AN: any constructive criticism and reviews are always welcome :))
Disclaimer: I own nothing, all rights go to RickRiordan
The sounds of smashing glass accompanied with yells and taunts weren't uncommon in this household. In fact, it was unusual and something to worry about if the dissonant background noises weren't there.
Not that it was that safe and calm normally; it definitely wasn't the ideal place for a six year old to grow up in.
Solace was a far off concept for the child, his mother being the only thing that came remotely close to making him feel safe. Going to preschool wasn't the most pleasant experience either.
The other kids could always sense when someone was different, and he was no exception. Being excluded from their group activities and just generally unwanted and ignored was the norm; isolation was a familiar feeling, the constant companion in his miserable life.
The one light in his dark existence was his mother, a queen among women. Bringing comfort in the forms of small goodie bags of 'free sample' blue candies, the sweet smell of toffees and chocolates and licorice and all the other assortments of confectionery sold in the candy shop in Grand Central.
The way her eyes would always sparkle and change colour in the light, the way her presence in a room made him feel good, the way she looked at him, looking past the bad, only seeing the good.
She didn't deserve to be stuck in this abusive marriage with a drunk pig like Gabe. She didn't deserve to work a job that paid just above minimum wage, using the hard earned money to keep the family afloat as her husband squandered his manager's wages on alcohol and gambling.
-Line Break-
"Get me more beer, brat!" The slurred words were just barely discernible, the figure who spoke them slumped on the couch, multiple beer bottles scattered around the surrounding area, another empty bottle clutched in his sweaty, meaty fist.
The six year old slowly opened his door, something his mother had specifically warned him to never do when she wasn't home with him; a rule he had broken over and over again in fear of being beaten. Peeking his head out, ensuring that danger was not in the immediate vicinity, he darted out in a rehearsed hurry, grabbing a new bottle from the fridge with a practised ease, having done this countless times.
Closing the fridge door, he walked the same path he had walked hundreds of times, through the kitchen, through the living room, stop slightly to the right of the drunkard, drop off the bottle and back to the relative security of his room.
This time, he wasn't as lucky.
The soft clink of glass on the floor was sharp enough to pierce through the alcoholic haze of Gabe's mind, sobering him up enough to catch sight of the frozen figure before him, green eyes wide with fear.
"You motherfucking punk. Thought you could steal one of my beers, huh?" Words slurred together as he clenched his fist tighter around the empty bottle, swaying as he stood up, eyes narrowed at the trembling boy in front of him, backing away from the obvious threat.
Mute as he frantically shook his head, denying the accusation, desperately trying to convey the fact that Gabe was the one who called for another drink through his panicked stance, his tearing eyes begging for understanding he would never get.
His pleas were ignored.
Glass bottles clinked indiscriminately against the floor and each other as they were kicked out of the way as he struggled to stand up, towering over the petrified six year old.
"You useless piece of shit. How dare you fucking steal from me?" Voice crescendoing from a sneer to a yell, spittle flying out with his rage, the glass bottle from his hand shattering against the wall.
Still the child did not move, his fight or flight instincts having chosen freeze, even as the shower of glass shards pierced his skin, inbedding into the flesh. As blood began to run down, crying for the child who was unable to do so himself, the man struck the child across the face, the strong right hook knocking him over before following with a solid kick to the fallen boy's unprotected stomach.
The momentum from the kick shoved him backwards over the scattered glass, each one tearing through the meagre protection of the shirt and digging into his skin, small pools of red forming under him.
He whimpered and attempted to move from his vulnerable position but to no avail. His body was too weak, too injured, and even as he coughed, blood staining his teeth and lips, creating another small trail down his chin, the drunken man advanced towards him, ready to continue his assault on the living punching bag before him.
As he drew his leg back for another kick, the sound of the lock in the door made him pause, long enough to see a woman come in, still in her red-white-and-blue Sweet on America uniform, a small bag of 'free samples' clutched in her hand. Judging that she wasn't a threat, he continued, again, delivering the kick to the boy's unprotected stomach, undeterred by the whimpering and retching sounds coming from the half-conscious boy.
The soft thump of the small bag of candy falling to the floor was covered by the anguished cry torn from the woman's throat as she rushed forward, shielding the relentless attacks on the child with her own body.
"Gabe! Get away from him! You promised! You promised you wouldn't hurt him!"
"Get out of the way bitch, or I'll punish you too!" He paused in his relentless attack to sneer down at the pathetic sight before him. Then his leg swung forward once more. As the kick connected with her back, the only response was a pained grunt as she still refused to move. He shrugged, unaffected.
"Your funeral, bitch," before grabbing an intact bottle on the ground. The child slowly opened his eyes, fighting against the heaviness of the lids, wondering why he had felt no impact.
His pain-addled brain made out the figure of his mother hunched over him but didn't connect the pieces before it was too late. He watched in horror as his mother slumped forward, the glass shattering against her head like a twisted halo, raining shards on them both.
"Mom!" The strangled scream was torn from his throat, leaving it feeling as ragged as the glass scattered on the floor. Uncaring of the glass digging into his skin he knelt forward, cradling her head in his lap. Blood continued streaming out of the wound, covering his Thomas the Tank Engine pajama pants.
He didn't care.
She just needed to be okay. The crunch of glass made him look up in time to see Gabe pulling his hand back before delivering a slap that made black spots dance in his vision. Unconsciousness called to him, tempting him with promises of painlessness and rest.
As he slipped further and further into oblivion, he made out the figure of Gabe hunched over his mother fiddling with something at his waist. As the images blurred, he made out Gabe ripping at his mother's pants as she lay there, still with a bleeding gash in her head.
"Ugh, nngghh no! Mom!"
At that moment, something in him snapped. A white hot pool grew in his gut, as if the shards around him were now in him.
Nobody touched his mother.
Nobody hurt his mother.
And the man in front of him had just done both. Adrenaline rushed through his system, smothering the pain, the calling of unconsciousness, the steady stream of blood leaving his body. This man needed to pay.
Reaching out his hand, fingers outstretched, he tried to grab something to help. A strange feeling of liquid came to his senses, but as he stared at his hand, there was nothing but the blood of his mother mingling with his own.
Experimentally, he pulled at this strange feeling, still staring at his hand, grasping at nothing. The man before him jerked suddenly, tugged by an invisible force. Blinking the black spots away, he tugged again, and like before, the man stumbled to the side.
It wasn't a coincidence.
He was somehow controlling the man; making him move. Thoughts whirled around in his head, ideas of how to put this new found ability to use.
Narrowing his eyes, he shoved his hand outwards as hard as he could, pushing at the strange liquid still in his grasp. Like a puppet, the man stumbled backwards, tripping and crashing down onto the carpet of shards, blood slowly trickling out. And finally the boy could see exactly what the strangle liquid he had been pushing and pulling at.
Blood.
Then his eyes travelled to the prone figure of his mother again, hardening at the sight. Any doubts and thoughts of hesitation left his mind.
Now, Gabe could begin paying.
