Tendrils of flesh and bone, stretching from the distorted bodies that laid mangled and twisted on the floor reached up, opened cavities dripped red with sinew resting at his feet. Somewhere, out there, in the dark halls, where the fluorescent lights above flickered with irregular presence, he captured vague glimpses of his hands.
They shimmered, sticky and a matching shade of vermillion. In fact, much of his body, he could tell as he looked down at himself, was slick, coated liked a second skin that clung to every portion of his clothes until they almost looked...black. Crusted bits of things he couldn't describe stuck to him, and he couldn't even understand how they'd gotten there.
Or why...any of this was happening.
And why...was he here?
Where...was he?
Snapping his eyes up, the hallway was dark, an abyss beyond his vision that radiated with fear, distant screams from other students like fetid nails, but with them? There was a presence, heard but not seen as the sounds of tearing flesh filled his ears. The teen stared for a long moment, trying to make sense of any of it when he saw something flicker in the cracked window to his left. It led to a classroom, the room just as empty, just as dark, as the hall ahead, but in the reflection, he could see himself, staring back, eyes steeped like swirling pools of blood, glowing red in the dark.
And on his face, he could have sworn he was smiling.
...
...
...
...
With a jolt, his eyes tore open, frantic blue orbs flickered over the shadows that greeted him, the sky beyond the window still dark.
He could tell he had been twisting, turning from the state of the thin blanket that laid in dense coils around him, thrown haphazardly off of his body; swirling, dancing dust fluttered like winged insects around his head in a rush to settle on his sweat-soaked skin, kicked up in his haze of frantic slumber, he was sure. Already, he noticed, that despite knowing when to wake up, there was a perverse sense of exhaustion and a familiar pain that settled over his lower body that didn't leave, no matter how much he tried to sleep in.
Not that he should be doing that, anyway.
Quite the contrary since he was certain it was time to start the day, the teen casting the strange dream away, though something about it felt...eerily familiar. As if...it were something that he knew, that rested somewhere in the back of his mind, but just as easily, he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Regardless, he knew he was right on time to wake up, though he had his reservations.
Hell, even waking up now (which, as far as he tell, it was about...five now? In the morning?) was a bit later than he was used to, and something that he definitely didn't want to go out of his way to remind his parents of. They didn't need a reason to be upset with him; he gave them plenty to be pissed off for without missing his morning chores.
Or, rather, the ones he was supposed to have cleaned yesterday.
In fact, he noted, passing dull eyes over the breadth of room from the vantage point of the floor (which, admittedly, wasn't very high, so it was sort of hard to tell when you were lying on the floor), there always seemed to be so much to clean...no matter how much he tried to tidy up.
Part of him wondered if there were even a point to trying at all, seeing as it only took a day or so for it to get messy again, but just as quickly, another thought bit back, scathing at the doubt that had been sown in mind.
'Clean up, get up! Mom and Dad...mad at you if you don't...' It muttered, sounding like himself, but...disjointed.
'No, don't you see? You should be grateful they even let you stay here. It's your fault it's a mess, didn't you know? You did it, you should clean.' Said another voice, not sounding like him at all, but still, he agreed.
Yeah, no, it was right. They were probably in there now, weren't they?, he wondered, frantic, blue eyes trembling over the off-hinged sliding door that led to his parents' room, the noise and static of the television concealing what might have been voices within.
No, he definitely heard them. No, no, they were listening, he had to start now!
That was right. They knew he wasn't up yet, they knew that he was awake now, thinking bad thoughts, not doing what he was supposed to. Sitting up, he felt his heart patter unevenly as a thought, a voice that wasn't his own, came to mind. It lagged behind, words crossing thoughts, and vice versa, with effort to supersede his own, an occurrence he found wasn't as easy to ignore.
'Late, late, you're going to be - '
'Late! Don't you care?'
'Get up, you sack of shit, GET UP - '
And just like that, he was up, throwing off his thin, ratty blanket into equally thin coils to his side, thrown haphazardly away as scurrying roaches scampered off into hiding places beyond his side, crawling hastily into the floorboards and broken paneling of the two walls that served as the sides of his bed. Or...rather, what was the floor, stained carpet both the sheets and mattress, though he found that he was grateful enough to have been afforded this much. As quietly as he could, the teen stumbled up, hands already clammy at the thought that he'd messed up...and this soon.
No, he hadn't messed up, he was doing it, see, Mom, Dad? The teen felt them, baring down on him. 'Why weren't you already up?!', they screamed, and 'Why can't you do what we say, you stupid fuckin - '
His body tensed as, in his haste, after having grabbed the trash from the can, one that had been spilling out (though by his own admission, had just been emptied yesterday, but Mom and Dad had a funny way of filling it really fast, not that he was complaining), when he pushed into it a bit, knocking it against worn and creaky paneling that, in the dark of the living room, was easy enough to miss. Of course, this was something that he should have known to watch out for.
This wasn't anything new to him, and why he'd made such an amateur mistake...he didn't know why. He was just fucking up, as always.
'As usual. Can't you do better?'
'Try harder, you piece of - '
"Shut it. S-shut up, shut-up, SHUT-UP." He screamed at himself as quietly as he could, gripping the trash bag tightly in his fists as he tried to will them away, their constant scathing comments, deconstructions, machinations...making it infinitely harder to even think straight sometimes. How could anyone do that when they were on his back about everything?
Or...in his head?
Whatever.
'I should start with the table, right? Mom and Dad like when the table is clean, but will I have enough time to clean the counters if I do that? I have to cook, and - ' Before he could even finish the thought, they were already back, telling him why he should do something else.
That he should get to cooking first.
That he was making to much noise.
More and more and more that made it even harder to even decide what he should do, and no matter what he did, what he thought, what he said, there was something else they didn't want or like or...or...
Sighing, he resigned himself to clearing the rest of the items from the wooden table that rested just below a window on the wall opposite of the door leading from the trailer and to the outside, which was still dark now, though he could hear them, the birds, singing lilted songs over the resident hum of the television. It was hard, though, getting to appreciate the presence of the birds outside when the chatter in his head wouldn't cease.
They hated everything.
Everything he did was stupid, and bad, and...and it was hard enough knowing it was true, but hearing it said again and again, over and over; it was enough to make him want to pull his hair out. Just having these...things filling his head, all the time, everyday...it was exhausting.
Sometimes it was hard to remember quite when things happened, or other times, his head didn't feel...screwed on right, but he managed okay.
At least he thought he did.
He was doing his best.
And it helped when they faded off into the background, a listless, voiceless horde of white noise, a prickling, obscure presence in the back of his mind that gave him the rare chance to breathe every now and again. If they didn't, he joked darkly, he'd probably lose it. With this fading out a bit, he could organize his thoughts a bit more, looking to the table to begin the effort of cleaning up.
