Intense emotional/psychological abuse towards the end. Please read with caution if that's a big trigger for you.
Clouds cloaked the night sky in a wintery moss. A layer of white covered the front hood of the red pickup parked in the driveway. The owners of the two-story home were off galivanting in whatever the Dimmsdale nightlife had to offer, having left the responsibility of their remaining offspring to that of the teenage babysitter and her baby sister.
Less than amused, the redhaired teen used the remote to flip through the channels of cabled television. Slouched on the Turners' couch with feet propped lazily on the coffee table. Beside her was her raven-haired sister sketching away in her notebook, drawing hand cuffed with her teal bracelet. The black ink of her pen outlined a heart shape around the two cartooned figures, a boy with a baseball cap and buckteeth holding the hand of a geeky girl with pigtails and glasses. With her notebook propped across the lap of bent knees, she hoped the sketch would remain hidden from her older sister, fearing that she would disapprove.
In joining Vicky whenever she was called to babysit, Tootie came to realize Vicky's sour distaste for Timmy. Even for less-reoccurring requests, Vicky was not nearly as ruthlessly calculated to those kids as she was with him. Tootie didn't understand why yet never dared question it. The adverse effect of an overtly religious upbringing had taught her that questioning someone of authority was unheard of unless you dare suffer the consequences.
Unlike her sister, Tootie did not see how Timmy deserved maltreatment. Sure, he was mean at times, but he wasn't always that way when his sister was alive. Tootie understood his past behavior towards her; she had falsely promised that Sophia's soul would be spared from the grip of death, and his guilt grieved her loss. But that wasn't Timmy…not the real Timmy.
Timmy had started on a new foot with her, and so far, he'd kept his word. Even when she could tell that he was in a bad mood, he was nice to her. He'd compliment her artwork (the less 'graphic' pictures that she was willing to display,) and if they weren't with Remy and Chloe, he always sought to sit with her at lunch so that she wouldn't be alone. Whether he'd attempt to make conversation or simply sit and quietly watch her draw, he was there for her.
Connecting the end points of the heart around the two cartoon figures holding hands, she had to hide the blush of pink across the bridge of her nose out of Vicky's sight. She'd always been fond of Timmy even when he was not so fond of her. Now that they were closer, the idea of always having him lived inside her mind rent free. At the very least, it was her sanity's saving grace from the inevitable fact of seeing her parents in court. Imagining him being with her helped her feel less scared.
"Twerp!" her sister bellowed over the drone of the tv, jerking her slightly. "Get cha lazy butt down here!"
She then directed her gaze to the stair's rails, and a moment passed before the pink-hatted boy emerged from the sanctuary of his bedroom for the third time that evening. He trudged towards the landing with narrowed eyes. "…what do you want now?"
"I'm thirsty!" Vicky sneered. "Be a good boy and fetch me a drink!"
Tootie wasn't a fan Vicky treating him like some dog, but what troubled her more was Timmy's sullen compliance. The Timmy she knew would have some sort of snarky comeback. Instead, he dragged his feet down each step without rebuttal, hunched as he entered the kitchen to prepare whatever was in the refrigerator.
She also noted the lack of his pink and green wristbands, knowing that, for whatever reason, he had a tendency to leave his fairies in his room whenever Vicky was to babysit. Vicky had told her about a vivid nightmare that she had babysitting Timmy one time, about sitting in a bathtub covered in whipped cream and gelatin before she was transformed into a snake getting choked by Timmy. That sounded like an oddly specific nightmare, and when Tootie had questioned Timmy about it, he was hesitant to admit that it was real events framed as a nightmare to avoid suspicion that something 'mystical' was happening.
Vicky suppressed a chuckle, warmed with cruel satisfaction. No matter what she commanded him to do, the twerp did it without complaint. If he did complain, he wised up and kept it to himself, even when she'd coerced him into clean the guest bathroom toilet right after she'd defecated it on purpose. Man, it was so satisfying to see him suffer! Without much of a fight, at that! Whatever the Turners said or did to make him fall in line and learn his place, it made watching the brat an easy bag all the more.
When Timmy returned with a glass of apple juice, he hadn't made it past the archway before Vicky held out a rejecting palm. "You forgot ice, dingus!"
