Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Beauty And The Beast ❯ Part Two ( Chapter 2 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
The Introduction of Catherine, the talking Pez Dispenser
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / / Supernatural | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.20.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 9.1K | Visits: 398 | Status: Completed
The Introduction of Catherine, the talking Pez Dispenser
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / / Supernatural | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.20.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 9.1K | Visits: 398 | Status: Completed
The Beauty and the Beast (Part Two)
“Sexual Assault Victim First In Area,” the headlines read. The front page fluttered, seemingly manipulated by unseen hands as it rested on the kitchen table. Mr. Winner exhaled smoke as he stood at the open kitchen door, the morning hour leaving the air cool and the breeze a little chilly. The sun had just barely peeked over the mountains in the distance, giving the air a sort of deep red and neon orange appearance. Squinting, he thought he could see the far off shapes of oncoming rain clouds, and frowned at the thought of thunder. Quatre was afraid of thunder.
Standing in the open doorway, he could hear the sounds of the neighborhood awakening; from the newspaper delivery kids, to the start of vehicles, to the now familiar shouts coming from 00316. Rolling his eyes in that direction, he took the cigarette thoughtfully as he eyed the stucco roof and the fake clay setting of the two-story. It wasn’t as if he disliked his neighbors–no, Sam and Helen were fine. They were fine folks with fine ideals–it was just that they were lost when it came to dealing with their adopted fifteen year old. Mr. Winner was already dreading his son’s teen years–the ones he’d experienced with his eldest daughters were already hell on earth.
As he listened to the shouts coming from 00316, he heard the flutter of the newspaper, and glanced over. Blinking with surprise, he saw that the entire front section had been moved aside. He pulled away from the open door, glancing around the kitchen for either a cranky daughter or a sharply inquisitive son. Seeing nor hearing anything of the sort, he glanced at today’s paper, catching the headline of the sexual assault victim. A teenager, caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, had become the victim of the latest in seemingly fashionable assaults. Due to their age, the victim wasn’t to be named–nor was there any given clue as to who it was. It could be anyone–one of his girls, one of Beaucoup’s sons, that kid down the street...
He frowned as he scanned the article, then straightened away from the table.
He gave a start when he realized his son had noiselessly entered the kitchen, staring up at him with a wide-eyed expression. It gave him the chills to see that sort of expression on his son’s face–usually, following that look, was something outrageous.
“Trowa got hurt last night, dad,” he said, a serious edge to his young voice.
Mr. Winner blinked again, then put out the cigarette. Waving away the smoke, he frowned at him. “Fell off his skateboard?”
“No. Maria said a bad man–”
“Quatre, son...”
Mr. Winner exhaled slowly, trying to conjure up something that would make his son understand that his invisible friends were just that–invisible. Made-up. That whatever they said–however true they were–was nothing more than his imagination. He may have heard the sounds of the evening news last night, or associated the sirens last night with something entirely fabricated by his overly active imagination. Whichever, he hoped that none of his son’s words met with Sam or Helen–it would alarm the adults, and cause unimaginable tension.
“Please...please, just–keep your...friends’ stories to yourself. All right?”
“But–”
“Quatre Rebarba! Just listen to me, all right? You don’t repeat what your friends tell you. To anyone. If you need to tell someone...talk to me. Miss Noin can help you if you need to call me.”
“I know how to use the phone, dad,” Quatre said with disgust, giving his father the evil eye.
Mr. Winner paused, then smiled, reaching out to ruffle the colorless strands of his son’s hair. “I’m sorry if I insulted you with that comment, son. I know you can. Just...sometimes, you appear younger than you look.”
“Gee, thanks, dad. That’ll land me all the girls. They all want a guy that looks like a kid.”
Mr. Winner sputtered as he straightened. He gave his son a close look, not wanting to comprehend that aspect of his son’s life. It was already hell with his daughters’. “You’re seven years old, Quatre. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you until you’re at least forty.”
“But, dad–Trowa didn’t tell anybody that he–”
“Quatre.”
The boy silenced under the quelling tone used, and fidgeted nervously as he stared up at his father. Mr. Winner exhaled again, running a hand through his hair. He noted that he needed a hair cut. He lowered himself to his knees, wincing at the popping noises they emitted as he performed the action. Reaching out, he held his son’s shoulders, gripping them firmly.
“People don’t understand your...friends,” he began slowly, looking into his boy’s luminous eyes. “People cannot understand what they don’t see. And no one can see your friends, Quatre. They can’t hear them. They can’t feel them. What doesn’t exist in their eyes, doesn’t exist at all. When you say something that you’ve heard from your friends, your words can hurt or severely trouble someone. Even if they are true–I’m not saying that they aren’t, because–well, I don’t know your friends–but you need to learn to keep your stories to yourself. No matter what.”
“Even if, even if they’re true, and they could help someone?” Quatre asked, frowning.
Mr. Winner rubbed his shoulders with his fingertips. It seemed as if it were yesterday, when this boy was squalling a storm in his mother’s arms. He wondered where those days had gone. Why they had passed by so quickly. It seemed that within an hour’s time, he’d soon be dropping off a sullen male teen at the nearby high school, and arguing about curfew. He was working too much, spending less time with the people that mattered. He pulled his son close to him, feeling the warmth and life he possessed. Inhaling deeply, he smelled the familiar scents of sleep, of scent, of his life.
There was also...something burning...
Glancing around with a curious expression, he wondered where the source of this scent was. He leant back, wondering how early kids began experimenting with fire. He’d have to give Noin a heads-up with this one.
“Even if,” he said, nodding seriously to the question asked.
Quatre stared back at him, fiddling with the hem of his faded t-shirt, then nodded solemnly.
Crisis solved and possible neighbor rift eliminated before it could even begin, Mr. Winner rose from the floor and glanced back at the newspaper. With a sudden chill racing through his bones, he took that section with the sexual assault article, and moved to gather his things for work.
110101010101100
They were ignoring him. They were acting differently toward him. It wasn’t the same, he felt. And of course, it wouldn’t be. He was now a freak. A diseased freak that fell prey to an experienced predator. He hadn’t even seen it coming.
Sitting on his bed, hugging himself tightly as he stared across his room, Trowa could only comprehend what he thought than what he could feel. He felt that if he allowed himself to feel–he would just be fucked. He couldn’t allow himself this. Couldn’t allow himself to break down. His parents were giving him this distance–they themselves were stuck in a state of horror and disbelief. They couldn’t look at him. They couldn’t speak.
The police had asked their simple questions and the doctor had performed a thorough test on him. But the predator had been clean. He had known what he was doing. He had been experienced enough to keep Trowa himself from spilling the details–he’d let Trowa live on the simple clause of misfortune. He hadn’t bothered covering his face–no, this man was egotistical, and carried out his crime with a flair normally reserved for the arrogant. With a few simple rules, he knew Trowa would keep his identity secret.
Last night was nearly twenty-four hours past–but his pain and his horror remained just as fresh as they were when he’d experienced them. His body ached in places they shouldn’t; his throat felt raw; there was a bitter taste at the back of his tongue that forced all saliva to dry; the tips of his fingers felt numb. He felt different in this body–this body was unknown to him.
Everyone asked their questions and shared their looks; we’re experienced with rape victims, they’d assured him. The best in counseling could be paid for by Uncle Sam. That monster will be caught. He will be punished for his crimes. You’re lucky to be alive.