Between the cigarette butts that rested in cold ash trays and across the table, the empty cans, the scraps of old food, and the like, there was sort of process to getting this all done, and before he had to leave, too. With those, he could spot a few other things, objects smeared and dark under the trash, and he knew just what they were, taking the syringe and empty, crusted bag into his hand before tossing it discreetly into the trash bag in his other.
'Clean up, clean up...' A voice whispered, as if singing, but it was a bit off key.
He didn't like to dwell on it too much, knowing that his parents were...addicts. Words around town that talked about what they did, to describe what they were, made him feel...sick. There was no shortage of people talking about people like his folks: druggies, junkies, drunks, dopers. All different words, but the same flavor of distaste for what he saw as...normal. Or, normal enough, he thought. Taking the strewn bottles and burnt spoons, glued with a black substance from the table that he had to pry off just to throw it away (save for the spoon, he was pretty sure Mom would want that back later; it was her favorite one), he didn't think that they meant his parents specifically. If there was one thing that he could say, Mom and Dad were pretty good about hiding it, though he felt conflicted about that, too.
He guessed he didn't want everyone talking about it, saying stuff about them (probably why they told him to shut up about it, too), but then...why was it normal here?
'Fine, everything fine - '
'Mommy and Daddy said it was okay - '
'Are you questioning them? You know you're not supposed to do that, so stop doing that - '
"I'm not questioning them, I just...no, you're right. You...yes...yes, I should stop thinking like that." He whispered, suddenly feeling very exposed.
Good boys didn't ask why their parents did things, they just knew that it was for a good reason. He wasn't supposed to do that, he was being bad. Dash knew what happened to bad boys, he knew what Mom and Dad would say, what they would do. He could hear them, hear them behind him -
He whipped around, heart thrumming to the sound of footsteps coming from the other room, expecting the meet them there, staring at him angry, Angry, -
But no one was there. Just dark corners painted soft hues of blue as the bird songs continued outside and sun began to rise, the television still hummed, and he could faintly hear it now. Snoring, from where he knew they were, or he wanted to desperately believe that they were. But his mind wouldn't let him rest, the youth still, like a watching deer, to see if it were true.
A moment passed.
A breath, a whisper...then finally, after a full minute, he felt himself blink at last, dry eyes still wide with worry, even when he'd returned to cleaning, but frantic this time, joined by hurried thoughts, flickering in and out of his head, the voices, his own, jumbling his thoughts even more.
'They're going to be mad with you! Look at what you did!' A higher pitched voice yelled, filling his head as he hurried over to the counter, cleaning that off, too. Old food, trash, paper, containers, all the same, as he shook his head.
"Boy..." A deeper voice called from somewhere else, but Dash missed it, lost in his thoughts too much to even notice that they had. It was probably just one of other voices, their mean words far too distracting for him to pay it credence, anyway.
"No, no, I - " He wouldn't get the chance to finish his words, another one pitching in to add to his stress.
"Boy." The other voice called again. Dash couldn't tell if it was coming from his own head or outside, or...nothing was making sense. He just needed a second, he just -
'You never do anything right. You're just a fuckin' screw up, couldn't even just listen to Mom and Dad. You were questioning them, and that's bad, you know. You're not supposed to do that - ' Shaking his head, he felt his body tense, wanting to throw its words from its mind. He knew all of this, he messed up, he...he never meant to.
"No...no, no, no..." He whimpered, grabbing the counter and pushing against it, clenching the edge of the murky, grey surface as hard as he could, his eyes shut as hard as he could manage until bursts of colors in the dark of his vision exploded behind them. They kept whispering, on and on, and on and on; couldn't he just...think? He needed to think.
"Boy!" There is was, that same voice. He wanted it to stop, Dash just wanted everything to just -
"MICHAEL, WHY THE FUCK AREN'T IN HERE YET?! GET THE FUCK OFF YOUR ASS BEFORE YOU MAKE ME FUCKIN' ANGRY, BOY!" The voice screamed this time, and even as the voices and whispers and mutters played in the space between his ears, his head snapped up, blue, dull eyes glassy with fear and exhaustion, and the day hadn't even started yet. But he didn't need to guess if that was real or not, the thundering boom of that voice all he needed to understand that this time...it was really him.
Dad was already up.
And just as quickly, the panic began to set in.
Why was Dad up? He never got up this early, not unless...he was really up all this time? Had he been listening to him, listening to the noise that he was making, listening to his...bad thoughts? No, no, that had to be it, the teen paling at the thought all the same. This revelation didn't quell his worries, no, it only compounded them.
Was Dad calling him in there to punish him? Did he need to be punished? He did something bad, so when you're bad, you get punished, right? Yeah, that was it, wasn't it? He needed to be -
"If I have to get up from this bed, so help me god, it's not gonna be good for you, boy. Get the FUCK in here, right FUCKIN' NOW!" Dad called again, and this time, without so much as a second thought, Dash was racing towards the bedroom. However, in that some motion, he noticed that he still had the trash bag in hand.
Near the fridge, the teen dropped the bag at his feet, ignoring the few pieces of trash that tumbled to the floor as the bag flopped over onto the small tiles of the kitchenette where he'd been standing. Rushing to the sliding door of the back room, he raised his hand to open it, noticing, only then, the clamminess and shakiness of his hand, but he fought to control it, gripping the handle of the panel, and pulling it away to reveal the two inside, and the stench of booze and smoke that followed.
A bare mattress set on a metal frame, save for the strewn, old comforter that hung from the sides of the bed and onto the floor where dark muck and grime painted the tips that were touching the sagging carpet. It was easy enough to get a gauge of the entire room since the bed seemed to take up most of it, save for little sections of the floor leading the broken closet on the opposite wall from where Dash had entered the room. He already knew right where to look; past all of the trash and old, unopened letters that covered the dresser right beside him, to the television, on the news, as it were, resting on a small end table, he could see him, dark, beady eyes staring in from the dark at the head of the bed.
Dad...though most people that knew him called him 'Allen'.
Dash always felt small compared to him, even if he was fairly tall for his age. Though, he figured it probably wouldn't be hard to feel small when comparing himself to the absolute size of the man laying on the bed in-front of him. Even here, from his lower vantage point on the bed, it was easy enough to understand just how large the man was; gigantic, bear-like, hairy arms rested at his sides, each pulsing with veins and dark scars, pinpricks serving as physical reminders of long-term drug usage, though the youth found himself largely trying to ignore them.
He'd never really liked looking at them; they seemed to hurt.
Beneath the folds of his sleeveless shirt, the garment dotted with old, brown stains Dash couldn't name, and holes from age, a great, large, distended belly rested, perpetually present despite having not eaten yet.