With a low grumble, Timmy turned back into the kitchen, scooping what little ice was in the ice maker. He came back with apple juice with ice, only to get rejected again when Vicky held up her hand.
"What about my sister?" Vicky pointed to Tootie beside her with her other hand. "Does she not get a drink?"
You literally said fetch you a drink…Timmy wanted to say. Releasing his frustration through a heavy sigh, he turned around to slog into the kitchen.
Tootie could see the deviant smile curl in Vicky's lips, wondering why she seemed so happy to see Timmy so blatantly miserable. She then watched as Timmy came back with two iced glasses of apple juice, opting to offer one to her first. Blushing butterflies fluttered again as Tootie accepted her cup, pink spreading across the bridge of her nose as bashful eyes briefly looked away.
This made Timmy stall, having noticed this reaction whenever he was anywhere close to her person. He didn't have much time to dwell when Vicky seized the opportunity to snatch her cup from his hand, stand from the couch, and promptly pour juice over his head before he could defend himself.
The teen cackled in wicked glee, pointing a mocking finger to the boy's hair now a tacky weight on his head. An ice-cold stream cascaded down his forehead and off his disgruntled chin. He gritted his fists as his bucktooth bit down, taking a belittling beating from her squawk. His fists tremored faintly, and Tootie brought a palm to her chest with a saddened pout.
She could see the hours of downright bullying begin to take its toll, yet he said nothing. He did nothing but just stand there as a steady pool of juice formed around his feet. He was always there for her, yet in his time of need, she didn't know how to be there for him. Not without potentially upsetting Vicky, her beloved sister, and sealing her fate on Vicky's bad side.
Vicky ceased her laughter with the most patronizing grin. "Clean this up, or else I'll tell your folks about you talking back and refusing to do as I say! Unless you wanna get grounded again!"
"Tsk…" Timmy was nowhere near as defiant as he could and should have been, and he knew Vicky knew this as well. However, what had been engrained by his parents was that he was no less insolent, no less a menace, than his cousin's psychopathic father. It'd always been his word against Vickys. Compared to him, Vicky was considered a saint who could do no wrong.
You can't win a battle that you've already lost.
Squeezing her cold apple juice, Tootie watched as Timmy turned in sticky steps towards the supply closet for cleaning supplies, small footsteps of apple juice tracking his trail. She then aimed a side-eye at the absolute pleasure cheesing Vicky's grin as Vicky sat back down as Vicky reclaimed the remote, opting to find another channel since her main source of entertainment had left.
. . . . . .
Only the animated wallpaper of his idle computer shined light in late evening that darkened olive-green walls. He'd propped the metal cage of his feathery companions atop his lap, reaching his slender fingers inside with gentle brushes to his green parakeet prince and pink galah princess. The birds found comfort in his affectionate gesture, and he found comfort in their reciprocation of love.
Carlos and Wilma sat still with eyes closed blissfully as his fingers continued to brush the tops of their heads along their feathers. The fifth-grade teacher quietly observed them through a sulking lens. Carlos and Wilma had seemed extremely tired, having spent majority of their day settled near the floor of their cage instead of on their perch. Their birdfeeder remained as full as he'd filled it that morning before he'd left them to essentially babysit other people's brats, and their feathers appeared dirty. He had tried to give them a bath earlier, pouring lukewarm water into his palm while he waited for them to come to him. Normally, they wouldn't waste a second to bathe in his hand. This time, the flapped idly before they eventually took flight towards him.
On top of his worry for them, he'd been plagued with this mental fog. Like there was something that he should remember, yet his brain simply couldn't. Of course, he'd felt this way majority of his life, specifically when he struggled to recall a whole age. As if he was nine one day, then he blinked and it was the day before his eleventh birthday.
This felt much different, though; he'd spent that entire week before the start of break playing educational videos on the projector or giving his class easy busy work that even Turner would complete with ease. It was the last week before break anyway, so it hardly mattered. He just couldn't be bothered to concentrate on anything other than the brick wall in his mind that was impossible to climb.
The sketches of winged creatures and the very specific phrase 'Fairies!' written on his wall had chipped away at the brick, but only a bit. Then there was Turner and those other kids that he spent more and more time with, kids that weren't Chester or AJ. Aside from being his students, there was something familiar about them. But every time he laid eyes upon them and whatever random colorful item they'd show up with, that brick wall grew higher.