“Lucky,” they said. What a fitting word for his current state. ‘Lucky’ meant seeing last night’s events roll before his eyes like a stop motion film. ‘Lucky’ meant feeling pain in places he’d never felt before. ‘Lucky’ meant walking around with the shameful knowledge that another man had touched him, had ravaged him. ‘Lucky’ meant that everyone would know he went willingly with a strange man. ‘Lucky’ meant that he was soiled for life.
Ha, ha, someone whispered. His eyes, wide as they were, shifted to the side of his bed. A shape of something he couldn’t identify rolled by. The shape was in the form of his blankets, as if fluttering with the waves of the sea.
Ha, ha, they whispered.
“Stop laughing at me,” he hissed, his voice a stranger to himself. Everything about him was a stranger to himself.
Ha, ha, they whispered. The blankets fluttered continuously, a never-ending motion that made him feel as if he were suddenly alight on a magic carpet. A magic carpet that sailed through oceans of dark, thunderous air. Soaring over scornful laughter and leering eyes. They peered at him now–staring at him from the folds of his closet, and from the tongues of his shoes.
Ha, ha...
They were secrets he had not discovered yet.
He hugged his knees tightly, his forehead pressed against them. His body ached. He didn’t want to sit in that position; his stitches pulled; but there was no other way to guard himself against the outside world.
He could feel the man’s hands on him–touching, caressing, exploring...he felt wretched and unclean. Even if he scraped his skin from muscle and bones, he could still feel him touching him.
What’s wrong, Trowa? Why are you feeling so sad?
A child’s voice. He was hearing things. He looked up with a startled air. His eyes touched on everything in his room–the black bookcase with textbook psychology titles and various Michael Crichton novels. The black dresser with minimal variances on the top. The full length mirror that had Duo’s hand prints on the bottom. The open closet, where everything sat according to spectrum of color. The clean floor, where two pairs of shoes stared silently up at him. The night stand that held a digital alarm clock and a single touch lamp. His medication was revealed to him from the slightly opened drawer. Medication...watches he’d never wear...condoms for that ‘just in case’ moment he knew would never happen...pimple creme...pez...
But there wasn’t a place in his room where that child could hide. So where was the voice coming from?
Don’t be sad, Trowa. Things happen for a greater good.
The child’s voice was much too chirpy; young; there was a slight lisp to it. It was on the verge of a giggle. It caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.
Where was it coming from?
Things that do not kill you make you stronger, she suggested.
His eyes alighted on a Pez dispenser that lay on his VCR. Duo’s. It was a Spider-Man pez dispenser, but it had a child’s voice. Female. He was hearing things. Why was he hearing things? He stared at it in disbelief. It was unmoving, still–lifeless. Yet it spoke to him. Why was he hearing things?
I’m magic, Trowa, she whispered. Spider-Man’s white eyes stared at the wall of the television set. There was no mouth visible, and it was closed. I can hear all the thoughts and feelings of those around me. I’m a magic dispenser, Trowa. I can be your friend...when no one else wants to be, I can be your friend...
“I’m going mad,” he whispered to himself.
No, Trowa. You’re not. You can hear me. Therefore, I exist. You knew where I was when I began speaking. So you know I exist. My name is Catherine, Trowa. I’ll be your friend. I’ll be your sister. I’ll be all that I can be...for you...when no one else will...
He stared at the Spider-Man dispenser. He could not believe it was talking to him. He clutched his head, his eyes widening and his expression forming disbelief.
But he could hear her. Her voice was as clear as Helen’s would be if she were standing in the same room. It was clear, musical, child-like...like Duo’s. Only...only she was a female...
Don’t bother yourself with logic, Trowa, she giggled. You’ll give yourself a headache! I am no matter what the others say. If you can hear me, then why deny yourself the knowledge of my existence? Accept what and who I am, Trowa. For I have already accepted you.
Ha, ha, the bedsheets whispered. You’re going mad, Trowa. Too much medication, too much pain, too much sheltering. Your biological parents were already mad with their own delusions...what makes you safe from inheriting what they had?
Don’t listen to them, Trowa, Catherine, the magic Spider-Man pez dispenser cajoled. She was still unmoving, facing the television set. She was just plastic and paint–yet she spoke to him clear as day. Her voice was not in his head. Her voice was not in his head.
She lies to you, Trowa, his comforter whispered, fluttering over his feet. He scrambled off his bed, breathing heavily. Aches and stings registered throughout his lower body, but he ignored them. He couldn’t feel the stitches anymore. He could only watch as his blankets shifted, as if a human form were crawling within them. Crawling around on his mattress, breathing heavily.
Ha, ha...you’re going mad! They sung.
Don’t listen to them, Trowa! They don’t understand what’s wrong with you. Pick me up, Trowa, and together we’ll get rid of them. Come pick me up, Trowa, Catherine whispered from atop the VCR.
The human form beneath his blankets ceased, and disappeared, as if sinking into an unseen hole within his bed. He stared, almost sightlessly at what he’d seen. Then he blinked and rubbed his eyes repeatedly.
I’m real, Trowa. More real than they, she whispered. I can give you the comfort you need. I can be the friend that you yearn for. I’ll never judge you. Just keep me fed with grape pez, and take me wherever you go! We’ll be friends forever, Trowa.
Trowa realized he was nearly hyperventilating. His bed was talking to him. That dispenser was talking to him. What was wrong with him?
He clutched his head, sinking to the floor, staring at the bed as the sheets fluttered once more. Underneath, movement, liked the coiling of a snake, caught his eye. His heart seemed to stop in his throat; his blood froze in his veins–the room shifted, turning perspective. Colors disappeared, leaving behind black and white shapes and variances that he recognized by familiarity only.
His breathing grew more hurried, rushed–he couldn’t take enough breath. The ceiling shifted form, spiking like something from an Indiana Jones movie. The floor roiled, like flutters of air on water. Clothes jumped; shoes walked.
Trowa, Catherine whispered, her voice cutting through the monstrous silence of his changing room. Trowa...come to me, Trowa. Come to me...I’ll protect you, Trowa.
But Trowa rose from the floor, and staggered for the door. With a strangled sound, he ripped the door open and ran out.
The room, when he left it, was as normal and mundane as it had been before.
110101010101100
The stream was nice and cool on their feet. Wading across, the two boys hurried up the opposite bank, and sat down on a massive tree root to slide on their socks and shoes.
“What are we looking for?” Quatre asked Duo, looking at him cheerfully.
“I wanna cheer up my older brother. He’s been so sad for awhile,” Duo said, shrugging.
It had been over a week since his parents left in a rush to the hospital with the police. And a week since Trowa completely stopped talking. A week since all these strange people in clothes that he associated with the orphanage started coming to the house to talk to them. He didn’t know what was going on, only that Trowa was ‘sick’ and needed special attention.
So, to cheer up his older brother, Duo decided to do something nice for him.
“He likes mice. I don’t know why–they keep dying on him. But I figure we go and look for some mice.”
“Ew. Miss Noin told me they’re nasty and germy.”
“Only the brown ones. That’s why we have to look for a white one.”
“They’re out here?” Quatre asked in surprise, glancing over his shoulder at the lush meadow behind them. “I thought they came in boxes from the store...”
“Nah. Sometimes, I see them out here. We’ll find him a mouse and a snake. Cuz snakes are cool.”
“Miss Noin says that–”
“She doesn’t like it when you call her that, kitty,” Duo said, rising to his feet after a brief struggle with tying his shoes. “You have a crush on her, huh?”
“Wha–?! No! She’s like my mom!”
