Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction ❯ For The Worst ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

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Chapter 1

It was a few weeks later, after that incident in the kitchen. Edward had told no one about what his mother had done. He had convinced himself that it had been an accident. His mother had looked tired, so she probably just hadn't realized what she'd done. So Ed hadn't spoken of it more than needed, only to explain the slight discoloration on his cheek.

It was late in the evening. The Rockbells had just left after having dinner with the Elrics. Alphonse had been sent to bed already, but Edward had pleaded to stay awake to help clean up, the event apparently forgotten. So Edward was drying dishes while his mother washed and rinsed them. She was going at a slow enough pace that Ed had time to dry the dish in his hands before there was another waiting for him. The two seemed to be enjoying themselves, somewhat, though his mother looked a little unsteady again. Why did it so familiar seem to Edward? He paid it no mind as they washed the dishes. She was probably tired; she'd cleaned the house and cooked a great meal, and it was late.

A few minutes later, Edward was skipping across the kitchen floor to put away a glass on the other side of the room. He set the glass on the counter and began crawling up beside it so he could put it in the cupboard. Though in his scrambling, his foot connected with the glass, sending it flying. As it hit the floor, it shattered into hundreds of pieces, shards sailing through the air.

Ed froze. This wasn't good. Slowly, he turned around on the counter. First, he looked at the damage on the floor. Pieces of glass littered the area. In those shards, Edward saw his memory of what had happened a few weeks ago. Suddenly, he was frightened to look up at his mother, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. He wondered if she remembered it, too, or if this time would be different.

“Edward.” Her voice was stern, slightly dangerous.

He put it off for as long as he could, but finally, Edward looked up at his mother. He swallowed, trying to rid himself of the fear clawing at his insides. His stomach hurt, like he'd eaten too many sweets. He felt sick, warm all over yet cold at the same time. His little hands shook as he tried to move off the counter.

His mother crossed the floor before he had a chance to slide down. Her hand gripped his arm like a vise with fingers like ice. Tears immediately sprang to Edward's eyes from the sudden pain in his arm. He tried to stammer out the word, “Mom,” but it came out as twisted sounds, unrecognizable.

“Look what you did, Edward!” his mother said loudly, yanking him off the countertop and onto the hard floor. Ed winced a little from the way she wrench his arm. “Look! I have to clean it up now!”

Edward fought against the tears in his eyes. The promise he'd made with himself not to cry flashed before him, though it was with a different resolve. Instead of not crying to be strong for his mother, he was now going to be strong for himself. Still, words came spilling out of his mouth like word vomit, uncontained, unchecked.

“I'm so-sorry, Mom!” Ed yelped. “I didn't m-mean to!” He flinched when her grip tightened on his arm. Harder, he strove to keep from crying.

His mother began flailing her free hand around in a dramatic manner, saying, “Always apologizing! Of course you meant to do it, Edward. You're always making more work for me! Why do you do this? Why?” Her hands waved precariously close to his head, making Ed nervous. “You know how hard it is without your father!” Words continued to spew from her mouth; more apologies came from Edward. All the time, he was watching her hands.

When Ed felt a stinging sensation on his cheek, he flinched automatically. Immediately, his brain began excusing this as another accident. Her hands had been moving sporadically, she seemed uncoordinated. He needed any thought that was a viable excuse in his head for this.

Ed knew there was no accident when her hand flew a second time against his other cheek. Still, his brain worked, but it was in vain. Nothing was coming to mind to justify this. No excuses, no explanations that might somehow point to the accident he wanted so badly.

All at once, Edward saw the world fly in front of him. It stopped suddenly, accompanied by a hard collision against his head. When things came into focus, Ed realized he was on the floor. His mother was standing with her back to him, swaying more than she had been earlier. Her hand, the one that had had an iron grip on Ed's arm, was pressed to her forehead.

Without waiting for dismissal, Edward scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could without finding a shard of glass with his foot. He didn't even turn to look at his mother before running out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

When he reached his and Al's bedroom, Ed ensured his brother was sleeping. As Edward crawled into his bed, there were no other sounds in the house besides his and Al's breathing, only for a few more moments. When he was sure that his mother wasn't coming upstairs for anything anytime soon, Edward let go. He released the tears he'd been holding for weeks, since that first incident. He buried them in his pillow, the blankets pulled over his head in hopes that he wouldn't wake Al.