In the evenings, he would come home to the piles of papers and digital files on his computer. All filled with years of research of magical creatures that he believed lived among them, hidden in plain sight. He still believed that fairies existed, that he could remember. But what was it all for? What did it all mean?
"Denzel? Denzel Crocker?!"
Carlos and Wilma fluttered, though they didn't dare leave Mr. Crocker's touch. Mr. Crocker shot a glare towards the door, annoyed by the deep, feminine voice of the last person he wanted to see.
"I'm both respecting your privacy by knocking but asserting my authority as your mother by coming in anywaaaaaay!"
His door nearly flew off the henges from the sheer force of the battering ram, his mother's eerily favorite tool used solely for invading his room, the only space in the entire house that he could claim for himself. The wielder of the battering ram stood short and stocky, sharing the genetically poor vision and ears on her neck. Curly hair and bushy brows silver with old age, a youthful bow matched the long sleeves and white collar of her blue-gray dress reaching past the knees of her skin tone pantyhose.
His eyes squinted, adjusting to the hallway light piercing into his darkened bedroom as black heels trotted inside. Pitter-pattering their way towards her only son's bed with creased brows. "Denzel, why is it so dark in here!?"
"I like it dark." was his response to his mother's grouse. And, per usual, she quickly dismissed this with a cheerful gleam.
"Denzel, you'll never guess what happened to me at the supermarket today!" Dolores-Day Crocker beamed, setting the battering ram down. "I met this lovely woman, and she has the body of a runway model! She's also very intelligent, just like my little boy!"
Mr. Crocker sighed, aware of what came next "…and?"
"You should call her!" she pulled back her collar, stuffing a hand inside the bra that supported her sizable chest like it had yet to sag. Ignoring her son's cringe as she dug for the piece of paper with handwritten digits. "Here's her number!"
Still cringing, Mr. Crocker removed his fingers from the bird cage, causing Carlos and Wilma's eyes to fly open at the sudden interruption of affection. He lifted the cage from his lap, setting it aside on his bed. Geraldine left him at his lowest, and woman after [if any] hadn't bothered giving him a chance. Why would this woman that his mother ran into at the supermarket of all places be any different?
"…I'll pass." He grumbled, making her pout.
"Oh, but she's very sweet!"
"…your point?"
"Mommy's not getting any younger, you know!" she flattened hands to her wide hips. "When am I finally gonna have my grandchildren!?"
"When are you gonna finally croak…"
Dolores huffed, deeply offended. "That's not very nice, Denzel!"
"Then stop playing matchmaker with ever woman you see just for them to toss me like trash!" he shot from his bed, towering over the mother who used to tower over him. "All every woman has ever done was ridicule my 'crazy conspiracies' telling me to grow up!"
"Well, Denzel, you do need to grow up!" Dolores would honestly have to agree. "You're a forty-year-old virgin still living with your mother!"
Hit below the belt, why don't you. "How about I just move out of the house that you can't afford alone on social security!"
"You might as well at this point! It always feels like you'd rather spend more time with birds than your own mother!"
Mr. Crocker slit his brow, balling his fists. Anger suppressed in its holding cell banging against the bars to be freed. "That's so rich coming from you…" he spoke lowly, pushing through the tightness in his throat "…you made such little time for me growing up, yet you expect me to make time for you!?"
"Oh, not this again…" Dolores groaned, shoulders slouched in annoyance at this reoccurring debate.
Mr. Crocker gritted his teeth. "Yes, this again…since you feel so flippin' entitled!"
Puffing her chest, Dolores edged forward, ready to make the same argument that was her truth. "You know darn well that I did what I had to do when your father-"
"DON'T…" his low growl warned, anger pounding the bars of its suppressive cell in rapid succession "…bring him into this."
"It's true and you know it!" Dolores argued anyway. "He chose to leave us for a whole other life, and I was the only one to keep a roof over our heads, food in the fridge, and clothes on our backs!"
"Yeah, the bare minimum!" irritation raised his voice. "You never helped me with my homework, you never kissed me goodnight, and you barely hugged me!"
