Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ A Stagnation of Love (Remake) ❯ Prologue: Night Thoughts ( Chapter 1 )

A Stagnation of Love

 

Author's Notes: Please note that this is the remake of the old ASOL. There will be some significant changes and differences between the two fics, but a lot of things will stay the same, too.

There are some big changes in this fic, so don't use the old one as a guide to this one. For example, Wufei is actually in this one and Quatre has a completely different role. Instead of starting at high school, this story is more linear. This `prologue' starts at pre-school, for example, Duo's only six. There will be four chapters, all entailing things that happen in different schools, pre-school (age 5-6), elementary school (age 6-10), middle school (age 10-14), and high school (age 14-18). I hope that doesn't confuse anyone. It will still be from Duo's point of view and Zechs and Relena are still assholes.

For those on fanfiction.net and mediaminer.org, the original ASOL cannot be found on these sites, but can be found on Gundam-wing-fanfiction.net and adultfanfiction.net. It is my intention to rewrite all of my old fics and this is the first one on my list.

 

To those on mediaminer.org: This is my very first post on this site, though I've been posting fics for a few years on other sites. I stumbled onto this site and thought “what the heck?” Hopefully this will work out as well as adultfanfiction.net *hugs ff.net*

 

Warnings: Abuse, AU, OOC, incest, NCS, language, violence, homophobia, bastardized characters, sap, lemon, dark, alcoholism.

Pairings: 1x2, R+1, past R+2, 4+2, OCx2, attempted 6x2, 3x2.

Summary: All of his life, Duo has been pushed around by his parents and his classmates. When he finally meets someone who wants to change things for the better, will he be able to pull himself up or will he always be standing still?

 

Prologue: Night Thoughts

 

September 3, 1998

 

They're fighting again. My whole life, they've done nothing but fight. I guess it shouldn't bother me anymore, but when I'm laying on my bed, late at night, and all I can hear are my mom and dad's voices, carrying through the floor below me, screeching and screaming, it's hard not to be scared. I can't even hear the wind anymore. It's been really cold lately, and the wind usually howls up here, against the walls, but my mother's screeching voice blocks it all out.

“Don't you fucking touch me!” I hear her scream at my father. I know it's at him, it always is. Every night she screams that. I don't get what the big deal is, he touches her all the time during the day. As small as our house is, it's impossible not to touch one another if we're in the same room, but she makes such a big deal when they're in their bedroom. I don't get what the difference is. I can hear him yelling back at her, words I don't understand, but I know that they're not good ones. I put my hands over my ears, but it doesn't make a difference. She's screaming back at him, ordering him, threatening him not to touch her. I hear the door slam downstairs and I know that one of them won't be sleeping with the other tonight, but I don't know who. I can't fall asleep. There aren't lights up here in the attic, it scares me sometimes. Dad won't let me turn on a light, he says it's a waste of electricity. I turn on my side and wince. It hurts to move. My ribs feel weird from where Dad hit me with the chair. Well, he hit me in the back, so I wonder why my ribs hurt more than my back does. It doesn't matter, though, I can handle it, really, I can. Dad thinks, `cause I'm small, I can break easily, but I've had worse than this. It'll hurt worse in the morning, but it'll stop hurting, eventually, at least until he hits me again. He has problems with anger, or at least, that's what mom used to say. She used to say to get out of his way, to not argue with him, because he knows what's best. She doesn't talk to me much like that anymore. I stay out of her way, too.

It's hard staying out of Dad's way, though. Mom's here all day with me and Dad's gone most of the day, sometimes all night, coming home smelling funny, but when he is here, even when I try to hide out in my room, here in the attic, it's hard to escape from him. I don't have any secret hiding places, there's nothing like that here, so, if he wants to find me, he can, and has. When Dad's angry, getting out of his way is impossible, but when he hits me, I think it makes him feel better, `cause then he's not so angry anymore. That's something… right? Being angry or sad, doesn't feel good. I don't like that feeling and I'm sure Dad doesn't like it, either, but being hit by him hurts. But, he doesn't always hit. Sometimes, he just yells bad things at me or pushes my head under the water in the sink or tub or pulls my hair. Those things hurt just as much, sometimes worse. The words hurt the worst, I think. But, he's my Daddy. He knows best, right? So… I shouldn't be upset if he hurts me. It's what's best for me. I just wish that Mom would look me in the eye like he does. I wish she would yell at me like he does. I don't like it when she ignores me. It makes me feel like I'm not really there, but Dad's pain takes away that feeling. That's not so bad.

I can't sleep, they won't stop yelling at each other. Why do they have to hate each other so much? Why do they have to hate me so much? I can't understand it. I wonder if I ever will understand it. I wish I could sleep. I start school tomorrow, my very first day. It sounds exciting and I hope I can make at least one friend. That would be nice, to have someone to talk to, someone who might understand why being with my family hurts, because I sure don't. I don't see the point in lying here, staring up at a ceiling that I can't really see, so I roll off of the bed, trying to ignore the pain in my chest, like I always do. Maybe if I walk around for a little while, it won't hurt so bad. Maybe I'll tire myself out and I can fall asleep faster. That works, sometimes. I have to be careful, though. If Mommy kicked Daddy out, he'll be mad and I don't want to be hit anymore today. The pain makes it hard to move, but after having to move around with a broken leg once, it's not all that difficult.

My house only has one bedroom, that one's for my parents. I guess it's kind of cool, living in the attic. Well, it would be if there were some old trunks or clothes here, but there's just lots of dust. Sometimes I have spiders, those icky black ones that look like scorpions, which I hate, the spiders, I mean, but other times I've got these cute little field mice. I don't mind those, they're fun to pet. They say on TV that mice are dirty, they make you sick, and they bite you a lot, but the little ones never did that to me. I always wanted a dog or a cat, maybe a bird, even a fish, but Daddy hates animals and refuses to let me have any. I'm scared to take something home. I don't want to be responsible if he gets mad and hurts a kitty.