“Someday, when I get older, like Trowa, I’m going to get all the chicks. I’ll make them like me. The way your dad does with Miss Noin...”
“Does my dad like Miss Noin?”
“I heard them talking about mustaches and diamonds...girls like those. Mom’s always telling her friends that she wished dad grew one.”
“Oh.” Quatre blinked as he thought about having Noin as his mother, then shook his head. They both began moving toward the meadow. He looked at the small bag Duo had on his bag, and poked at it. “What’s in there?”
“Oh.” Duo withdrew the bag from his back, and opened it. Quatre looked in, seeing the glass jar, a chunk of cheese, and two Juices. “My mouse trap! When Trowa had mice, he gave them cheese all the time. But I saw him give them juice, one time.”
“What kind of juice?”
“I don’t know. That’s what he said it was. It was something...Clorox. I don’t know. But it smelled gross. I wondered how they could drink it, but they drank it. But I think he gave them too much juice, because the next day, they were all sick. Then they died.”
“But, if we use juice, don’t you think they’ll get sick? We don’t want to give him sick mice...”
“Oh. Hey, good point. Then we’ll have these for ourselves, okay? I’ll share them.”
“Hey, wait a minute. I thought Clorox was bleach, Duo.”
“Oh. I don’t know. But that’s what Trowa gave them, because he said that they liked it. Hey! Ask Dillon if he can find us some mice! I hope Freddy doesn’t come, today. He’s such a bastard...”
“Uh! Duo! You cussed...” Quatre whispered in awe.
“That’s okay. Miss Noin’s not here...Where is she, anyway?”
“She and her boyfriend went to Disneyland. His name’s Milly.”
“Ah, man, those lucky bastards,” Duo sighed, shaking his head. He pointed at an old stump, which was located across the meadow. “Over there! There has to be mice in there!”
“Okay!”
As the two boys raced across the meadow, the wind rustled softly through the grass and caused the leaves of the trees to whisper. The hot summer day caused the heat to flush their young skin, and caused sweat to roll down their backs. But with their mission priorities set, they took no notice of this uncomfortable calamity.
110101010101100
Trowa stared silently at his plateful of greens, tofu, and over grilled chicken. Duo was talking excitedly about the day he had with Quatre, and was talking about a boy named Dillon that tripped over a snake.
“What sort of snake was it, Duo?” their mother, Helen, asked. She cast a worried expression in her older son’s direction. She noticed that he had yet to touch his food. But he stared silently at his plate, hunched over and squinting, as if reading some sort of fine print within the greens. She exchanged a worried glance with her husband, who glanced at his older son with an uncomfortable expression.
“I dunno. Dillon said that it was a gopher snake. I don’t know what those were. I tried to catch it, but Quatre said that if it bit me, I would die.”
“Where was your babysitter?!”
“Oh, Maria was watching us,” Duo assured her, nodding his head. “Miss Noin went on a vacation with her boyfriend, Milly.”
“‘Milly’?!” Sam repeated, blinking. “Son, do you mean a man, or a woman? Because women are named ‘Milly’.”
“That’s what Quatre said. He said that Milly’s a boy. I mean, a man. Miss Noin and Milly are going to get married someday. That’s what he said she said that Milly said.”
“Lucrezia’s a nice girl,” Helen said pleasantly, smiling across the table at Sam. Sam grunted, lowering his head as he picked at his food. She looked back at Duo, who was scraping the spices from the piece of chicken. “What else did you do today?”
“Freddy. Freddy was there, again. He doesn’t like Quatre. He’s always picking on him.”
“Did you tell him to stop?”
“Freddy doesn’t care. He can’t talk.”
“Why not, honey?”
“Because. His throat’s all messed up. He can’t talk, and he always just hits people, and hurts small animals. He kept scaring away...er...all the lizards,” Duo finished, glancing at Trowa, hoping that his brother didn’t know the real reason why the two were out in the meadow. He wanted this to be a surprise.
Helen seemed to lose her youthful appearance as she took in her adopted son’s mood. Her heart ached with the need to try and fix what had been done. But there was no power short of God’s own hand that would be able to soothe that wound. She could only pray and hope that the support and comfort they gave him helped him through this dark time.
She felt sick that people did this to others. Especially to children. Trowa was fifteen–but he was just a child. A helpless, defenseless child that didn’t deserve what had happened to him. Her throat clogged with emotion, and her lashes collected with tears. She didn’t know what to do. Her God was not helping her; He was not giving her the answers she needed to soothe her child’s wounds. She looked at Sam for a sort of anchor, to keep herself from flying off the handle. The doctors had mentioned that this period was critical; especially since he was already on meds for being manic-depressive.
They could only up the dosage of his medication and pray for a miracle that his strength alone was able to keep himself from spiraling into a deep depression.
“Trowa?” Her voice hitched. She glanced at Duo, to see if he’d heard it. But the younger boy was busy shoveling food into his mouth to even listen. “What about you, son? What did you do today?”
Trying to be helpful, sensing that Trowa didn’t feel like talking, Duo said, “He watched tv. And he made us lunch.”
“He did? What did he make?”
“Cereal. I like Apple Jacks. Trowa, huh? That’s what you made us, huh?” Duo winked his way with a conspiratorial expression. But Trowa continued to stare at his food, refusing to acknowledge either of them.
Sam, frowning grimly, lowered his fork. “Trowa? Would you like to talk, son? You know we’re here for you...all of us.”
“He’s just tired!” Duo interjected, watching with some confusion as Trowa continued to ignore them. But he wanted to be helpful. If the boy didn’t want to talk–then he was going to do his brotherly duty and keep their parents from pressuring him. “He doesn’t feel like talking when he’s tired!”
“He’s old enough to tell us that on his own, Duo,” Helen said gently. She looked back at the eldest. She wished she was a mind-reader; she wished she was able to know what was swirling beneath those auburn locks of his. He was brushing his hair forward, she realized. Hiding his eyes behind it. “Trowa?”
Duo frowned as the silence grew stronger at the dining table. The sounds of a car driving by outside created a sort of comfort noise as three pairs of eyes settled on the silent teen. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Duo then blurted out, “Guess what, mom? Today, when we were at the stream–”
“You were at the stream?!” Helen repeated, blinking repeatedly as she looked at her youngest. This was cause for concern. “Was Maria with you?”
“Yeah! When we were at the stream, Quatre farted. It was stinky. I almost died.” Duo laughed.
“Don’t joke about that, Duo. Death is a serious subject.”
“Bodily functions are normal, son.”
“But they’re funny. So, I farted too. But it wasn’t as stinky as his. I think his are the best. Miss Noin says it’s cuz he doesn’t like to poop, because he’s scared of the toilet, so–”
“Duo, this isn’t appropriate conversation for the dinner table,” Sam said on a sigh, serving himself some steamed green vegetables.
“Yeah, but–”
“Let’s talk about something else, all right? There’s a year-round school nearby–your mother and I were thinking of enrolling you there.”
“Quatre’s home-schooled. I wanna be home-schooled.”
“Oh, is he? Maybe we’ll talk with his father about it...”
“I really don’t like the idea of enrolling Duo in a public school, Sam,” Helen began looking at her husband with a worried frown. “Once the children find out that he’s positive, their parents will object to his attending with them.”
“He can’t be sheltered forever, Helen. He’s a real people person. Keeping him cooped up isn’t the way to raise him,” Sam argued.