"For goodness sakes, Denzel, I love you! I've always told you that-"
"Actions speak louder, mother!" his voice began to crack, just like the metal bars in his soul. "When did you ever show that you loved me?!"
Dolores pinched the bridge of her nose. Her ex-husband walked out on his life with her a toddler! All because he felt 'disconnected.' All because he 'fell in love with someone else who finally loved him back.' Baloney! He no longer wanted a family, and he no longer wanted her! He bailed and left an entire household to keep up and running! Denzel knew this, so why on earth does he keep insisting that she didn't love him!? She kept him alive!
Why is that never enough!?
"That's crazy talk, Denzel! I made sure you never went without! And this is how you act when it's your turn?!"
The bars began to bend at the cracks, losing to anger's ramming charges. "My turn?! What in the heck is that supposed to mean!?"
"Any other mother would've sent you packing the moment you turned eighteen! I let you stay, because I thought my little boy would take care of Mommy for a change!"
Bars bent further the stronger anger became.
"Turns out, I was wrong! Because it was too much to assume that you would show some gratitude!"
At full strength, one final push cracked the bars…and like a wild animal, anger escaped.
"GET OUUUUUUT!" he screeched. Veins bulged in Mr. Crocker's neck, his face turning a dangerous shade of scarlet. "GET OUT NOOOOOOOOW!"
Her lips clamped shut, furrowing her brow at the pinch in her heart. She never liked seeing her son so upset. He became impossible to reason with whenever he reached such a point. But none of this would happen if he would just stop holding everything against her.
Dolores retrieved her battering ram, black heels pitter-pattering in troubled trots out of the room. The door barely slammed shut before Mr. Crocker dropped to his bed, faceplanting his pillow. Fists squeezing the pillow that muffled roaring anger, releasing decades of pain that had nowhere else to go but out…
Eventually, his roars stopped, heaving breathes against his pillow as quivers wrecked his arms. Enclosed within the evening shadows in his room. He hated this, he hated this so much. She never listens to him. She never hears him! Nobody hears him!
Nobody hears the real pain inside!
No…he's just crazy. The crazy 'fairy obsessed' teacher. The lunatic. The psychotic nutjob. Why would anyone ever listen to a nutjob…
"…love! Denzel!"
Bird croaks caused Mr. Crocker to lift his head. Blue light from his idle computer showed the green parakeet and the pink galah still in their cage. Struggling to flap their wings, using all of what strength they had. He used flat hands against the duvet to lift himself from the pillow, seeing them successfully flutter off the bottom of the cage. They flew towards him to land on his tensed shoulders, continuing to croak that they loved him as they brushed the top of their heads to his cheeks.
The anger that'd escaped soon melted into sorrow, just at the sight of their efforts to comfort him. He lifted fingers for Carlos to flutter onto his right with Wilma fluttering onto his left, and they faced his brooding gaze, perching on his fingers. "Love, Denzel!" they repeated, and he exhaled a hoarse mumble…
"…you're the only ones who do."
It was 11:11pm when Vicky shut the front door of the Turner residence, keeping her sister's notebook secure beneath her armpit with her free arm. The turners had finally returned about a couple minutes ago from their night out of feeling twenty-something again, and they seemed surprised when Vicky had nothing bad to report. The twerp hadn't left his room after cleaning up the mess, presuming that he'd gone to bed around nine o'clock as usual. Tootie had succumbed to sleep on the couch not long after, so the last two hours were smooth sailing. She had free cable as company and free access to cabinets, raiding for whatever snack she could find. No wonder their son's so freakin' skinny; those cabinets are a desert!
Once closed, she carried Tootie towards the pickup, her sister's cheek pressed softly against Vicky's shoulder in her sleep. Approaching the passenger side, Vicky reached in her pocket for the key, pressing the fob to unlock the door. She was careful laying Tootie into the backseat, supporting her head as she lowered her inside. This caused Tootie to stir, though her eyes remained closed. Curling in a ball as Vicky pulled the seatbelt to secure it into its buckle.
Setting the notebook beside Tootie's hand, Vicky carefully shut the door to the backseat. Making her way around the front to the driver's side before she entered, carefully shutting the door and inserted the key into the ignition before a short glimpse of curtains caught her eye. She glanced at the neighbor's home to the left of the Turners, seeing curtains sway as if they'd just been drawn.