I don't mind the dust up here. I cough a lot `cause of it, but I have a lot of allergies anyway. I think the worst is when it's summer, `cause we don't have any air conditioning and it gets really, really hot up here. I don't mind when it's freezing as much as when it's hot, no one says anything if I take lots of towels up here to keep warm, but it's harder to keep cool. I've never been in my parents' bedroom, I'm not allowed, but it's probably cooler down there. It's hard getting off the bed, `specially when it hurts, `cause it's just a mattress on the floor. Dad used to say that it's better than a futon, but I don't know what that is, exactly. At least I have a door and it isn't one of those trap door thingies where you have to push the steps down to get out. I'd never figure out how to do that. It'd probably be pretty cool though, like I lived in a secret cave, but I'd be scared trying to get in and out of it.

There's really only one floor of the house, besides the attic and all the rooms feel like they're stuffed together. There's the attic, my Mom and Dad's room, the only bathroom we've got, the living room where Dad spends most of his time these days, the kitchen, and the basement. As I walk down the steps, I realize that I'm thirsty and head to the kitchen first. Mom's the one who either got kicked out or left, `cause she's already asleep sitting at the kitchen table. Her face is bright red and I know that she won't wake up for anything. She's like that when she drinks, but I'm not sure why she has to sleep so hard. Fortunately, she's not sleeping in the chair that Dad hit me with, because one of the legs came off. I don't know where it went, though the chair still stands, it's just a bit wobbly. I open the refrigerator. Sometimes Dad has bottles of water in there, but tonight there's just old take out food containers, some vodka that Mom likes, and cans of beer for Dad. It's better than nothing, though. Sometimes that happens, too. There'll be no food or water, but sometimes our neighbors will give me leftover scraps, but not always. Those times are a bit harder for me, but I'm getting better at dealing with it.

The sink in the bathroom has rust on the metal parts in some places. I used to think I would get that tetna-what's it from drinking out of it, but I guess you can't get it that way. We don't get much warm water, even when you turn the knob in the shower all the way up, but when I cup my hands and drink up the water, it tastes weird and unpleasantly warm and bitter. It doesn't really quench my thirst all the way, but it's better than nothing. I can't bear to drink anymore of the icky water and sneak past my Mom, towards the kitchen door. It's big and I have to get up on my tippy-toes to reach the door handle, but Mom stays asleep, even when the old knob makes a loud screech. I have to push extra hard on the door to get it to open and flick on the light switch. Dad used to say that it would pretty stupid to break your neck in a little old house like ours.

The basement's the only interesting place in our house. Before I was born, my parents stored a bunch of their old stuff down there. Dad says I'm not allowed to go down here, that the past is none of my business, but I like to explore. It seems like every time I look, I find something new. It's hard going down the steps because there are two steps missing. It's easy for Dad, `cause he's so tall, but it's harder for me and I have to jump down. Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll actually break my neck, but not tonight. I guess I've evaded death for another day. I wonder if dying hurts. There's so much stuff down here, wandering around in the dark isn't a good idea. Besides, I don't have any shoes on and I probably will get that rust disease if I step on something. It's creepy down here at night, with the old mirrors and spider webs, but it's kind of cool, too. It's so weird, knowing that my parents collected all of this stuff long before I came along. There's pictures of people I've never met, including my grandparents, and old pieces of furniture that's falling apart. I've gone through most of the trunks, but not the dressers or cabinets, so I head for the large wooden dresser, though I can only open the first three drawers. Inside one of them is a picture of my Mom. I think it was taken a really, really long time ago. She's smiling in the picture. Mom doesn't smile. I've never seen her smile, not to me, not to anyone. I guess it's obvious that it was taken before I was born. She was happy back then, or so she and Dad say.

Mom always tells me that I destroyed her, her body, her happiness. I… don't really know what that means. I just know that, because of me, Mom's sad, and that makes me sad. I don't want to hurt my Mommy, or make her cry, but I guess, just by existing, I cause her a lot of unhappiness. I don't know how to fix that. Dad says that we look like twins, but I can see the resemblance more in the old photo than now. She looks… old, I guess, now, I mean. Or at least, she looks tired. But, in the picture, her face is smooth and she's smiling really brightly. My Mom's really pretty, or she was, before I came along. We both have the same kind of brown hair and for as long as I can remember, I've always wanted it long, just like hers. It looks nice. Our faces look really similar, with just a few differences that I can't explain. Our eyes are different, though. Both Mom and Dad's eyes are grey, but Dad's are darker. Dad says I'm a freak. Because of something that happened when I was born, or maybe before, I don't understand, I have violet eyes. Dad says that normal people don't have eyes like mine. I don't know. I haven't seen all the other people in the world. I've never left Nausten, that's our town. I'd like to, one day. I'd like to go to Boston or New York. I hear it's really neat there. Dad's hair is brown and kinda messy, but it's much darker than mine and Mom. They don't act a lot alike. I guess that's weird for parents and married people, not having anything in common. Well, they have their drinking, but that's the only habit they have in common.

I sit on the floor of the cold basement, holding the picture in my hands. I wonder what Elementary school is like. Our neighbor's kid says that school sucks, but I think it might be better than here, just lying around all day watching TV and waiting for Dad to come home, just so I can stay away from him. I wonder if I'll make friends and whether anyone will think I'm a freak or they'll understand me. All I know is, it can't be worse than what I have already.

 

 

 

End Prologue