Duo sighed quietly. This one was an old argument–just as old as the ones they had about Trowa. He lifted his eyes from his empty plate, and stared across the table at his older brother. For several days now, Trowa hid all the time in his room. Duo wasn’t sure what made his brother suddenly withdraw from the world, but he wanted to help. He had a bad sense of feeling that Trowa wasn’t feeling very well–inside and out.
But he didn’t know how to fix it if he didn’t know what was bothering him.
110101010101100
Both boys were walking along the barb wire fence line that separated one neighborhood from the next when they heard the sounds of other kids playing in a nearby secluded area. Because Duo was curious as to what they were doing, he ran over in that direction. Quatre followed at a slower pace. The secluded area consisted of a group of oak trees, the stream rumbling through with a much deeper setting than the one they was used to. There was a deep embankment with steep walls that charged through the group of trees–the stream ran in this dirt gap and reappeared a small distance away within an outcropping of rocks. Duo gasped in its many possibilities, already conjuring up places where he and Quatre could set up small forts for war games and crawdad hunting.
Looking up, he saw a group of boys and one girl playing with a single rope that was tied to a large branch of one tree–they were using this rope to swing across the deep gap. It looked very exciting. Duo dropped his walking stick, watching with wide eyes as a boy ran from his spot on the opposite bank to catch onto the rope and swing himself over the gap. He rose high into their end with a swoosh of sound and laughter. Nearly vibrating in place, frantic and eager for a turn, Duo watched as the boy swung back onto the other side and launched himself into open air.
When he landed, the kids cheered, drawing a line where his feet landed first. It looked so fun–Duo wanted a turn. He was sure that he’d go further than that kid.
“Hi!” he shouted, running out to where they could see him. He waved just in case they didn’t see him. “Hi! My name’s Duo!”
“Get out of here, kid! This is for older kids!” one of the boys shouted at him from the opposite bank. They were all dressed in summer clothes, but many had a respectable amount of dirt on them. It was apparent from their sweaty faces and flushed skin that they had been at this for awhile.
“I can go further than you can!” Duo challenged as another boy took a running start at the swinging rope. He stepped aside so that he wouldn’t get hit by him as he swung over the gap.
“This is dangerous stuff, kid! Go back home to your mommy!” the single girl shouted, laughing with the others.
“Yeah, little boy. What are you, three?”
“NO! I’m seven! And he is, too!” Duo shouted back, pointing at Quatre, who was trying to hide behind one of the trees. Older kids made him nervous.
“Your mommy’s going to get mad that you ran away from home! Go home!”
“But I wanna try! Just one time! I wanna try just one time!”
“No! It’s too dangerous for you!”
Duo ground his teeth, clenching his fists as he watched another kid take to the rope. He watched the obvious fun the boy was having, laughing and swinging as he began his descent to earth. Stepping back out, he watched as the boy launched himself into open air, and tumbled in a painful somersault along the ground. All the kids roared with laughter and shouts as he laid there, in obvious pain.
“I can do that better,” Duo muttered, looking for a way to get over.
“Duo, we’d better not go over there,” Quatre whispered, afraid to be heard by the others. “They’re older than us. They look like they’re twelve. They’ll beat us up.”
“No, they won’t! They can’t touch us little kids! They’ll get thrown into jail if they do!” Duo declared, sliding his way down their side of the gap, jumping across the stream, and making his way up the steep bank to the other kids.
Quatre watched fearfully as Duo made his way over, determined to take a turn with the others. The other kids looked at him with skeptical and concerned frowns as he took his place in line with them. The girl turned, looking at him with a glare.
“Go home, kid!”
“Not until I had my turn! This is a free country! You can’t tell me what to do!” Duo challenged her, hands on his hips. “I just want one turn!”
“No! You’ll get hurt! And then you’ll blame it all on us! Go home!”
“After my turn! I’m good at ropes! And I don’t cry at anything. I wanna turn!”
“Give him a turn, Hilde,” a boy said, where he was standing against one of the large trees. He gave Duo a smirk. “He looks like a sissy-girl.”
“I’m not!” Duo shouted at him. “I’m a boy! And I’m a better boy than you!”
“Whatever, kid. You look like a sissy to me.”
“And you look stupid!”
“Takes one to know one, sissy-boy.”
“You just called yourself stupid! Stupid!”
“Hey, don’t call Heero stupid, kid,” Hilde said, frowning at him. “He’s not. He’s the one that made this swing.”
Duo scowled, then looked up at the rope. It was tied on a branch that reached out precariously between the gap, and was tied with several tight knots that looked sturdy and reliable. Skeptically, he traced the path the kid must have taken to get to that height and that position. He then had to grudgingly respect the kid’s braveness to get to that branch. It did look very hard to get to.
“He’s still stupid to me,” he muttered, crossing his arms and waiting his turn. Heart racing furiously, he remembered his friend, and looked across the gap to see Quatre standing on the opposite bank, watching him with a worried expression. “Hey! Kitty! Watch me, okay!”
Heero snorted, glancing at the little kid on the other side. “What kind of name is that? That’s an even sissier name for a kid.”
“Shut up, you! He’s my friend! And he’s better than you! I bet he can do this too!”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“Because. He doesn’t want to do this. This is kid stuff to him,” Duo snorted, shaking his head. “He’s braver than he looks.”
“You’re stupid, sissy-kid.”
“I’m not a sissy!”
To prove it, Duo waited for the kid ahead of him to take his turn. When he landed back on their end, he watched as the other kids recorded his landing, and then took a running start for the rope that swung lightly across the gap.
He felt his feet leave the ground, his hands reaching out for the rope. With the coiled material within his hands, Duo held on tight as his body weight and momentum took him over the gap. But he didn’t count on his hands growing slick with sweat, and for his weight to be something heavier than he expected. He slid right off the rope, flying into the dirt on the opposite bank. He hit hard, with a startled grunt as the steep incline forced him to slide and roll all the way down into the stream between the gap.
Mortified, Duo laid in the stream, trying to get his thoughts in order. He heard wild shouts of laughter, and felt his face redden with embarrassment as he climbed out from the stream, dripping wet. With a defeated expression, he climbed the bank to where Quatre was, and hurried home.
Quatre stared after Duo as the boy raced toward the direction of his home, then looked back at the kids that were rolling around in the dirt, laughing their heads off. A dark expression crossed his face, and he bent, picking up some rocks from the ground. Hurling them as best as he could, having a good aim that resulted from the various Freddy incidents, he beaned that Heero kid right in the middle of his forehead. Several other rocks hit Hilde, and a couple of other boys. Enraged, the kids began shouting, and raced down their embankment, racing for him.
Giving a startled gasp, hearing Maria and Dillon ordering him to run like hell, Quatre turned and raced after Duo. He could hear the other kids racing after him, their longer legs eating up the distance that separated them. With a surge of desperation, Quatre quickly ducked under the barb wire fence, and scrambled through the meadow, heading toward the familiar settings of his house. The kids were still after him, yelling and screaming. He could see Duo still running for the stream that separated the meadow from his house, and he called for Duo to wait for him.
Duo turned. His eyes widened with surprise, and he began picking up rocks. Hurling them at the kids that were running after Quatre, he strove to protect his friend as the blond joined him. Together, the two began hurling rocks at the older kids, all of whom were shouting and trying to protect themselves from the onslaught.
Duo giggled, reaching out to grab his friend’s shirt and jerking him along behind him. Panting heavily, the kids raced across the stream, climbed up the bank to the wooden fence of Quatre’s backyard, and raced around it to get to the front. Once they scrambled over the front yard’s fence, Duo gulped air deeply, looking behind them as Quatre fell onto his knees on the grass, breathing heavily.