Ah, the Dinklebergs. Probably spying just to go back to pretending she and her sister didn't exist. As far as she knew, they were still tied to that brainwashed cult. She remembered Mr. Turner saying something about the Dinklebergs and what they had the gall to say to him and his wife's faces. Telling them that their dead daughter no longer had a soul, and that this gave their souls a better chance of being saved by Jehovah if they receive Christ as their lord and savior.
A pretty shitty thing to tell someone right after said daughter died…no wonder Mr. Turner despised the Dinklebergs as much as he did.
"…V-Vicky?"
The meek squeak turned Vicky to purple eyes blinking away sleep in the back seat, wondering if she'd disturbed her sister by accident. "…yeah?"
Sitting herself up, Tootie raised her glasses to rub her eyes "…w-why…are you mean to Timmy?"
Vicky stared at her sister. Tootie didn't say much and spoke just above a murmur, and while glad to hear her voice, Vicky was still curious to what led Tootie to miraculously start speaking again.
Vicky scoffed, knowing her sister didn't now the half of what she still had yet to inflict on that twerp "…cuz he deserves it."
Tootie readjusted her glasses, squeaking "…how?"
"He killed his own sister."
"…b-but that was an accident."
Vicky continued to stare, raising a brow. "…why're you vouching for that twerp all of the sudden?"
Tootie bit her lip, swallowing her dry throat "…y-you don't know him like I do."
Vicky's unwavering stare rattled Tootie's bones. "...is that so?"
Tootie sunk into the backseat, her brow furrowed diffidently.
"Do you think anyone who hurts their own kin like our parents did don't deserve karma?"
Talk about a trick question.
Did Tootie believe that bad things come to those who do bad things? Yes, but is that truly how Karma works? Good people can do bad things, but it doesn't automatically make them bad people. Their parents meant to hurt them. Timmy never meant to hurt Sophia.
"I will never…be nice to the likes of him." Vicky spoke sternly yet softly, her pointed gaze fixed. "Not now, not ever."
Tootie pressed her lips together, suppressing a small whimper. Not because she was intimidated, but because she worried that, by defending Timmy, Vicky wouldn't love her anymore. She lowered crestfallen eyes to her teal bracelet staring back at her. Rose could see Tootie's internal conflict, wishing she knew a proper remedy.
Believing that her point had gotten across, Vicky turned in her seat and twisted the fob, and the engine awoke in a rumble. Setting the transmission in reverse, she used the rearview and side mirrors as guides backing out of the driveway onto the main road.
Once clear, the red pickup's transmission was set into drive. Roaring away just as a black 1989 BMW signaled before it rolled onto the driveway of the yellow house directly across the street from the Turner residence. The BMW parked behind the red Volvo that had returned home a few hours prior, shutting off the headlights before the engine died.
Exiting the car was an assembler at Dimmsdale Make-Up Factory and a cashier/stocker at Big $tuff. Two men of whom had courted each other since their early twenty yet had only just legally tied the knot a year ago in a different state. They had to fight for the same respect of matrimonial union as their straight counterparts, and they had to fight for the legal custody of their son. The son that they learned had suffered one of his biggest seizures yet, and the son that they immediately rushed to after long, strenuous shifts.
DeWitt wore black-rimmed glasses around the purple eyes that he shared with his son, auburn hair sleek down past his shoulders. His physique was more toned than his husband's, a tan sherpa protecting his stocker uniform of navy polo and khakis. Chisholm ran fingers through his short brunette spikes, an inch or so shorter and much slimmer than his husband. Dark-teal eyes and ivory skin riddled with freckles, he wore a grey, long-sleeved factory assembler jumpsuit under a black woven parka.
Sharing one car, one usually clocked off work in time to pick up the other, and they'd arrived home to a dark house, assuming that their son Dwight was still at the Bakers. That was until they checked the messages on their voicemail machine, having received a call from a number that was not the Bakers. Elmer's shaken voice played back, explaining where he and Dwight were and the distressing events that had taken place. They called the number back and spoke to a man named Clark, verifying Elmer's story and giving them the address of where they'd find the boys before they bolted back into freezing temperatures.