It was hard to miss through the stretched-out the fabric. It only added to his size, granting him a reputation for filling rooms just by simply being there, not that his height wasn't something you could miss. Compared to the teen, the older man had Dash by at least two heads, a massive figure that, when at full standing, the boy had little issue remembering, could look directly down at the youth, and Dash, to compensate, often found himself staring up to meet his eyes.
In the simplest sense, the man was bestial, almost apish, in form.
And in most cases, had the brutality to match it.
But that same beast was right there, hard, bearded face laced with irritation and impatience as Dash stood there, unsure of whether to move or not.
There was another moment of silence, hanging lucidly in the air between the two (his mother was still down for the count, her lax, limp form resting on the other side of the bed), but only a moment later, the man grunted, gesturing to Dash not a moment sooner.
"Well? Aren't you gonna give your old man some attention? What are ya so nervous for, Mikey?" Said the man, his voice still low, coarse, like grating nails being shaken in a bag. That was probably the nicest his voice usually sounded, which, by all accounts, wasn't yelling, so it seemed okay, Dash thought as he fought his muscles, urging them to move when they refused to. He understood pretty well that making the man wait in any capacity was not good for his health, and he'd already done so by not hearing him earlier. In lieu of that, he wasn't even sure how he hadn't; it was probably because he was distracted, and he couldn't afford to be distracted, not when he was supposed be good.
And it wasn't good to not answer when your parents called.
'Not good, not good...'
'Is Dad angry?'
'Scared, SCARED - '
"Hey. I said get over here; Don't you think I'm getting really fuckin' tired of having to tell you the same thing over and over, boy? What, are you stupid or somethin, huh? Are you?!" The man demanded, and Dash was quick to realize that he'd gotten lost again, that he was still rooted in the same spot, having not moved an inch.
He had to pay attention.
"N-no, sorry, sir. I was just - " He wouldn't get to finish before he saw the older man's face, anger evident on his sharp, angular features, a sign the youth understood wasn't good.
No, it wasn't good at all.
Quickly, he shut his mouth, his best bet in this case as he knew no explanation would likely be good enough, no matter what he tried. Sometimes, Dash reminded himself, growing impatient with his own mistakes, it was better to not say anything at all, and that was just what he did, choosing, instead, to rush over to his father, dodging the trash and needles on the floor as he crossed the short distance over to him.
He didn't really like when Dad asked him questions. The youth always found it difficult, sometimes impossible, to give the answer that he thought the man would want. Sometimes, he was sure they were just trick questions other times.
How did he know?
At times, they were questions that he was sure the older man knew that he wouldn't be able to answer, but then again...if he were smart enough, just a little bit smart in any way, wouldn't he have been able to answer them the right way?
He wasn't exactly the brightest bulb in the box, so it wasn't that far-fetched to believe that he could have missed the right answer since he's so stupid. He wasn't reacting the right way because he was stupid.
Stupid.
An idiot.
Just plain fuckin dumb.
So it was just easier to not answer at all, though that didn't really help either. That made him mad, too. A lot of things did. It wasn't hard to tick him off, though his father had every right to be mad at him.
He should just...just do better.
Just do better.
The stench of alcohol and smoke, whilst everywhere in the home, seemed heavier, more pungent, the closer that came to the man, combining with the smell of musk and body odor he had swirling around him at all time. Dad never really fussed about getting cleaned up or anything like that, with the older man wearing largely the same clothes for days on end before even thinking to change them, though that didn't really indicate that he'd actually taken a shower or anything.
In fact, the youth thought as his old man eyed him from where he sat, he couldn't really recall the last time the shower had been run in the trailer...or if it even worked, since...he wasn't allowed to use it.
Why?
Because he just wasn't.
He didn't deserve an explanation, and he didn't expect his parents to give him one, either.
Brought back from his thoughts, he felt himself tense under his father's touch, a single, calloused hands brushing roughly between his thighs, hardly noticing the way the youth went still at the contact.
"Why'd you make me wait all that time, Mikey? You know I don't like to be kept waiting, boy..." He purred, thumbing around the back of his thigh and allowing his hands to travel back, towards his buttocks, gripping them harshly in his hands.
'Kept him waiting...'
'You're selfish, Daddy needed you...'
'Wants you, wants you...'
Dash didn't pull away, even he felt his stomach twist painfully with a feeling he couldn't describe. Despite this, he opened his mouth to answer, stock still as the man's hand slipped underneath the fabric, palming his bare bottom as he spoke.
"S-sorry, sir. I was just..." He paused to swallow, throat tightening as he felt his touching grow rougher, the man drawing him closer to pull his large, baggy shirt up, revealing a bit of his stomach to plant sloppy kisses on it, but doing his best to ignore it, Dash continued, saying ,"...t-trying to clean up. I wanted to get that done before - " The teen paused as the man pulled away, face drawn with suspicion, thankfully stopping for a moment to speak.
"Before what?" Dad asked coldly, as if he were offended to have been disturbed, dark, empty eyes glinting strangely in the low light before Dash could answer, when it occurred to him.
Dad must have forgotten.
"Oh, i-it's the first day of school. Remember, Dad? I'm in the tenth grade..." He explained quietly, remaining careful about not moving so he wouldn't accidentally make Dad angry...again. At his answer, his father raised an eye, looking as though he were trying to recall something.
"Oh, that was today, huh?" He pondered, palming Dash's bottom again as he sat on the thought, much to the youth's discomfort, though he didn't complain. This was just Dad's way of showing love, so why would he pitch a fit about it?
This was...normal.
In response, the teen nodded, replying, "Y-yes. I...told you and Mom...a little while ago. I just thought you - " Dad stopped for a moment, and immediately, Dash figured out that he must have said something to upset him, no, he thought, he definitely had to have said something. Pushing away from him, Dad gave the teen a look, one wrenched in accusation.
"Are you tryin' ta say I don't remember, huh? What, you think you're smarter than me? A fuckin' idiot like you thinks he knows something, huh? Do you? ANSWER ME." He could feel his father shift in the bed, a long, screaming, creak calling out from the movement of his body as the man began to come to a stand, beady eyes solely focused on Dash's own. He tried to control his breathing, the cold, breaking sweat that covered his skin in the moments that came and followed, his father's hulking body filling the entirety of his vision despite the teen taking a few unconscious steps back, caught between apologizing and trying to explain himself. It was always like this, crawling on egg shells to keep his words from being taken like in situations just like this one, scrambled thoughts fighting to form an answer to a question he didn't know how to reconcile.
Why couldn't he just do one thing right? He knew why; because he was too stupid to. What did he know? Dad was right, Mom was right...this is what he got for trying to show him up.
He should have just shut up from the start.