Heero rounded the fence, looking pretty ticked off as Hilde joined him. Duo pointed at them as they surveyed the area for any adults. They didn’t want to venture any further–it was obvious this was some sort of trap.
“HA! You can’t come in here! His dad will beat you up!” he shouted. “And my brother’s older than you! He’ll beat you up!”
“You little shits! Get out here and face us like a man!” Heero growled, leaning on the small fence that kept him from the two kids.
“We’re just boys! We aren’t men yet!” Duo shouted, sticking his tongue out. “You can’t touch us! You can’t touch us! The police will come after you if you do! You’ll all go to jail and get butt-raped for life!”
“I’m going to kick your ass, you little jerk! Yours, too!” Heero growled, pointing at Quatre, who hid behind Duo.
“What’s going on out here?!”
All four looked up at the porch to see Quatre’s older sister, Iria, standing on the porch, looking at all of them curiously. The high school sophomore gaped at the blood on Heero’s face, and at Duo’s muddiness. Her eyes dropped to the various scrapes and cuts that he’d gotten from his crash into the dirt bank. Panic arose in her as she remembered her father mentioning that Duo was HIV positive. She looked from him to her younger brother, imagining immediate infections from the child to her loved one.
“What happened?!” she demanded, hurrying down the porch steps.
She roughly pushed Duo away from Quatre, jerking her brother to his feet. Her voice rising to a panicked shriek, she hauled Quatre into the house.
Duo stared after her in shock, taking a few steps in that direction. Then he looked back at Heero, who was frowning in puzzlement at the entire scene.
Suddenly aware that he was all alone, Duo gave a shaky grin and started for the front porch.
“C’mon, Heero,” Hilde muttered, jerking on the other boy’s arm. “He’s just a kid. He isn’t nothing.”
“Yeah...whatever. Don’t come back there again, sissy boy. You and your dumb sissy friend,” Heero threatened, glaring at Duo.
Duo stuck his tongue out, and watched with a sense of relief as the two older kids disappeared around the higher wooden fence. Then, cautiously, he made his way back to his house.
110101010101100
Later on that week, Trowa angrily kicked at the dirt as he searched for his younger brother and his friend. He didn’t like watching over Duo; serving Duo; listening to Duo; being around Duo. Duo was the world’s most annoying brat, and he despised the kid. Not because Duo was annoying–but because Duo was annoyingly naive. And happy. Trowa despised both.
He’s much too happy, Catherine said. She was tucked in one of the various pockets he had in his cargo shorts. He carried her around everywhere. His voice of sanity. That’s because Sam and Helen love him more. They love him because he’s younger than you...because he has a sickness that begs for sympathy...
What about me? He wondered to himself.
It was a thought he had often. At the orphanage, he’d been passed over in favor of younger children. No one wanted a broody, easily depressed child. They’d wanted a happy go-lucky child that laughed at the appropriate times and looked cute even when doing something bad. Catherine continually whispered that Duo was the favorite because of these reasons. That Sam and Helen did not respect Trowa anymore for letting that man violate him.
They don’t want broken kids, Trowa, she whispered. They want happy ones. Happy ones that will take care of them when they get old. They don’t want kids like you, Trowa. But that’s all right. You have me, now. I’ll always take care of you.
She knew how to speak to him in ways that he understood perfectly well. She played on his insecurities and doubts, and did so with relish. But she was never snide. She never said anything bad about him. She praised him and complimented him, and became the only voice he’d listen to. Because he suddenly refused to talk, no one knew of Catherine, or the amazing creatures of his room. Of Bed, of Comforter, of the Dustbunnies–he knew his own little world, and no one had to know. In a way, he was confident and secure in knowing that his world was his own. When everything was so violently ripped away from him, he had his own world to cradle and comfort him.
No one had to know.
No one had to know.
Not even happy little kids that were going to die later on in life, anyway. Especially with that homo-virus. He hated Duo. He hated Duo for being so happy, for being so cute, for taking all the attention with his stupid childish antics. As he watched the two small kids play, lost in their own worlds of naive dreams and wonders, he would sit and stare at them both–hating them. Hating their innocence. Their beauty. Their laughter.
It burned within his gut. He wanted to hurt them. To make them feel what he did. To drag them down to his level.
His parents didn’t know these dark thoughts of his. The counselor didn’t know this. Only Catherine did. Catherine was his only friend.
Today, his parents had made him baby-sit the two kids. Noin would be back on Monday. The blond’s sisters were at their stupid girl things. Trowa didn’t like the responsibility of watching the two brats. He hated them.
But they had disappeared on him, and some niggling fear deep within him, hidden beyond the burn of hate, had been concerned. Concerned that the Predator was still around, watching them. Waiting to do to them what he’d done to Trowa. And that human aspect of Trowa had him looking for the kids, now. As his human aspect and Catherine argued, he listened for their childish voices, and barely kept his nails from digging into his palms. The need to hurt was strong.
He tromped over the stream that the boys played at regularly. Duo was going to get it when Trowa found him. He knew that Trowa hated doing this sort of thing.
Walking along the barb wire fence line, he heard the sounds of kids’ voices, and ventured in that direction. From the rising shouts, he could identify his brother’s voice, and those of other kids’. He began marching faster in that direction, fists clenching.
He came up his adopted brother and his friend as they played near an outcropping of rocks near the running stream, three older kids shouting at them near a swinging rope. He didn’t give those kids any lingering interest–he zeroed in on his brother and his friend as they lifted several large rocks, in search of crawdads.
When Duo looked up, a perky smile on his face, Trowa felt his anger burst.
He jerked his brother from the stream, gripping that unruly braid of his. His brother was so fragile–delicate. One could snap those thin bones of his like sticks if they applied the correct force. Trowa could do so easily.
You can do it, Catherine whispered. Make him broken like you. Make him understand what it’s like to be you...
“You little shit!” he cursed fiercely, dragging the child behind him. He spoke just as easily as he had before. It was as if he hadn’t gone through a week of not saying a word. “How many times did I tell you to not run off?!”
“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry, Trowa!” Duo cried, reaching up to try and save his braid. “OW! Ow, you’re hurting me!”
“So, what?! I told you time and time again–I don’t wanna go looking for you all the fucking time!”
“OW! You’re really hurting me!”
“Cry some more, then! See what happens.”
Duo tripped over the dirt, falling to his knees. Trowa didn’t bother with helping him up–he jerked even harder on his braid, dragging him through the dirt.
Quatre raced over, fumbling as he helped Duo to his feet.
“Why do you have to be so mean to him, Trowa?!” he asked. “Why can’t you be nicer to him? He’s always nice to you!”
Despite his tears of mortification from the treatment, Duo shouted at him, “Don’t yell at my brother!”
Quatre let go of his arm, looking startled at the shout.
“What’d you say?!” Trowa snarled, whirling around to face Quatre. The blond stared at him with wide, terrified eyes as Trowa let go of Duo, and started in on him. “You think you’re so good, running around, acting all stuck up. You little rich homo–you don’t have shit to say to me! He’s my brother! I treat him the way that I want!”
“Stop it, Trowa!” Duo wailed, clinging to his leg.
Trowa stopped advancing on Quatre, and looked down at him. He began stomping on him with his other foot. Quatre launched himself at the other boy, sinking his teeth into his arm when he wouldn’t stop kicking Duo. Trowa gave a startled gasp, then curled his fingers into a fist, hitting him hard.