Before he could begin the second grade, Dwight had been administered a series of mandatory vaccines. The Schalatters were warned of the extremely high fevers as an adverse side effect, as well as the seizures that were an adverse side effect of the high fevers. But when the fever went away and the seizures did not, DeWitt and Chisholm could not have been less prepared for the rough road ahead.
Dwight practically lived in the hospital for the first two years, bouncing from Neurologist to Neurologist trying to determine the root cause which would determine best treatment plan of these seizures. Just when one medication stopped seizures on one side of the brain, they'd start up again from another part of the brain and throw their progress back at square one.
Multiple medical stays and appointments came at a big medical price. Income just above minimum wage barely floated above the surface of financial debt, but while their time and resources were getting thinner, Dwight's seizures seemed to get worse.
The seizure at the Carmichael residence was Dwight's first grand mal in years. Time was not on their side, and neither was financial stability.
DeWitt had reached the front door first. He knocked before the bolt unlocked and a man with hunter-green eyes and blonde hair appeared.
"Hi, you must be the fathers of Dwight." Clark greeted, visible bags beneath his eyes. Still dressed in his wildlife uniform.
"Yessir." Chisholm confirmed, rubbing his cold hands together.
Their gaze filled with worry were more than the proof Clark needed. "Come in." he stepped aside for the two men to enter.
DeWitt and Chisholm saw two boys on opposite ends of the couch, tucked beneath a wide blanket in their winter coats. One snoozed soundly, snoring softly through lax lips with a small trail of drool. The other whimpered in his sleep, curled in a ball with tight fists. Seizures greater than a focal easily drained Dwight, more often leaving him down for the count. And Elmer was inexperienced with the intensity of grand mals. Both he and the Bakers had been prepped on what to do in emergency situations, but he'd never experienced the real deal until tonight.
DeWitt walked over and kneeled to his son, giving gentle strokes to his auburn locks, while Chisholm went to his cousin's son, shaking him softly until the boy shuddered out of disturbed sleep.
"Hey, bud…" Chisholm mustered a grin, grabbing the glasses that rested on the armrest near Elmer's head. He took the time to put them on, giving Elmer his vision back. "…you alright?"
Elmer sniffed, holding fretful fists to his chest.
"You did a good job today." Chisholm made sure to praise, hoping that would lift Elmer out of his shell. Seizures can be scary, and with how skittish Elmer could be, he was proud of Elmer for stepping up and taking the reins.
If only Elmer could accept the commendation "…t-thanks."
Having come home from her own fourteen-hour shift some time prior, the middle-aged woman was dressed in her veterinarian uniform, her ginger hair in a neat swoop below her shoulders beneath a bush hat. Blue eyes remained stern, arms crossed against her chest. Standing off to the side next to her daughter who had yet to retire to bed.
With her indigo booby bird standing on its feet beside her, Chloe's fingers crinkled the ends of platinum blonde strands. Tugging at her hair in attempts to keep the deep breaths through her nose under control. Fatigue reddened the whites of her eyes bogged by the same bags of her father. Yet her mind was wide awake, replaying those erratic, horrific convulsions on a compulsive loop.
Compared to her worst panic attack that had literally stopped her heart, Chloe felt more terrible for Dwight. Why did anyone, let alone a kind soul like him, have to deal with such a debilitating condition? It just wasn't fair; why do bad things happen to good people?!
"…you okay, Chlo-bird?" Susie whispered worriedly.
Chloe looked to her godmother in disguise, leaning for her low voice to be heard "…can't I just wish that Dwight no longer had epilepsy?"
Susie's jaw clenched. Honestly, she'd expected that type of question well before now. Still, Chloe was not going to like the answer "…I'd grant it if I could."
Chloe noted Susie's morose response "…why can't you?"
Susie exhaled. "Against Da Rules to wish away diseases and disorders…'specially if it's the main reason fairies are needed. If a kid could simply wish their life was better, then the there'd be no purpose for godparents..."
Her gap chomped on her lip, turning it red with scraping fingers close to de-scalping strands from their roots. What kind of logic is that?! "Does the Fairy Council want miserable kids to be happy, or do they just use magic as a band aid?"
…well, when you put it that way. "I wish I knew, hun…"
"Is Dwight on any medication?" Clark thought to ask, taking a couple steps towards the two men. "I mean, if he's had this disorder for a while, then I would assume it'd properly controlled by now."