"N-no...no, sir. I just...I didn't mean it like that, I was...I'm s-sorry, Dad. I'm sorry..." The boy whispered, feeling his backside press against the edge of the old dresser that laid parallel to their parents' bed. It groaned softly at his meager weight, but didn't pose much support against the pressure of his father's body, leaning oddly on its legs, as if much more weight would lead it to tip over. Between the two of them, though, Dash could smell the man's hot, rancid breath teasing his face, deep, bear-like huffs feeling more primitive as raw anger set upon his features.
'I'm...I'm sorry, Dad. Please...p-please don't hurt - ' The teen thought, bracing for the worst. But then, just as the desperate thought had crossed his mind, the older man pulled away, though not before grasping Dash's thin, bony wrist. Massive hands, tightly gripping him, forcing him from his thoughts.
"Get smart with me again, and I'll beat the ever-loving shit out of ya, hear me, boy?" He whispered, tone low...dangerous.
But Dash knew it wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
After all, Dad never said anything he didn't mean; he knew that all too well.
To suggest that he would question him, make his father think that he knew better? What was he thinking?
He'd clearly been in the wrong.
Even someone as stupid as him could see that.
"Y-yes...yes, sir." The teen barely rasped, feeling weak at the knees but managing to stand despite this. With that, he let go of Dash's wrist, a new, red blotch resting where his hand had once been, something that he was sure would bruise in the coming hours, but he didn't mind it too much, far more preoccupied with seeing what his father would do next. The man in question gave Dash a low, cold stare as he remarked him for a moment, the hum of television media filling the space before his father spoke again, his face suddenly loosening, an unreadable expression replacing the agitated gleam from before.
As if he were...upset, more disappointed then anything, Dash could read on his features.
"Now, why you gotta make me do that, huh, boy? Why?" He started again, running thick fingers through thin, balding, blonde hair, matching Dash's own. Turning away, Dash tried to think of something to say, an answer to this age-old question he'd heard a million times. Why did he have to make his parents so angry all the time? Why couldn't he just...so everything right so they wouldn't have to be?
Why was he like this?
Why was he so...wrong?
Of course, the answer was always the same.
'I don't know...' He thought sullenly to himself, feeling himself shrink even more.
He didn't have an answer, and he had a feeling that Mom and Dad knew he didn't, too.
So he just apologized, hoping that that would be enough, but he knew that it wasn't either. Nothing he did was ever enough, ever right, ever good.
Nothing.
"Sorry, Dad. I...I didn't mean to make you mad. Honest. I'll...I'll try harder, sir." Dash uttered weakly, feeling...terrible.
Like an utter waste of space.
'Which you are. Everyone knows it...'A voice whispered in a lilted, sing-song voice that teased him, agreed with him, reinforced his own loathing.
Dash sighed.
He'd hoped that the start to the new year would have been better, but really, he was the reason things were going so horribly, so he only had himself to blame.
Everything was always his fault.
Appearing fed up, his father scoffed, a low, cutting sound that projected disbelief and exasperation, as if even Dad knew he was full of shit.
Which he was. Dash was as full as shit as they came.
Changing the subject, Dad moved on, looking to Dash expectantly.
"You at least got my food? Can you do that much?" At the question, Dash's heart sunk.
He hadn't fixed breakfast. Hell, he hadn't even finished cleaning up the main room yet. Biting his lip, he knew he didn't have many options, no, he knew he didn't have any to choose from. Dad would know he was lying, and he didn't have anything yet, so he said all that he could think to say.
The truth.
"No, not...not yet. I was cleaning up, then you called me, and - " He froze when he heard it.
The clicking of father's teeth as the man considered him, and it didn't take Dash hearing his father say anything to know where he'd gone wrong.
Dad didn't like that answer.
Dad knew he should have cleaned up last night.
He knew the house was supposed to have been cleaned yesterday but...he couldn't have then. They were...busy.
They'd had...guests, after all.
Something flashed behind his eyes.
He found that he struggled to keep his mind from going back down, a slithering, drowning feeling over the entirety of his body reminding him just what it was. It crawled like fiery tongues along his back, his sides, his bottom; flashes of dark, of cold, of skin...against his own, touching him, ravaging his senses before it was gone just as quickly, flashing and writhing beneath his eyes.
"Open your legs, you fuckin' slut. Yeah...yeah that's it - "
He tried to force the bile in his throat back down as his hand clamped over his mouth, the boy retching violently before the sensation ceased, but visions, blurred, hazy, were still there, like grating nails in the back of his head.
No, he didn't want to remember -
There was something on-top of him, grunting, sweating as it moved.
There was smoke, engrossing, thick in his throat as he felt something move inside of him. Something like alcohol was pouring from its skin.
He could taste it in his mouth.
That thing, that person, on-top of him, gripped his hips but didn't stop.
It forced itself inside -
It didn't stop.
Didn't...stop-
His mind forced it away.
Down...down where he couldn't see it, where he couldn't feel it. It was alright as long as he didn't think about it, any of it. It would go away...eventually.
And it did.
It was gone, buried deep in him somewhere, like a faded, ugly scar on his mind that he did everything in his power to forget.
He didn't want to feel any of it.
So he wouldn't.
Simple, right?
Just bury all the horrible things until you couldn't hear them anymore.
Until they were just bad dreams that you would forget. He was in control, not them.
Blinking, he realized, then, that he was still in-front of his father, standing there without an explanation, and, even more, unable to really tell how long he'd been "gone" for.
It couldn't have been long, though.
Dad still looked pissed.
That seemed to be something of a trend, he noticed.
"You know, I don't ask you for much, do I? "Why are the simplest things so fuckin' hard for you to understand? I tell you to keep this fuckin' place clean, and my breakfast ready, and what do you do? Go on, tell me? You fuck around and bullshit all goddamn day, and then you ask fuckin' surprise when I get ANGRY WITH YOUR NONSENSE!" Taking a breath, he stood up again, making little of the space that had once been between them, and, just as quickly, without some much of moment passed, there was the familiar sting of his cheek, that is, it was a bit too familiar to be shocked by it, though that didn't make it hurt any less, with Dash sort of expecting it to happen.
Yet, he mused solemnly, expecting it never did.
His father's hand still hung in the air, as if waiting to send in another hit from his calloused palm, but wavered there, trembling with anger that the boy knew was justified. Michael knew it wasn't from hesitation, but rage, and the first day no less, and so soon in the morning, too. It wasn't really hard to do, at least, not for him. He was good at making people mad at him. Call it his...specialty. It seemed as though it took every once of self-control for the man not to go further, to really do what he wanted, and strangely enough, Dash couldn't help but wonder why; Dad had never been shy about making him understand how much he'd fucked up before. Sometimes it was with words, sometimes with his hands, his fists, and other times...he had other methods.
They all worked, and it depended on Mom or Dad's mood.