When Quatre fell to the ground, Trowa advanced on him. Kicking the little boy over and over, he was faintly aware that Duo was screaming at him to stop, but Trowa couldn’t stop–he kept seeing that man in the Mercedes, telling him in that quiet voice of his that if he ever told anybody what happened between them, he was going to tell his parents that he was a homo. He was going to expose to the world what had happened. The pictures, taken in certain moments, would only prove what the world thought of Trowa. That he allowed this violation. That he allowed this man to pick him up.
The world would know he was a whore.
This little boy looked like that man–the colorless hair, the blue eyes...if Trowa squinted, he would see that man in this boy’s features.
His rage consumed him, and Trowa began kicking harder and harder, ignoring the screams and the sobs.
Make him feel it, Trowa, Catherine whispered.
He just wanted to destroy that man. Destroy him for what he’d done, for what he’d said, for what had happened.
He doesn’t understand what happened...make him...do unto him as others had done to you...him and Duo...both of them deserve to be broken.
He wanted to kill him.
You’re eldest, Trowa...make them understand...
He wanted to tear him to shreds.
It’s your duty, Trowa! You’re eldest! Make the young understand!
He wanted to–
He flopped over with a dazed expression, stars racing in front of him. His vision blurred for a few moments, and a sort of ringing sound began within his head. His skull felt loose, his bones jarred with enough force that for a brief moment, he felt as if he’d just dissolved into a pile of goo.
Unsteadily, he rose to his feet. His head ached. He saw double. Nausea made his stomach lurch.
Curses! Catherine growled, childish voice conjuring up a feminine scowl. Foiled!
Blinking in a sleepy manner, Trowa looked up at the sneering face of one of those older kids, who was holding a good sized stick in his hand. He was standing in front of the two little boys. He was the one who hit him with the stick.
Too confused and dazed to continue his assault, Trowa turned and stumbled away. Reaching out for some sort of support, his hand found the barb wire fence. His fingers trembled before clenching the metal wire, his skin giving away easily to sharp metal pricks.
Don’t worry, Trowa, Catherine soothed from his pocket. There’s always tomorrow, and the next...we’ll make them understand, sweetie. We’ll make them know our pain...
Skin, torn by the metal of the barbwire, oozed brilliant color and splotched on his shorts. He was too dazed to realize what he was doing. He continued to hold onto the fence as he made his way back home.
Duo blinked, then looked back at his friend. Torn between wanting to stay with his friend and going to his brother, he whimpered slightly. The older kid, Heero, looked down at them with a bewildered expression. He’d been the one to whack Trowa several times with that stick to get him to stop kicking on Quatre.
His blond friend was crying, covering his bleeding face with both hands. Giving a hitched sob, Duo hugged his friend tightly, then got up and raced after his brother.
“Hey, wait–!” Heero yelled, lowering his stick as he watched the braided kid race after the teenaged psycho. With a confused expression, he looked down at the other little kid. He dropped his stick, and crouched beside him, peering anxiously at the kid’s dirtied face. “You all right? Let me see. Let me see.”
When the blond lowered his hands, revealing a bloodied nose and busted lip, Heero grunted. He took off his shirt, using that to sop up the blood that dribbled everywhere. The kid started to cry a little more, and, embarrassed, Heero awkwardly patted his back.
“You’re okay, kid. Here, get up. Are you hurt? Stand up, okay? What’s that guy’s problem?”
Quatre shook his head, clutching the older boy’s shirt to his face. He felt confused that Duo had chosen to be with his brother rather than him, but he couldn’t be mad at his friend. He knew that Duo looked up to Trowa, and cared for him in ways that he’d never understand–but he felt hurt that Duo would chose Trowa over him. It was just a confusing moment.
Heero helped Quatre to his feet, glancing over his shoulder at Hilde and Nichol, who were watching with wide, curious eyes across the gap. With an awkward grunt, Heero started walking, to take this kid home.
“Sexual Assault Victim First In Area,” the headlines read. The front page fluttered, seemingly manipulated by unseen hands as it rested on the kitchen table. Mr. Winner exhaled smoke as he stood at the open kitchen door, the morning hour leaving the air cool and the breeze a little chilly. The sun had just barely peeked over the mountains in the distance, giving the air a sort of deep red and neon orange appearance. Squinting, he thought he could see the far off shapes of oncoming rain clouds, and frowned at the thought of thunder. Quatre was afraid of thunder.
Standing in the open doorway, he could hear the sounds of the neighborhood awakening; from the newspaper delivery kids, to the start of vehicles, to the now familiar shouts coming from 00316. Rolling his eyes in that direction, he took the cigarette thoughtfully as he eyed the stucco roof and the fake clay setting of the two-story. It wasn’t as if he disliked his neighbors–no, Sam and Helen were fine. They were fine folks with fine ideals–it was just that they were lost when it came to dealing with their adopted fifteen year old. Mr. Winner was already dreading his son’s teen years–the ones he’d experienced with his eldest daughters were already hell on earth.
As he listened to the shouts coming from 00316, he heard the flutter of the newspaper, and glanced over. Blinking with surprise, he saw that the entire front section had been moved aside. He pulled away from the open door, glancing around the kitchen for either a cranky daughter or a sharply inquisitive son. Seeing nor hearing anything of the sort, he glanced at today’s paper, catching the headline of the sexual assault victim. A teenager, caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, had become the victim of the latest in seemingly fashionable assaults. Due to their age, the victim wasn’t to be named–nor was there any given clue as to who it was. It could be anyone–one of his girls, one of Beaucoup’s sons, that kid down the street...
He frowned as he scanned the article, then straightened away from the table.
He gave a start when he realized his son had noiselessly entered the kitchen, staring up at him with a wide-eyed expression. It gave him the chills to see that sort of expression on his son’s face–usually, following that look, was something outrageous.
“Trowa got hurt last night, dad,” he said, a serious edge to his young voice.
Mr. Winner blinked again, then put out the cigarette. Waving away the smoke, he frowned at him. “Fell off his skateboard?”
“No. Maria said a bad man–”
“Quatre, son...”
Mr. Winner exhaled slowly, trying to conjure up something that would make his son understand that his invisible friends were just that–invisible. Made-up. That whatever they said–however true they were–was nothing more than his imagination. He may have heard the sounds of the evening news last night, or associated the sirens last night with something entirely fabricated by his overly active imagination. Whichever, he hoped that none of his son’s words met with Sam or Helen–it would alarm the adults, and cause unimaginable tension.
“Please...please, just–keep your...friends’ stories to yourself. All right?”
“But–”
“Quatre Rebarba! Just listen to me, all right? You don’t repeat what your friends tell you. To anyone. If you need to tell someone...talk to me. Miss Noin can help you if you need to call me.”
“I know how to use the phone, dad,” Quatre said with disgust, giving his father the evil eye.
Mr. Winner paused, then smiled, reaching out to ruffle the colorless strands of his son’s hair. “I’m sorry if I insulted you with that comment, son. I know you can. Just...sometimes, you appear younger than you look.”
“Gee, thanks, dad. That’ll land me all the girls. They all want a guy that looks like a kid.”
Mr. Winner sputtered as he straightened. He gave his son a close look, not wanting to comprehend that aspect of his son’s life. It was already hell with his daughters’. “You’re seven years old, Quatre. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you until you’re at least forty.”
“But, dad–Trowa didn’t tell anybody that he–”
“Quatre.”