"It was properly controlled…" DeWitt sighed, shifting on the floor to address Clark while his hand continued to stroke Dwight's hair "…until our insurance suddenly decided they didn't want to pay for his medication."
"You're appealing this, right?" Clark inquired, genuinely curious.
"We've been trying, but…" DeWitt paused, held back by his own shame. Chastened eyes glanced to his husband for her support "…we've been spreading them out. Trying to make them last until something gives."
Of course…Connie exhaled an irritated breath. She comes home after a stressful day to a boy passed out on her couch, another boy freaking out, and her daughter having another of those 'attacks,' because of their incompetence?! Proof that same-sex couples are not fit to be parents.
"…spread them out?" Clark was trying to understand.
Seeing his husband's need for backup, Chisholm soon shifted to address Clark as well "…we've had him alternate between one a day instead of taking them as prescribed." he clarified, not proud of his words. "We know it's not the best, but his medications run well into the thousands per bottle out of pocket…"
"That's why his seizure was as bad as it was!" Connie had to interject, confronting the neglectful parents. "A big mistake could've cost his life!"
"We're aware, ma'am." Chisholm didn't appreciate her confrontational tone. "And with all due respect, you don't know our whole situation."
"Actually, I do!" Connie countered, ignoring Clark's glare of disapproval. "Saving money is more important than your own child's health."
"We're working our butts off to save money for our child!" Chisholm raised his voice, not out of disrespect, but in defense for his family, while DeWitt frowned briefly towards their son, at least glad that Dwight remained undisturbed. "Huge medical bills don't care about small incomes!"
Connie's pomposity scoffed. "Sounds like you should've gone to college-"
"Connie, shut up!"
Clark spoke sternly over her, receiving a catty scowl in return. Chloe stopped pulling her hair to wrap arms around herself, resulting in her indigo booby bird to waddle closer as her feathers pressed against Chloe's leg in an offer of comfort.
Fuming frustration creased Chisholm's brow, and though equally as offended, DeWitt took his hand from Dwight to reach for Chisholm's fingers. Chisholm backed down the instant he felt DeWitt's touch, meeting his firm gaze and subtle headshake. The wife may be rude, but her husband was kind enough to help their son, and at the end of the day, they were guests in their home.
"Thank you, Clark, for everything you've done…" DeWitt used the couch's armrest to raise himself from the floor "…but I think it's 'bout time we take the boys home…"
Clark combed his palm over his eyes, the weight of weariness reminding how late it was getting "…yeah, I agree."
Gently removing the blanket, DeWitt scooped deadweight into his arms, one hand holding his drooping head in support. He grabbed Dwight's glasses as he cradled him to his chest, and Chisholm rose to his feet, patting Elmer on his arm. "Let's get you home, Elmer…"
Nodding weakly, Elmer sniffed as he sat up, removing the blanket and slowly pulling his legs to plant his feet to the ground.
"…E-Elmer?"
In a pause, he turned towards the mousey voice and timid blue stare. Squeezing herself tighter, her chin lowered, blinking back the tears pressed behind her eyes. The fact that he was related to Dwight was news to her, making her realize just how little she knew of him. He was one of the first at Dimmsdale to extend a friendly hand. Yet lately…she hadn't been a great friend to him.
Thinking back, it was mostly Sanjay's insensitive comments about her anxiety that pushed her away. She didn't place much fault on Elmer. In fact, it always felt like Elmer asked her questions to understand, not to respond.
Guilt licked her lips; he and Dwight had come all this way to see her, all because she'd gotten herself grounded for doing something she knew she wasn't supposed to. Was she even worth the trouble it caused? If they hadn't traveled through the cold in the some-odd miles it must have taken to get here just for her…then maybe Dwight would not have lapsed into a horrible seizure.
This was all her fault, and she wished she had something better to say other than "…I-I'm sorry…"
Elmer stared at her, not expecting an apology because he wasn't certain what she was apologizing for. Could be for spending more time with other kids…why apologize for that? Being a backup wasn't that foreign to him "…i-it's okay."