But there was a sense of restraint in his physicality more than his words, something he was grateful for since he still had to get to school, and he had a long way to walk before he made it to town. However, the teen couldn't think of anything, not a single word to say.
What could he say?
What could he possibly say?
The older man understood this, pulling him up by his worn, old, white shirt, words callous and short with anger.
"You get in that kitchen, right now. Right fuckin' now, you hear me? Don't fuck up again; you know you should have already been up with food ready, Mikey. You know that, so get your shit together - " Throwing the teen into the dresser again, his father waved him away, and Dash didn't waste any time rushing from the bedroom, pulling the panel door as shut as it would go, and stumbling, into the kitchen, only pausing to take in shaking breaths as he'd only just noticed that he'd been holding it the entire time. He stood there, wheezing and shuddering through gritted teeth as, just behind him, on the wall that shared the pull-door to his parents' room, in the soft, blue light of the brightening sky, he'd only just noticed how much time had passed, reading 05:42. Looking back to the window, the old, sheer cover that only concealed a part of the outside revealed that the sky began to change, hues of black and navy becoming more vibrant shades of blue over the time that he and his father had been...talking.
He realized, then, that he'd been gripping his shirt, too, right over where his heart was, the organ 'pattering, pattering' in uneven time, an unsteady thrumming that made his breath hitch, but he tried harder to breath, to return it to its usual pace.
He couldn't do what he had to do if he was panicking.
'I need to...I have to get ready to go soon if I'm gonna see her, if just for a few minutes...' He thought, minding the sound of the tick-tocking of the clock behind him, and as he prepped for cooking, shuffling quietly over to the browning fridge, he did what he could to keep that in his mind.
He was sure she would be happy to see him.
And he would be happy to see her, too.
That's what he really needed right now, and just thinking of her at least had the effect of improving his mood a bit as he prepared their meals.
Opening the door to the refrigerator, Dash ignored how weird it felt to look inside. Much like the bathroom, there were plenty of things that he wasn't allowed to do, and one of them was not to get food from the fridge. This was usually for the adults, his parents, as he wasn't entitled to having it. The only time he was allowed to really look at it long, let alone open and take stuff out is in moments like these: when he was cooking for them.
For his Mom and Dad, that is.
The majority of his meals came from where he scrounge them up. From the bins, from vending machines when he had the cash, and when he had the chance to, the mall had some goodies if he could snatch them up without anyone noticing him. It would be a hell of a lot to explain to someone if they caught him digging around in the trash.
How embarrassing would that be, right?
He spotted an old pack of bacon set in the back of the fridge, the packaging broken and open, but fresh enough as he grabbed it from the lukewarm container, reaching around a few beers and a six-pack further in the back. Within the pack were just a couple of slices, enough for two for each of his parents, though he admitted he wasn't sure Mom would want any. Would she be mad if he didn't get her anything...though, it would take a bit longer to cook, only for her to still be asleep by the time that he got in there...
"I'll do it anyway. Just...leave it there for her, I guess." The teen settled.
Things calmed into a sort of lull from the mess of before once he had the chance to really focus on cooking. It was one of those little pass time that he actually enjoyed a bit, something that helped to feel...grounded, when he usually felt all over the place. Despite the voices still being fairly distracting, they posed as merely a general nuisance as he worked through the bacon, before moving onto the eggs, grabbing the remaining butter from the fridge and placing into the same pan.
They only had one to work with, after all.
The rest were too old or too dirty to even use.
Listening to it sizzle, he felt...okay, at least for the time being, and grabbing the carton (or rather, what was half of a carton; he wasn't sure what happened to the other side), he thought about seeing his friends again.
It had been a weird summer, especially since he hadn't had the chance to see any of his friends over the course of it. Sure, when Mom and Dad were out, he was a bit more free to roam town, but with them getting up to...whatever it is that they did in their own time, it left him wondering how much they had to catch up on when they finally saw each other today. It even bordered on excitement as he usually got the chance to hear what it was they did, and maybe, he thought wistfully as he cracked all of the eggs into a pan, he'd get to live vicariously through their own activities since...his folks didn't really get out much.
Or...at all.
He just hoped that Kwan and the others had fun over the break, so it would be nice catching up with them.
Once, twice, and they yolks fell in. It only took him a minute or two to scramble them, cooking them in one fell swoop to expedite the process, though doing so probably meant they were a little burnt.
He wasn't the best cook, but he tried.
Besides, he reminded himself as his mood became a bit more sullen, Dad wasn't exactly the most patient when it came to eating...or really, anything.
'You're just using that as an excuse for you shit cooking.'
'Don't even bother trying; what are you even good at?'
They weren't exactly wrong, but he ignored them, or rather, attempted to. Dash, instead, chose to focus his attention on the fact that they liked their breakfast like this, as far as he could tell. They liked their eggs extra dry anyway, he remarked back at the voices as if showing them up, and looking at them, he even loosed a little chuckle, likening them more to sponges than actual food. Taking the cleanest spoon he could find, he scooped them as evenly as he could onto plates that looked like they hadn't been used, if a little dusty, but it was better for them to be clean than dirty, like the ones resting in the sink just then, piled high and covered in dirt, grime, and old food he would definitely be cleaning this evening.
But, if you asked him what his favorite sorts of eggs were...he...probably wouldn't have been able to tell you.
At least, not in name.
He could remember it, a long time agon when Kwan asked him just the same thing, oddly enough. Back when he was a little kid, and Kwan's Mom and Dad (he couldn't remember their names) were fixing breakfast during one of those rare chances he had to visit. Now, he could feel himself cringe at his younger self for not even knowing that there were even different kinds of eggs to choose from (he'd usually only got the boiled ones, though he'd had his fair share of raw ones when he wasn't allowed near a stove).
Even more, it had come to be a great shock for him to find out that you could prepare eggs in various way (most of which tasted better than just raw eggs), and even more? That they could actually taste GOOD.
I know, shocker.
That day, he just ate scrambled (that was what Kwan's folks were eating, and he didn't know any other kinds at the time, but other times, when he saw Kwan trying new kinds of eggs (he had to say the ones he liked best were the ones where the yolk is in the middle and it bursts when you poke it), he would, too. A rare chance, rare foods...that he didn't get to try again after a while.
It had been a long time since he'd actually had an egg that wasn't just the leftovers his parents had thrown away. Dash quietly wondered if maybe he get a little cash to go other to a place that makes eggs with the yolk in them.
But shaking his head, realizing that he'd been reminiscing for a long time, he spot-checked their plates, then placed the bacon beside the eggs. Grabbing two of the cleanest forks he could, he tried to ignore the dull aching of his backside and grabbed both plates, remaining careful as to not allow one of them to tip in his hands as he tapped on the paneling, waiting for a voice on the other side to allow him entry.