The boy silenced under the quelling tone used, and fidgeted nervously as he stared up at his father. Mr. Winner exhaled again, running a hand through his hair. He noted that he needed a hair cut. He lowered himself to his knees, wincing at the popping noises they emitted as he performed the action. Reaching out, he held his son’s shoulders, gripping them firmly.
“People don’t understand your...friends,” he began slowly, looking into his boy’s luminous eyes. “People cannot understand what they don’t see. And no one can see your friends, Quatre. They can’t hear them. They can’t feel them. What doesn’t exist in their eyes, doesn’t exist at all. When you say something that you’ve heard from your friends, your words can hurt or severely trouble someone. Even if they are true–I’m not saying that they aren’t, because–well, I don’t know your friends–but you need to learn to keep your stories to yourself. No matter what.”
“Even if, even if they’re true, and they could help someone?” Quatre asked, frowning.
Mr. Winner rubbed his shoulders with his fingertips. It seemed as if it were yesterday, when this boy was squalling a storm in his mother’s arms. He wondered where those days had gone. Why they had passed by so quickly. It seemed that within an hour’s time, he’d soon be dropping off a sullen male teen at the nearby high school, and arguing about curfew. He was working too much, spending less time with the people that mattered. He pulled his son close to him, feeling the warmth and life he possessed. Inhaling deeply, he smelled the familiar scents of sleep, of scent, of his life.
There was also...something burning...
Glancing around with a curious expression, he wondered where the source of this scent was. He leant back, wondering how early kids began experimenting with fire. He’d have to give Noin a heads-up with this one.
“Even if,” he said, nodding seriously to the question asked.
Quatre stared back at him, fiddling with the hem of his faded t-shirt, then nodded solemnly.
Crisis solved and possible neighbor rift eliminated before it could even begin, Mr. Winner rose from the floor and glanced back at the newspaper. With a sudden chill racing through his bones, he took that section with the sexual assault article, and moved to gather his things for work.
110101010101100
They were ignoring him. They were acting differently toward him. It wasn’t the same, he felt. And of course, it wouldn’t be. He was now a freak. A diseased freak that fell prey to an experienced predator. He hadn’t even seen it coming.
Sitting on his bed, hugging himself tightly as he stared across his room, Trowa could only comprehend what he thought than what he could feel. He felt that if he allowed himself to feel–he would just be fucked. He couldn’t allow himself this. Couldn’t allow himself to break down. His parents were giving him this distance–they themselves were stuck in a state of horror and disbelief. They couldn’t look at him. They couldn’t speak.
The police had asked their simple questions and the doctor had performed a thorough test on him. But the predator had been clean. He had known what he was doing. He had been experienced enough to keep Trowa himself from spilling the details–he’d let Trowa live on the simple clause of misfortune. He hadn’t bothered covering his face–no, this man was egotistical, and carried out his crime with a flair normally reserved for the arrogant. With a few simple rules, he knew Trowa would keep his identity secret.
Last night was nearly twenty-four hours past–but his pain and his horror remained just as fresh as they were when he’d experienced them. His body ached in places they shouldn’t; his throat felt raw; there was a bitter taste at the back of his tongue that forced all saliva to dry; the tips of his fingers felt numb. He felt different in this body–this body was unknown to him.
Everyone asked their questions and shared their looks; we’re experienced with rape victims, they’d assured him. The best in counseling could be paid for by Uncle Sam. That monster will be caught. He will be punished for his crimes. You’re lucky to be alive.
“Lucky,” they said. What a fitting word for his current state. ‘Lucky’ meant seeing last night’s events roll before his eyes like a stop motion film. ‘Lucky’ meant feeling pain in places he’d never felt before. ‘Lucky’ meant walking around with the shameful knowledge that another man had touched him, had ravaged him. ‘Lucky’ meant that everyone would know he went willingly with a strange man. ‘Lucky’ meant that he was soiled for life.
Ha, ha, someone whispered. His eyes, wide as they were, shifted to the side of his bed. A shape of something he couldn’t identify rolled by. The shape was in the form of his blankets, as if fluttering with the waves of the sea.
Ha, ha, they whispered.
“Stop laughing at me,” he hissed, his voice a stranger to himself. Everything about him was a stranger to himself.
Ha, ha, they whispered. The blankets fluttered continuously, a never-ending motion that made him feel as if he were suddenly alight on a magic carpet. A magic carpet that sailed through oceans of dark, thunderous air. Soaring over scornful laughter and leering eyes. They peered at him now–staring at him from the folds of his closet, and from the tongues of his shoes.
Ha, ha...
They were secrets he had not discovered yet.
He hugged his knees tightly, his forehead pressed against them. His body ached. He didn’t want to sit in that position; his stitches pulled; but there was no other way to guard himself against the outside world.
He could feel the man’s hands on him–touching, caressing, exploring...he felt wretched and unclean. Even if he scraped his skin from muscle and bones, he could still feel him touching him.
What’s wrong, Trowa? Why are you feeling so sad?
A child’s voice. He was hearing things. He looked up with a startled air. His eyes touched on everything in his room–the black bookcase with textbook psychology titles and various Michael Crichton novels. The black dresser with minimal variances on the top. The full length mirror that had Duo’s hand prints on the bottom. The open closet, where everything sat according to spectrum of color. The clean floor, where two pairs of shoes stared silently up at him. The night stand that held a digital alarm clock and a single touch lamp. His medication was revealed to him from the slightly opened drawer. Medication...watches he’d never wear...condoms for that ‘just in case’ moment he knew would never happen...pimple creme...pez...
But there wasn’t a place in his room where that child could hide. So where was the voice coming from?
Don’t be sad, Trowa. Things happen for a greater good.
The child’s voice was much too chirpy; young; there was a slight lisp to it. It was on the verge of a giggle. It caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.
Where was it coming from?
Things that do not kill you make you stronger, she suggested.
His eyes alighted on a Pez dispenser that lay on his VCR. Duo’s. It was a Spider-Man pez dispenser, but it had a child’s voice. Female. He was hearing things. Why was he hearing things? He stared at it in disbelief. It was unmoving, still–lifeless. Yet it spoke to him. Why was he hearing things?
I’m magic, Trowa, she whispered. Spider-Man’s white eyes stared at the wall of the television set. There was no mouth visible, and it was closed. I can hear all the thoughts and feelings of those around me. I’m a magic dispenser, Trowa. I can be your friend...when no one else wants to be, I can be your friend...
“I’m going mad,” he whispered to himself.
No, Trowa. You’re not. You can hear me. Therefore, I exist. You knew where I was when I began speaking. So you know I exist. My name is Catherine, Trowa. I’ll be your friend. I’ll be your sister. I’ll be all that I can be...for you...when no one else will...
He stared at the Spider-Man dispenser. He could not believe it was talking to him. He clutched his head, his eyes widening and his expression forming disbelief.
But he could hear her. Her voice was as clear as Helen’s would be if she were standing in the same room. It was clear, musical, child-like...like Duo’s. Only...only she was a female...
Don’t bother yourself with logic, Trowa, she giggled. You’ll give yourself a headache! I am no matter what the others say. If you can hear me, then why deny yourself the knowledge of my existence? Accept what and who I am, Trowa. For I have already accepted you.
Ha, ha, the bedsheets whispered. You’re going mad, Trowa. Too much medication, too much pain, too much sheltering. Your biological parents were already mad with their own delusions...what makes you safe from inheriting what they had?
