincible. Deep down though, he's glad he's numb, he's glad he can't really feel anything but this brewing anger. If he was sober, he'd probably feel really fucking guilty. Then again, maybe this is just the best way to say exactly what he thinks and feels over this entire shitty situation. As far as he's concerned, the only person to blame for making him feel like crap is his parents for doing a crap job of looking after him.
Amelia Smythe takes an unsteady breath, regarding him with a small shake of her head. "I don't know who you are anymore, Sebastian" she admits quietly before returning to the living room.
The fact that she just walked away makes him see red. If he knew that walking down the stairs was a safe possibility, he'd probably attempt it just to wave his hands in her face. His fingers shake and his skin crawls as anger courses through his blood in splashy red.
"Yeah?" he yells after her, itching for a fight he knows she won't give him. Weak. "Well, I don't know who you are anymore either, so I guess that makes us even!"
Silence follows his words.
There's no acknowledgement from her that he'd said anything or she'd heard it. It increases his infuriation and he wishes he was sober or younger, when doggedly following her around and hurling insults might have offered some sort of relief from this constant turmoil inside his head. Now that he's older, he knows that being an insolent brat is pointless. She won't fight back. She won't engage with him. She'd rather pretend he's not there. Maybe she doesn't want a son. Maybe she wishes he was sick rather than Lillian, because at least then Lillian could be her little girl and he'd be out of her way.
That particular thought makes his stomach turn and he stalks up the last few steps as steadily as he can, slamming his bedroom door so hard that it makes the walls shake. He can't get it out of his head that she resents him and wishes he'd never been born. He locks the door and paces around his room, ripping off clothes before he wonders if maybe a shower will help, if maybe he can wash away the stench of weed and alcohol and unwanted son. Maybe they've never been proud of him. Maybe they never wanted him. Maybe if he died and gave his heart to Lillian, they'd all fucking rejoice because they got the child they always wanted and the dead weight was…well…dead.
He clutches at his hair as he falls to the tiled floor, crying against his knees as it builds and builds and builds inside him, as he spirals and spirals and spirals, because as far as he's concerned and convinced, everything about this entire family dynamic makes so much more sense now.
The water is warm enough to thaw his cold limbs and conceal his tears, but it offers little other benefit to his distressed mind.
He stirs awake mid-morning on Christmas Day – no Lillian means no small child jumping on him at six in the morning squealing over Santa bringing presents – to his phone skittering across his bedside table. He groans because his head is throbbing and and gropes blindly for the damn thing because opening his eyes is going to hurt like fuck. He's fully prepared to rip the person on the other end a new one as he answers and-
"Hey."
And his mouth closes before he can launch into a tirade about it being Christmas Day and family time and go the fuck away.
"Hey, Blaine."
There are a few moments of irregular huffing over the line. He's torn between thinking it's adorable or weird as he waits for the other boy to speak. "I guess I… I mean, I can't really say Happy or Merry Christmas given the circumstances of your sister but… Uh… Make a snowman for me or something today and smile, yeah?"
Right. So Blaine was embarrassed, not rubbing one out. Good to know. Though the image of Blaine jerking himself off is a good one.
He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth to hold back the yawn he can feel building. "Yeah, I'm not really feeling the spirit this year." There are spirits he could feel though – a bottle of vodka or brandy would do the trick nicely – but that's not really what Christmas was about. Even he, in his grouchy, hung-over state, knew that. "What about you?"
"Cooper came yesterday. He was…" Blaine sighs and he can imagine the boy fidgeting while he searches for the words. "He's been cooler about this than my parents, at least. They tend to look at me like I'm some sort of alien."
Sebastian smiles, tucking the phone closer to his ear and rolling over in bed to face the wall. "I know that feeling, and I'm not even the one with bionic limbs."
"They are not bionic limbs!" Blaine says indignantly, making Sebastian snort. He'd peeked at some of the x-rays when Blaine was out of it. That arm, leg and collarbone had a fuckload of metal rods and pins and screws embedded beneath the skin now. He was pretty convinced there was more metal holding Blaine's left side together than bone and thinks it's lucky he had such a dedicated team of surgeons willing to repair the shattered limbs. Others might have said it was impossible to recover from and amputated.
It's thoughts like that which make him cringe.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Killer," he teases, attempting to shift his train of thought towards a more pleasant destination. Blaine grunts.
"So what are your plans for the day anyway? Besides making a snowman in my honour?"
Sebastian hums with amusement at the thought of making anything for Blaine in his honour. He wondered if he felt like making a snowman. Like the Christmas tree, building snow lumps which vaguely resembled creatures was something he'd partaken in more for Lillian's benefit than his own enjoyment.
"Dunno," he says finally. "Probably some disgustingly overcooked meal with company which was more deserving of seeing the inside of an oven."
"Wow. Bitter, much?"
There's a small wince considering how inappropriate what he said probably is, how he should never wish that sort of thing least of all his parents, but he still feels hurt and fractured by the conversations of yesterday. It leaves him shrugging and picking at the edge of his blanket. "Let's just say I'd rather not be here today."
Blaine offers a sound of sympathy that's far more genuine than anything Sebastian could have mustered up. He thinks it's because Blaine's so good, he's so at ease with offering himself and his pain for others to see while Sebastian is so guarded that he's not sure even he can find his way to the centre of his emotions anymore.
"I know you can't exactly call me but um… I'm here for you and stuff, you know?
Something squeezes around Sebastian's heart and he shuts his eyes, refusing to acknowledge anything about what Blaine says. Blaine is just….Blaine. Young, innocent, fourteen-year-old Blaine who is ridiculously optimistic at all times despite being bashed up and left for dead. He's precious and vulnerable and Sebastian remains steadfast in his belief that Blaine never deserved to be hurt that way.