Within a few minutes of his weeping, Edward felt drained. Drained of everything; tears, emotion, energy. As if it took a great effort, Edward slowly turned his pillow over. He was faintly surprised that it wasn't soaked all the way through. With a sigh, he rolled onto his back, looking out of the window beside his bed. As his eyes focused on the stars, one question went through his head, echoing over and over, mocking him since he couldn't understand it. It was only one word: Why?

- - -

The next morning, Edward woke early once more. There were no plans in his head to make breakfast, though. No; he was going to stay out of the kitchen now, unless he absolutely had to go in there. He was going somewhere else this morning. So he crawled out of bed slowly, almost reluctant to leave its warmth and comfort, its safety. When Ed looked down at himself, he frowned; he was still in his clothes from yesterday. Eager to shed those garments, to shed the memory of the previous night, he hastily changed into a short sleeved shirt and shorts. As he was changing, he saw a bruise on his arm where his mother had grabbed him. Where else did he have bruises? He was almost afraid to check.

Quietly, he crossed the floor to his brother's bed. Gently, he tapped Al's shoulder. “Al, I'm going to Winry's,” Edward said quietly.

Alphonse mumbled a little, waving a hand. Visions of last night flashed before Ed's eyes, the memory of his mother's flailing hand still fresh in his memory. “Wait, I'll come with you,” Al murmured sleepily, turning over.

Edward shook his head. “You can come later. It's still early; go back to sleep for a while.” He didn't want Al to see if there were bruises on his face. Not yet. He didn't have a good excuse for them.

It seemed Al was still too tired to stay awake any longer, since he didn't reply to Ed. Within moments, he was snoring quietly. Edward breathed a sigh of relief before leaving the room. He made a side trip to the bathroom. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he almost gasped. His cheeks were red on both sides. His right cheek was even more bruised from when he'd fallen on it. Ed winced when he splashed water against his face.

About ten minutes later, Edward was running across the grass in his front yard, down the hill, over to Winry's house. She was probably still asleep, but her parents would be awake. So would Auntie Pinako. That made Edward halt. Her parents would probably ask him questions about his bruises. He needed to figure out a plausible reason why, other than the truth. If he told the Rockbells his mother had hit him, he didn't know what would happen. He didn't want to know, either. In his head, still, was a notion that she really hadn't meant to do it.

His excuse last time had been falling down the stairs and hitting his face on the floor. That was almost true this time, but Ed didn't want to reuse the same excuse. With a six year old sigh, he began walking to the Rockbell house. Maybe they'd believe him if he said he and Al had started a fist fight after they'd left the previous night? It was worth a shot.

- - -

About an hour later, Edward was sitting on Winry's bed. He was squirming a little uncomfortably, like he had been doing for the past half hour. Winry was oblivious to his discomfort, her nose stuck in one of her parents' medical books. She'd been reading since he had come upstairs after dancing on incredibly thin ice around her parents. She'd hardly acknowledged him entering her room earlier. Part of Ed wanted to take the book from her and tell her his mother had done, and the other part was glad she wasn't paying him attention.

After a few moments, Edward sighed and turned onto his back so his head was close to Winry's, eyes closed. He didn't say anything, though his insides were bursting to share this with his best friend, one of the few people he could trust.

“You didn't brush your hair before coming over here.”

Edward opened his head quickly to see Winry sitting up now, looking down at him. There was a slightly surprised look on her face. Startled, Ed sat up all the way once more. Immediately, he remembered his marks and reached up to cover them. Winry's hands stopped his as she inspected his face.

“What happened to you, Ed?” she asked incredulously, like she couldn't believe it. “These bruises are worse than when you fell down the stairs!”

Once again, he began squirming, pushing Winry's hands away from his face. Now that he had a chance to tell someone what had been happening, he wasn't quite sure he wanted to do it. What if Winry told her parents? Her parents would probably do something about it; what, Edward couldn't fathom. He was very suddenly scared to share the truth. So his excuse bubbled up his throat and out his mouth:

“Al and I got in a fist fight after you guys left last night,” he mumbled, not meeting Winry's eyes. Immediately after telling her this, the truth was on his tongue, begging to be spoken, to be exposed, but he just couldn't do it.

“A fist fight?” Winry repeated a little skeptical sounding. She was silent for a moment; Ed could tell she was thinking, deciding whether or not to accept this or if she should ask more. “Did you win?” she asked finally.

A sigh of relief and disappointment left Edward's lips in place of the truth. “No. I lost.”