A breath passed, and could hear his father's gruff, impatient voice call out.
"Yeah, yeah, give it here!" He commanded, and, whilst balancing one of the plates on his arm, he slid open the door again, the teen entering the room proper just as he had before. Mom still wasn't awake, but Dad seemed to be waiting for his food, so walking past the dresser once again, he didn't really choose a plate (they both had the same amount of food on them), giving the older man the one that had been in his right hand. Taking it expectantly, or more like snatching it, the man scoffed, inspecting it slightly before taking the fork in-hand, readying himself to eat when he looked up, and he asked, "Think you could go a bit faster, huh? What took you so fuckin' long?" The man growled, and Dash could practically feel his dissatisfaction, and for himself, the way his mood shifted at his words.
He'd thought he'd gone as fast as he could, at least, it felt as though he had. But if Dad still said he'd gone too slow, then it had to be true, the boy convinced himself as he just nodded, turning away slowly, and looking to his mother. Since leaving, and coming back, it looked as though she'd at least managed to turn over (which indicated to him that she wasn't dead, and that was definitely a start), but as he figured, she still wasn't awake, her pale, sunken features looking...sickly in the low light of the bedroom. From here, her small, almost frail frame was hidden within the confines of a dress several sizes too big for her, not the woman ever noticed as her appetite never seemed to compensate. Fiery, red, messy hair cascaded from her head, leaning over the side of the bed and all over the strewn comforter, a notable trait he didn't pick up from her.
He tried to glean from her soft features (ones that Dad always said he got from her) whether she could be stirred or not; it was always a bit of a guessing game whether he could. Binges always took a toll on her, so she didn't always wake up until way later in the day after he'd gotten home.
Regardless, he went over to her, or rather, started to, his father, in-between bites of his egg, eyed the teen, his expression still agitated.
"What are ya doin'? Can't you see the stupid bitch is out cold? Coked herself out last night, stupid. No sense givin' that to her. Give it to me; I'll eat it." Came his stark reply, completely disregarding the woman as he went about finishing his plate.
But Dash hesitated.
Mom didn't get (of rather, chose not to) to eat that often, and that worried him. Though for anything else, he would have listened without question, it didn't sit right with him if she...didn't at least get something. But then...did he want to...question him? That...wasn't what he was supposed to; good boys didn't question their parents, yet here he was, thinking about doing it right now. He didn't have to guess that Dad was already fed up with him this morning, so to push it more?
He knew it wasn't smart...but...
"B-but...this was for her - " His mouth slipped out before he could even think about a proper response, his heart lurching as he just realized what he'd done, but before he could explain himself, Dad was already up, towering over him again.
And the next, the plate yanked from his hands, thrown against the closet door with such force that the plate shattered on impact, sending shards of glass and pieces of food all over the floor and closet door.
He was vaguely surprised that none of the pieces had bounced back to slice him, though he was glad none of them had.
Dash found whatever he thought he'd say completely gone, silenced all at once as he stood there, stock still, frozen against the force of Dad's screaming, but he couldn't think. His heart pounded, the teen shuddering violently from the noise, the fear. All the while, his father was speaking, and he wasn't entirely sure if he was really picking up what he was saying; the blood rushing in his ears was too loud to comprehend any of it.
"WHEN I FUCKIN" TELL YOU TO DO SOMETHING, YOU FUCKIN" DO IT! I DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHAT YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE DOING, YOU DO WHAT I SAY!" Father bellowed, his face a blistering red, the teen couldn't even muster the will to comply, frantically shaking his head without so much of a word, his eyes plastered to his feet the entire time, the same way he would have if he were a child, unable to move, unable to speak...because he was in the wrong.
He knew better, he shouldn't have done that, he was the reason why Dad was mad. Why couldn't he just listen? Why couldn't he be good?
The questions echoed and echoed, again and again.
When he was finished, Dad gave him a hard, long look before looking at the mess, then back at Dash, his anger diffusing into exasperation.
"And get that shit cleaned up! EVERY LAST BIT OF IT, and get me a beer, dumb piece of shit..." His father finished, tossing his own empty plate onto the already crowded dresser beside him, causing Dash to flinch at the noise, yet still, he complied, wasting little time getting out of the room when he was stopped again by his father's voice. As if a flip had been switched, he called out, his voice far more level now than it had been, but Dash couldn't be fooled.
He knew it didn't take much to strike his fuse, so he was quick to stop, unable to face him, but he was listening all the same.
"No, the six-pack. Get my pack from the fridge, you know the one. Hurry up." Michael didn't wait to see if he'd change his mind before dashing back into the room (as fast as his aching muscles would allow) and opened the refrigerator, eyes quickly scanning the shelves before falling on them, a pack of beers his father would always drink...among others. He hardly had to think at all when grabbing them, the picture of a snarling dog on each of the cans indicating that those were Dad's favorite, and it was a good thing that they had some; they were the drinks he had in the fridge.
'Hurry. Dad doesn't like to be kept waiting...' One of the voices reminded him, though he was sure that was something he didn't need reminding of, so why it felt the need to continuously taunt and irritate him, he hadn't the slightest clue, but it was getting on his fucking nerves. In fact, it had been distracting enough that he'd missed it, the glint of trash and papers that had spilled from the bag earlier, having fallen into the pathway at some point.
Dash couldn't even pinpoint when.
He must have missed that, too.
He was just crossing over some of it when he felt his world shift, and he quickly realized, in just a breath, a whisper of a moment, that he was falling, the beers still in hand. Dash must have tripped over something, or his own feet, even, but he felt his world twist and pull and turn, then he was on the ground, and a hissing sound coming from his hands and from his own lips, clear as day, his arm throbbing like a terrible weight had been placed onto it. Looking at his hand, one of the cans had popped, and many of the others were leaking, too, punctured from the trash and his weight, others simply bent and crumpled in places where his arm had landed on them.
"No...no, no, no...how...how did I fuck this up? HOW?!" He whispered frantically, desperate to figure out how to fix them, to do anything to cover the colossal fuck-up he'd just managed to make, but he wouldn't have time.
His time was up.
"I told you to get them from the fridge, not go to the goddamn store and buy more! Get in here, boy! NOW!" He scrambled to a stand at the sound of it, his father's voice. Michael sucked in a breath as he leaned on his side, getting up off of the floor as quickly as he could before stumbling in the door way. The damage in each of the cans seemed even more severe, even in the low light of the room as the television buzzed quietly in the background, and it was only when he looked behind him that he realized that only a few minutes had passed...but it already looked so bright outside.
Meaning he would have even less time to visit her.
But he could worry about that later.
That wasn't nearly as pressing as the agitated grunt he heard rumble deep within his father's chest, no doubt from the teen having made him wait, and as it were, he couldn't afford to doddle anymore. He'd just have fact what he knew was coming.