"Thanks." He fidgets a moment more with the blanket before realising his mother was fiddling with her hands yesterday and immediately stops. He doesn't want to be anything like her, to mimic any of her traits. He'll never be that pathetic excuse for a person. "I think I can hear my mom calling me so I probably should go see what the hell she wants."
It's a lie, a blatant lie, because he hasn't heard a door creak or even a footstep beyond his door, but he's afraid of staying on the phone any longer and potentially bringing his emotional guts up for Blaine to bear witness to. The thought that someone's there for him is… No one has said that to him. Ever.
"No worries. I hope your day turns out better than you're expecting." Blaine pauses, but there's something about the pause that indicates to Sebastian that something unsaid lingers on his tongue.
"What is it?" he prompts after waiting several seconds too long.
"Just… Be nice? It's Christmas, Seb."
Ah. So Blaine is one of those people that dances around with their arms outstretched to the falling snow, one of those people who walks through malls playing piped Christmas carols a month early and has a bit of extra pep in his step, one of those people who sees the Christmas specials airing on TV and actually watches them.
The fact he can have such an abundance of Christmas spirit from a hospital bed is almost demoralising to Sebastian's complete disinterest.
"I make no promises," he says, because being nice implies he's feeling charitable towards those he's related to. The worst offender is his mother and he thinks it would take much more than Blaine's imploration of being nice to get him to give her a chance. Besides, he's definitely in need of some aspirin before he ventures downstairs so maybe that will soften him up, though he's doubtful it will make him feel like being a decent human being for the day.
There's an exchange of farewells before the call ends. He drags himself from the bed to his bathroom, reaching for the bottle of painkillers behind the mirror and swallowing three with a couple of handfuls of water. He takes a few minutes in an attempt to put himself together into something resembling a typical fifteen-year-old boy on Christmas morning who intends to have a shower later in preparation for the proper Christmas meal.
The problem is that it's been so long since he properly attended school, since he had any semblance of a normal life, that he's not exactly sure what typical is anymore.
He shuffles downstairs tentatively, still unsteady on his feet and unsure about his stability in staying on the staircase without toppling over. Once he gets to the bottom, he realises how utterly quiet and still the house stands, as if it's holding its breath in anticipation. He frowns at the unnatural atmosphere within the house, looking first in the living room for either of his parents. The tree is as bare as the day before and still utterly vacant of presents. He's glad he didn't waste his money on pointless gifts, although he's resentful again that his parents haven't bothered to remember that there is another child they could show some love and affection towards.
His next stop is the kitchen, which is cold and barren of his parents too. He pauses to look in the fridge and sees that it lacks the usual Christmas foods. Perhaps he should have suspected it considering how little his parents have been home the past few days and weeks, but it hits him then that Christmas is being ignored, that the only evidence it's the end of the year is a naked Christmas tree and a pile of snow on the streets of Ohio.
Something starts to twist in his stomach, sickeningly tight and disgusting. His thoughts from the night before, that his parents never wanted him in the first place, rear their filthy heads as he explores every room in the house. The noise in his head gets louder and louder with every door he throws open to reveal empty room after empty room until it becomes apparent – until he's forced to admit – that he's home alone.
On Christmas Day.
His whole world shatters around him as he tries to get back to his room. He starts plotting about what he's going to do, about the effects of taking a bottle and a couple of joints to the park and blowing the day losing himself in their effects. Maybe he'll try to find the edge of oblivion, the place where there simply is no more and the hurt, the insecurity, which he feels about his parents' attitude towards him being ceases to be a burden to bear on his shoulders. Maybe then they'll have a use for him again, when his heart can get carved from his chest to be nestled inside Lillian's.
He passes the open door of his parents' room and sees a note propped up on the end of the mattress. His heart beats harder as he steps closer and picks it up to find it's folded around a brochure.
We decided to spend the day with Lillian, since this might be her last Christmas with us and you no longer seem interested in being a member of this family. Have a look at the brochure but know this – we have already enrolled you to start there on January 4th. Your dorm room will be available on January 2nd, which is when we will deliver you to its doorstep. You have worn out any opportunity to express a disagreement with your despicable behaviour and we will no longer tolerate such negativity in our house when Lillian is ailing and requires our attention to her care.
- William Smythe
His hands are shaking violently as he tries to put all the words together, the page getting splashed with tears which make the letters warp and spread further around the page. He can't breathe, he can't think, as he struggles to understand what's happening. Every time he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him, he forces an attempt to focus on the words and re-read sentences that pierce every piece of his heart, soul and emotional core.
His world starts to crumble around him as he fractures apart on the inside.
With a furious, hurt scream that it's true, it's all true, everything he'd thought the night before is true, he picks up the wedding photo on his parents' dresser, the one where they look so happy and healthy and sickeningly in love, and shatters it against the wall above their bed. The impact quite possibly leaves a dent on the wall but it's nothing to how the letter has ripped him into shreds. He doesn't feel the faintest trace of guilt as he witnesses the glass smash, the wood splinter and the photo flutter towards the ground. He considers shredding it with his fingers, a final fuck you to the people that can't truly be considered his parents anymore. They are Lillian's and Lillian's only.
He's convinced they believe that the Smythes have no son.
His stomach finally catches up with his head and his heart, turning inside out and deciding to give him barely enough time to make a dash to his bathroom to empty it of its meagre contents. He clings to the porcelain bowl, sobbing and shuddering as he falls to pieces on the bathroom floor, and tries to grapple with the knowledge that he's utterly alone.
~TBC~