Chloe bit down hard enough to taste iron, watching as Elmer attempted to grin but failed. Chisholm then patted his shoulder for him to come along, and Elmer gave Chloe a final disheartened glance before he followed the Schlatters to the front door.
Clark was courteous enough to shut the door behind their guests, but once the bolt was relocked, every fiber of frustration glared towards his wife.
"…is there a problem?" Connie snootily acknowledged his gratuitous glares, separating her legs in a defensive stance. Connie's slit brow sent chills down Chloe's spine, freezing her in an anxious cower.
"…why do you have to be so cruel." he started mildly, mostly for their daughter's sake. "Your comments were uncalled for."
"I was just stating the honest truth."
"Alright, you know what?" Clark grumbled, waving a dismissive hand. Far too tired for another draining debate. He past his wife and daughter, heading straight for the stairs.
"If you have an issue, then be a man and address it."
Chloe saw her father's footsteps stall at the staircase base, feeling his glare gradually crease into a snarl just by staring at the back of his head. She didn't have to raise her voice to come across so unbearably belittling. He'd tried to be patient with her. He'd tried to just walk away before things reach a point of no return.
Even the humblest have their limits…
She found them.
When he whipped around, ire flashed in his glare. "There's nothing to address when you're so hellbent on only listening to yourself!"
Chloe staggered backwards from her father's outburst, Susie wrapping her wing around Chloe's leg. Connie gawked before her scowl charged towards her husband. "Don't curse in front of our child!"
Clark couldn't help but bark a laugh. "Don't castigate our child's panic attacks!"
"…so I should lie to our child?!"
"You should validate our child in that her struggles are real!"
Connie rolled her eyes, barking her own laugh.
"You weren't here when Dwight had that seizure and Chloe started hyperventilating!" Clark edged towards her, glaring deep into the gaze that refused to take him seriously. "It took forever to bring her down; she was utterly terrified!"
"Yes, Clark, big seizures like that can be terrifying!" Connie conceitedly remarked. "That doesn't mean Chloe struggles with this so-called 'anxiety!'"
Susie looked up to Chloe's breathing becoming strained.
"That boy has a real, neurological disorder! Yet our child is popping pills that clearly aren't doing their job! Why? Because she doesn't need them, and never did!"
Chloe's breath quickened at a rapid pace, clawing at her rigid lungs struggling to intake air. Her blood froze cold, draining color from her face. Wide eyes brimmed with tears, and her heart shuddered in her chest.
What do you think Mrs. Connie Carmichael did in her daughter's time of need?
If you guessed 'nothing'…well. You're not entirely wrong, but not entirely right, either.
She did do something…
She mimicked her daughter's anxious gasps for breath in a mocking fashion. Taunting the struggle to breathe as she loomed forward, standing inches from Chloe's fear-crossed face. "GET A GRIP!" her roar held no mercy. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with you!"
"STOP, Connie!" Clark warned. The dam had been broken, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
"You saw for yourself what a real mental disorder looks like!" Connie continued anyway, no sympathy for bratty behavior. "That boy's poor brain literally malfunctions at a moment's glance!" her firm finger struck Chloe's chest, stumbling her backwards. "You make yourself hyperventilate! You make a big fuss over stuff that's just all in your head!"
An electric jolt ceased all thought, her mind blank. Blood frozen in her veins before anxiety boiled into rage. Rage that bubbled deep in her pit, setting her ribs ablaze. Sweltering through her throat, blue tears burning red-hot. Giving her mother ample fuel to relentlessly taunt her once more with faked gasp for air.
"Stop being a whiney brat and GROW UP-"
Glass-shattering shrieks pierced her parents' ears.
Wide-eyed and baffled, Connie doubled back, the words stripped from her tongue. The booby bird staggered as well, taken aback by the boom of hysterical screams casting Chloe's entire face in a raging red. Contorted fingertips gripped the sides of her scrunched hair, knees buckling under the force of wailing screeches. Dropping to her knees with eyes wide shut, ruptured vocal cords trickling droplets through her uncontrollable screams.
Clark snuck a glance at his speechless wife. The woman was too stunned to speak.
AN: It's not in Da Rules, but I always wondered if there'd be a godparenting turnover if kids could simply wish for a better life, so they'd make it a rule or something.
I likely won't update until after the upcoming holiday, so if you celebrate, I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas.