[Aterat Mem Shares]

[doubled_speed]

See Comments Below. Subject Lines contain CWs and Word Counts

Comments

Welcome to Mutanthood | CW: Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Referenced Neglect/Food Denial | 1600 Words

[doubled_speed]

You’ve put a lot of thought into the question of what the best part of the day has to be. There is an argument for first thing in the morning, because walking to school in the mornings sorta sucks when it’s winter. But winter is only part of the year, right, so that’s out. Could go for late night too, the sorta of times when Frank came back from a night out with his buddies. Those times are bad too. But really, this is the worst time, isn’t it?

The roof of the porch leaks. Something that you are reminded of as the sky rumbles ominously with promise of rain. Could start any moment, and it makes you anxious enough to worry at your lip with nervous teeth. There is only one chair on the porch, and it is directly below the point where the roof drips the most. Last time you moved it, hoping to sit somewhere dry to avoid the drips, Frank went off because of it. Your fingers come up to run at the bruise at the memory. The other option is sitting on the bare wood of the porch. That way leads to splinters and if you get dirt on your pants again, Mary...

She’s just as bad, if you do the wrong things. Worse in her own ways because Frank gets tired of hitting when you flinch. Mary? Well, there are other ways to punish a kid, and keeping meals coming has to be more important than keeping on Frank’s good side. School breakfasts and lunches just aren’t going far enough compared to the constant rumble of his stomach, and with the weekend coming up, it mattered more to choose your battles carefully.

The sky rumbles again, like it’s trying to outdo the latest protest of your stomach, and that’s when it starts. The rain falls all at once, coming down like a sheet. Damn. An hour until Mary comes home, and if he’s lucky, two until Frank does. Not that they always work to schedule. Again your teeth find your lip, and after a second you reach out, dragging the beat up old folding chair away from the spot already starting to drip. Once it’s settled in a dry area you flop down and pull open your battered old Captain America bookbag. Better to start on your homework now. After all, it isn’t like you can go anywhere else. More than once you’ve caught sight of the curtains of the squat little one-story across the street twitching aside. Mary always has eyes around him, and Mrs. Keane would definitely call her if you dare step off of this porch.

"If I had a key, maybe you wouldn’t have to have little old witches watching me and complaining about how you have to talk to her."

But no one is around to hear you. Which is probably for the best. Frank would backhand you for the sass. Mary would start yammering about how ungrateful you are, and if you thought you were getting a key so you could eat your family out of house and home, or maybe burn the place down.

Whatever.

A pencil comes out too, and your attention turns to your math homework. Doesn’t matter that you only half get the stuff, if it isn’t mostly done by the time they come home...

The sound of a vehicle passing down the street in the rain. Habit has you looking up, expecting nothing more than someone driving through the wrong part of town. Instead it’s worse, so much worse. An old gray pick up truck, just as beaten and worn as everything else in this house. Rust was eating away at the rear bumper and under the door handle on the driver’s side. The gray was the same color as the sky. The rumble of the engine as the truck pulled into the driveway was just as ominous as the brewing storm.

You move as fast as you can. Papers in bag, bag zipped. There isn’t enough time. There is never enough time. Once you’re standing with the bag over your shoulder, the chair is all that is left. Faster, need to move faster. You push and pull the thing back into position in time to hear cursing as the truck door slams shut and booted feet approach.

It’s all back to perfect as those feet hit the stairs. There is just enough time to turn around and look at Frank before the man is standing at the door. And there is a familiar sort of darkness in his eyes. Darkness that has you looking down at your feet.

"Inside. Now."

There is a harsh edge and you know what that means. The hand around the strap of your bookbag tightens, as if it could serve as some sort of shield against his wrath. Pretty useless, and you know it. There’s no protection in this world. It’s something you learned long ago.

You don’t bother to comment as you head inside. Don’t bother to defend yourself by getting a word in before the door closes behind you both. There is enough time to put your bag down before Frank’s hand settles into your shoulder, a massive weight.

You know how it goes from here. It almost plays out in slow motion. Frank opens his mouth and starts to shout. It’s a rant you’ve heard before, that you could give in your sleep. Weird, how it sounds different this time, voice slurring and distorted. It’s like slow motion. Doesn’t mean that you don’t know the content. Ungrateful, stupid kid, Frank put that chair there for a reason, he knew he wasn’t supposed to move it. Frank had helped bring him into this world, he should be grateful, and no son of his should be so disobedient.

And still it’s all in slow motion. The way Frank’s hand lifts, fingers curling into a fist. Damn, and here you were hoping for a slap. But no, this is one time too many. With practiced form you go just still enough to prove a suitable target, carefully breathing out just before the slow moving fist connects with your stomach. Forcing the air out, you’ve learned, makes this easier. The blow still hurts and you stumble back, moaning in pain.

When you were younger you used to think maybe if you cried and begged he would stop. The first time you’d broken his favorite stein mug because you tripped next to his side table, you’d sobbed all night. It had been the start of a lot. Then you got it into head that maybe it would be better if you could just show him how strong you were, how you could take it.

Now you just let your body react. And the way it reacts this time is weird. The fist of Frank’s other hand swings in, still so slow, and it’s too slow. Beyond slow. On a whim your body sways aside and the fist swings past. Strange. You watch as Frank’s eyes slowly widen. And then the proper speed of the world slams back into place as two more blows rained down with them, punctuated by a peal of thunder.

It hurts. It always hurts. You fall backward another step and then shake your head to clear the sudden headache. It can’t be from the blows. Frank never hits around the head without it just being a slap. But it hurts, bad, worse almost than the punches.

You need to get away. You need to move. You need this to stop. And so you do something you haven’t done in years. You move. One moment you’re shifting as if trying to just get out of the range of your father’s fists. The next you’ve taken a step and everything is different.

You’re wet. Rain is falling on you. Instead of the living room you’re two blocks away, bracing yourself against the fence around Mr Davis’s house. None of it makes sense. And none of that matters because your stomach, already aching, finally revolts, and what lunch you were able to get is lost just like that. A few more retches and your clothes are soaked through. You raise your hand to wipe at the corner of your mouth.

There’s a tree nearby, leaves thick and strong. A few stumbles steps and you fall under it, taking shelter as you try and figure it out. How you’re here, what you’re doing, why your body aches deeper than any beating managed before. You sit with your back against the tree, curling your legs up to your chest. Your fingers reach up to try and push hair back from your eyes, hair plastered to your skin. And then, with a flash of white, you freeze. Freeze and pull it instead to a position to look at it. White, white hair like fucking snow. It was a dark, deep brown like Mary’s this morning.

"Oh. Oh Hell."

An unexpected situation, the world seeming slow, being here out of nowhere, a sudden physical change, and all of it in an emotional burst? You’ve read enough to know what it points to. Frank and Mary aren’t going to line this. Maybe you shouldn’t go back. Maybe you should just try and disappear. Like hell they will let a mutant into their home.

You haven’t bothered crying in years. But right now, with everything falling apart around you, with the rain pounding down around you, you let yourself cry.