After all, he only had himself to blame.
"C-coming, Dad...I...coming..." He started quietly, forcing himself forward.
Entering into the room again, Allen was there, waiting.
Then, just as he expected, he stood up, mouth opening. Yelling. Screaming.
Screaming at him., but he couldn't tell what. Maybe this was his way of preparing for what was surely coming, his hazy eyes and lax mouth attempting to form words, but he didn't know if he was actually saying something. He wasn't even sure Dad would have listened to him if he had.
His hand was raising up, massive, calloused palm open, searing across his face like fire as his father's hand swiped his opposite cheek with greater force. He could feel it, his face becoming wet as his eyes burned, too, though he never let go of the beers, the dark, brown liquid dribbling down his arm and dripping to the carpet, imperceptible stains amongst many more.
He thought maybe he was crying, but everything felt too fuzzy to really tell.
"I...the trash...I tripped...I'm - " Allen wouldn't even let him finish.
"Sorry? You're always sorry, because that's what you are, a sorry, lazy piece of shit! If you would have just cleaned up, you wouldn't have fucked up. That's all you ever do. JUST FUCK UP!" Allen screamed, throwing the teen against the wall that shared the television, backhanding him hard enough that he lost his footing.
No, he was right.
He deserved this. How could he argue when it was true? It was getting hard to hear his father, muttering, whispering, cackling, screaming, in his head making it hard to focus at all, but he knew that they were saying. It was his fault that he had tripped.
He should have been more careful.
It was his fault.
His fault.
'Your fault...'
Allen yelled for a full minute more before huffing with agitation, shoving the boy harder into the wall that he had pressed him against, shaking the entire trailer with the force of his weight before collapsing back into bed, as if thoroughly done with talking with the boy...but Michael didn't move.
He was there again, a child. His mind screamed and hissed at him, and all he felt like doing was curling up, shielding himself from their words, father's anger...and the fear. He was so...scared.
If he moved, if...if he made a sound...then he would just mess up again. He didn't want to hurt, he didn't want to make anyone angry, but looking at his father now, even across the room, he thought he might be able to see him talking to him, his voice distorted and warped by his thoughts, but he couldn't tell. It all felt real, tangible, as alive as he was, even when heard him shouting at him again, through the shaking, the trembling, his thrumming, uneven heart.
He felt as though he was going to be sick.
"CLEAN UP, AND GET THE FUCK OUT! GO! YOU'VE PISSED ME OFF ENOUGH!" Allen bellowed, threatening to get up again when Dash, regaining some control of himself, scrambled from the floor, rushing to where the plate was. Taking a strewn plastic bag, he scooped as much of the egg, bacon, and glass as possible, that is, until even that wore on his father's patience, and just as quickly, he was out of the room, breathing hitched, coming out much more akin to gasps as his hands shook, cold sweat dripping from his head despite his efforts to retain control.
It was enough that the stinging of his cheeks had felt strangely dull, as if his body felt...out of place.
It took him a full minute to come back down again, and back in the silence of the main room.
And just like that, with a look to the clock, its cracked face reading 05:37 (he was supposed to have been gone already), the world outside the window splattered with vibrant shades of red and pink that painted a dawn sky, Dash figured he should get ready, deciding this morning was, by all accounts...already really, really shitty.
Not that he had anyone else to blame but himself.
"Shit!" He quietly exclaimed (not wanting to set Dad off again by being too loud) as rushed back over to his spot on the floor, still ignoring the dull ache that still resonated over his body, not that it wasn't something he could deal with.
Back in his small corner, again, the roaches scurrying out of the view, through the small pile of clothes that laid beside his blanket, he grabbed a pair of old work pants (which, if you ignore the smell, weren't too bad, actually), a red t-shirt, and, carefully, a red varsity jacket, the youth minding it's worn threads as he laid it across the seat of the chair next to him. Dash couldn't say he had much to call his own, really, just the essentials...which were usually his parents' old clothes they didn't want anymore that got tossed him every so often. It was more than he could ask for, really; besides this, his "room" (the area of the floor leading to the second bedroom) was enough.
Good boys didn't act ungrateful when they were given more than they deserved.
Shedding his sleeping clothes, which were a worn set of felt shorts and an old white shirt (his mother's, funnily enough), he bristled against a sudden breeze that blew against his nude, marred skin. Snatching the outfit of his choosing from the chair and put them on, he tried his best to ignore the way that his body protested with each movement, still feeling a bit sore, not that he couldn't ignore it. Finally dressed, he noticed the room was much brighter now, calling attention to the sorry state of the room around him, and a bit of the light glittered further into the back room, though he wouldn't allow himself to look back there.
Instead, he turned his attention to the clock, becoming acutely aware of the passage of time, and as such, how little time he actually had left to do what he needed to.
His eyes widened when he finally got a look at the clock face, 05:46, it read.
"Oh, that's not too bad. Might have to rush a bit up the trail, but I can make it..." The teen uttered under his breath, pulling on his jacket, mindful of its pulling threads and worn material, and stepped carefully across the low-lit living room and to the bathroom right near his parent's bedroom. Within, he could hear his father, grumbling to himself as dresser drawers were pulled and closed, along with the shuffling of articles, indicating he was probably getting dressed. He didn't have to think long about where he was probably going; the bar.
He suddenly felt guilty, knowing that it was because of him that he even had to go at all.
Turning from the door, he stepped, bare foot, onto the disheveled tile of the trailer's bathroom, looking not to the mirror above the sink, but one that had been placed on the wall beside the toilet. Despite it being cracked, and some parts of the glass were too dirty to see through, most of it served its purpose, allowing him to pull and adjust his clothes to his liking. Here, he could finally get a look at himself, and he couldn't help grazing over the stinging, red marks of his cheeks, each in the shape of a hand.
Dad's...hand.
Clearing his throat, he redirected his thoughts to other things, tending to his clothes a bit more in a bit to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.
He noticed, suddenly, that his clothes seemed...looser. Pulling at them a bit, he just couldn't get them to sit on his frame well. It wasn't a mystery what it was, but he still felt odd, seeing how...small he was.
Over the summer, there wasn't really a reason to get dressed to impress or anything, so he didn't really...look at himself, well, at all. It was the first day, so of course he had to make sure he looked...decent, but looking at himself, he couldn't help but think about how much...weight he'd lost.
Not eating much would do that anyone, he guessed.
...
...
He felt himself drifting, shaking his head to call back his attention to the mirror.
'Nothing that a smile can't fix! I'm Dash! I can just...figure it out. It'll be a little easier to get something to eat outside, probably. Maybe I could...pick up some work...' He thought, but the notion made him feel...odd, his skin crawling before he shoved the feeling away, smiling.
Smiling at his reflection.
Smiling despite how disgusting he felt.
Smiling despite how hungry he was.
Sometimes, they say when you smile, it makes you feel better.
So, he did it, grinning as hard as he could, flashing his yellowed teeth at his reflection in a bid to see if it were true.
...
Actually, he came to think, wouldn't this be the perfect time to practice?
First impressions are important after all, and after an entire summer of waiting, he had to be in tip-top shape to meet up with Kwan and the others again. Couldn't have them seeing him at his worst, after all. Taking a long breath, he closed his eyes, as if to reframe his thoughts, then he opened them, smiling as brightly as he could at himself as if he were looking at someone else.
"Hey, guys! Long time no see-...no, too much...," His grin fell for a moment as he though about it, then he fixed it up, smiled, tugged at his closes, and tried it again, ignoring the dark splotches that littered his face, and the red marks that was seared into his cheek.
Reminders.
'Reminders that every one is going to notice - ' No, he couldn't think about anything like that.
He had to remain positive.
Shaking his head, he tried again.
"Oh, hey! It's been awhile-...no, no no, that won't work." He pulled at his clothes again. He looked too stiff, his clothes were too loose, they would be able to tell at the angle. Dash tried again, and again, and again.
Over and over.
It was on the fourth attempt that he realized that he wasn't smiling anymore.
He smiled.
Dash tried for a fifth time.
What's up, g-guys?! W-what's up? What's going...what's going on?" Clenching his hands, he took a breath.
Then another.
His eyes fell on himself, picking apart the way his shirt hung too far made him look small, his pants, too.
He tried to tuck his shirt in.
Michael looked again.
'They're definitely going to notice that I've changed, but I don't know what to do...' His mind fretted, the boy tugging sharply at his clothes to pull his shirt out again, letting it flop, wrinkled, over his pants.
Now he looked too big, yet too small.
He just...didn't fill out right.
He didn't look right at all.
Everything about his was...
...wrong.
...
...
...
He chanced another glance in the mirror, another smile.
It looked forced...tired.
But it would have to do. He could...he could handle that later. Dash assured himself that he was just out of practice, he just needed to work on it, that's all. There would be plenty of time for that, he was sure. Turning from his reflection, he went to leave the bathroom, exiting to the main room.
'Y-yeah...yeah, everything'll be fine! But I should leave; I need to get going so that I can at least - ' Lost in thought, he didn't even notice his father leaving the main bedroom until Dash nearly fell back, colliding with the man as he crossed to go to the front door of the trailer. Stunned, he stumbled back, his small, frailer body unable to stand against the force of his father's far sturdier one. At the contact, Allen looked down at him, black, empty eyes, evaluating him irritably.
"Why the hell are you still here? You should have left already, boy." Came his unfriendly words, and the teen sputtered to form an answer, quick on his feet to think of a reply.
"O-oh, uh, I was just looking for makeup, but I, uh...I found it. It was in my bag..." He answered, looking away from the man's eyes, though he could feel his father still staring at him.
It was hard maintaining eye contact with him. He had a way of crushing you...just by looking at you. Even though it had been sloppy, Allen appeared to deem this suitable, grunting at the boy before leaning down, and taking his face into his massive hands. Dash knew not to move when he felt his father's lips touch his own, not tenderly, not lovingly, but with enough force that he felt like his mouth began to throb.
This was normal.
Dad was just showing him that he wasn't mad at him, that he loved him, that he forgave him.
It was always this way. He was just glad that this meant that maybe...Dad wasn't too upset.
At least for the time being.
"Don't fuck up. I don't want to hear that you got into BULLSHIT at school, you hear me? Good marks, you got it? I don't want anyone getting the idea that I'm related to an idiot." His father spat, and as always, he complied.
He had to do good. If it meant his parents just being even a little proud of him, if even a little, then he could manage.
No, he could do more than manage. He'd actually make them proud for once.
"O-okay, Dad. See you later." He smiled weakly, giving the man a nod before Allen parted from him, opening the door, leaving, and again, Dash was alone with the sound of a starting truck just outside their trailer. Swallowing thickly, he went back over to his corner, folding his blanket as he gathered the rest of his stuff. Between a red, drawstring bad that was barely holding itself together, a composite notebook, and his makeup set (lent to him by his mother), he was pretty much set.
Save for just one thing.
The bag that he had collected the strewn shards of glass and breakfast still rested on the floor of the kitchenette, and, tentatively, he stepped over to it as quietly as he could, giving a head check to an empty room. When he deemed it safe, he reached inside, scrambling to pick out the bacon and any eggs that he salvage that weren't covered in glass, which, thankfully, seemed to be a lot of it as far as he could tell. His mouth watered at the opportunity, the teen even sneaking in a few pieces of the cold egg as he threw the rest into the bottom of his bag as he didn't have anything else to put them in. He couldn't stop himself from scarfing down a piece of the bacon, a bit of the eggs, too, choking it down so quickly that he wretched into his palm, coughing violently into open air.
It didn't matter, though. He had to eat.
Just as long as he could get the chance to grab anything.
That's all that mattered.
He was just so hungry.
He wanted it.
He needed it.
He really, really needed it. Mom and Dad wouldn't notice it, that it was gone. As far as they knew, it was in the trash, where everything went that he didn't want or what Mom left over. But this time, it was different. It was fresh, it was like heaven.
He could just keep eating and eating and -
He stopped short of half of the eggs and the last slice of bacon when he remembered something, though his body seemed to scream at him to continue, to eat until there was nothing left of it.
Oh, right...he had to save some for her. She was sure to be hungry, too. Wiping his mouth, he forced himself to close the bag, wrenching his head towards the clock as he wiped the food from his mouth.
And his eyes opened wide, nearly gasping at the time.
"Crap! 05:42?!" Pulling the bag over his shoulder, the voices carried on.
'You need to hurry...' One mused, as if on the verge of laughing at him. Another, it seemed, urged him much more in a panic.
He had to agree. If he was going to get to school with enough time to get cleaned up, he needed to haul ass. Rushing up, he made a break for the door, and, pushing down the handle, he paused looking back into his parents' room, opening his mouth to bid his mother farewell, but he turned back, deeming it pointless.
She probably wouldn't have heard him anyway.
Outside, he noticed Dad was already gone, parted by misted rain and fog as he rushed through the trailers, crushed pebbles and stones complaining loudly under his soles as he made his way to the line of trees further back from where he lived. The community was silent, save for the odd bark of a dog here, the shutting of doors odd and uncommon at this time as most people were still asleep. After a bit, he could see the entryway to brush and foliage, a small cut in the bushes indicating where he ought to go. Reaching it, he didn't hesitate stepping through it, his legs carrying him down the path and on the way to school.