Don’t listen to them, Trowa, Catherine, the magic Spider-Man pez dispenser cajoled. She was still unmoving, facing the television set. She was just plastic and paint–yet she spoke to him clear as day. Her voice was not in his head. Her voice was not in his head.
She lies to you, Trowa, his comforter whispered, fluttering over his feet. He scrambled off his bed, breathing heavily. Aches and stings registered throughout his lower body, but he ignored them. He couldn’t feel the stitches anymore. He could only watch as his blankets shifted, as if a human form were crawling within them. Crawling around on his mattress, breathing heavily.
Ha, ha...you’re going mad! They sung.
Don’t listen to them, Trowa! They don’t understand what’s wrong with you. Pick me up, Trowa, and together we’ll get rid of them. Come pick me up, Trowa, Catherine whispered from atop the VCR.
The human form beneath his blankets ceased, and disappeared, as if sinking into an unseen hole within his bed. He stared, almost sightlessly at what he’d seen. Then he blinked and rubbed his eyes repeatedly.
I’m real, Trowa. More real than they, she whispered. I can give you the comfort you need. I can be the friend that you yearn for. I’ll never judge you. Just keep me fed with grape pez, and take me wherever you go! We’ll be friends forever, Trowa.
Trowa realized he was nearly hyperventilating. His bed was talking to him. That dispenser was talking to him. What was wrong with him?
He clutched his head, sinking to the floor, staring at the bed as the sheets fluttered once more. Underneath, movement, liked the coiling of a snake, caught his eye. His heart seemed to stop in his throat; his blood froze in his veins–the room shifted, turning perspective. Colors disappeared, leaving behind black and white shapes and variances that he recognized by familiarity only.
His breathing grew more hurried, rushed–he couldn’t take enough breath. The ceiling shifted form, spiking like something from an Indiana Jones movie. The floor roiled, like flutters of air on water. Clothes jumped; shoes walked.
Trowa, Catherine whispered, her voice cutting through the monstrous silence of his changing room. Trowa...come to me, Trowa. Come to me...I’ll protect you, Trowa.
But Trowa rose from the floor, and staggered for the door. With a strangled sound, he ripped the door open and ran out.
The room, when he left it, was as normal and mundane as it had been before.
110101010101100
The stream was nice and cool on their feet. Wading across, the two boys hurried up the opposite bank, and sat down on a massive tree root to slide on their socks and shoes.
“What are we looking for?” Quatre asked Duo, looking at him cheerfully.
“I wanna cheer up my older brother. He’s been so sad for awhile,” Duo said, shrugging.
It had been over a week since his parents left in a rush to the hospital with the police. And a week since Trowa completely stopped talking. A week since all these strange people in clothes that he associated with the orphanage started coming to the house to talk to them. He didn’t know what was going on, only that Trowa was ‘sick’ and needed special attention.
So, to cheer up his older brother, Duo decided to do something nice for him.
“He likes mice. I don’t know why–they keep dying on him. But I figure we go and look for some mice.”
“Ew. Miss Noin told me they’re nasty and germy.”
“Only the brown ones. That’s why we have to look for a white one.”
“They’re out here?” Quatre asked in surprise, glancing over his shoulder at the lush meadow behind them. “I thought they came in boxes from the store...”
“Nah. Sometimes, I see them out here. We’ll find him a mouse and a snake. Cuz snakes are cool.”
“Miss Noin says that–”
“She doesn’t like it when you call her that, kitty,” Duo said, rising to his feet after a brief struggle with tying his shoes. “You have a crush on her, huh?”
“Wha–?! No! She’s like my mom!”
“Someday, when I get older, like Trowa, I’m going to get all the chicks. I’ll make them like me. The way your dad does with Miss Noin...”
“Does my dad like Miss Noin?”
“I heard them talking about mustaches and diamonds...girls like those. Mom’s always telling her friends that she wished dad grew one.”
“Oh.” Quatre blinked as he thought about having Noin as his mother, then shook his head. They both began moving toward the meadow. He looked at the small bag Duo had on his bag, and poked at it. “What’s in there?”
“Oh.” Duo withdrew the bag from his back, and opened it. Quatre looked in, seeing the glass jar, a chunk of cheese, and two Juices. “My mouse trap! When Trowa had mice, he gave them cheese all the time. But I saw him give them juice, one time.”
“What kind of juice?”
“I don’t know. That’s what he said it was. It was something...Clorox. I don’t know. But it smelled gross. I wondered how they could drink it, but they drank it. But I think he gave them too much juice, because the next day, they were all sick. Then they died.”
“But, if we use juice, don’t you think they’ll get sick? We don’t want to give him sick mice...”
“Oh. Hey, good point. Then we’ll have these for ourselves, okay? I’ll share them.”
“Hey, wait a minute. I thought Clorox was bleach, Duo.”
“Oh. I don’t know. But that’s what Trowa gave them, because he said that they liked it. Hey! Ask Dillon if he can find us some mice! I hope Freddy doesn’t come, today. He’s such a bastard...”
“Uh! Duo! You cussed...” Quatre whispered in awe.
“That’s okay. Miss Noin’s not here...Where is she, anyway?”
“She and her boyfriend went to Disneyland. His name’s Milly.”
“Ah, man, those lucky bastards,” Duo sighed, shaking his head. He pointed at an old stump, which was located across the meadow. “Over there! There has to be mice in there!”
“Okay!”
As the two boys raced across the meadow, the wind rustled softly through the grass and caused the leaves of the trees to whisper. The hot summer day caused the heat to flush their young skin, and caused sweat to roll down their backs. But with their mission priorities set, they took no notice of this uncomfortable calamity.
110101010101100
Trowa stared silently at his plateful of greens, tofu, and over grilled chicken. Duo was talking excitedly about the day he had with Quatre, and was talking about a boy named Dillon that tripped over a snake.
“What sort of snake was it, Duo?” their mother, Helen, asked. She cast a worried expression in her older son’s direction. She noticed that he had yet to touch his food. But he stared silently at his plate, hunched over and squinting, as if reading some sort of fine print within the greens. She exchanged a worried glance with her husband, who glanced at his older son with an uncomfortable expression.
“I dunno. Dillon said that it was a gopher snake. I don’t know what those were. I tried to catch it, but Quatre said that if it bit me, I would die.”
“Where was your babysitter?!”
“Oh, Maria was watching us,” Duo assured her, nodding his head. “Miss Noin went on a vacation with her boyfriend, Milly.”
“‘Milly’?!” Sam repeated, blinking. “Son, do you mean a man, or a woman? Because women are named ‘Milly’.”
“That’s what Quatre said. He said that Milly’s a boy. I mean, a man. Miss Noin and Milly are going to get married someday. That’s what he said she said that Milly said.”
“Lucrezia’s a nice girl,” Helen said pleasantly, smiling across the table at Sam. Sam grunted, lowering his head as he picked at his food. She looked back at Duo, who was scraping the spices from the piece of chicken. “What else did you do today?”
“Freddy. Freddy was there, again. He doesn’t like Quatre. He’s always picking on him.”
“Did you tell him to stop?”
“Freddy doesn’t care. He can’t talk.”
“Why not, honey?”
“Because. His throat’s all messed up. He can’t talk, and he always just hits people, and hurts small animals. He kept scaring away...er...all the lizards,” Duo finished, glancing at Trowa, hoping that his brother didn’t know the real reason why the two were out in the meadow. He wanted this to be a surprise.
Helen seemed to lose her youthful appearance as she took in her adopted son’s mood. Her heart ached with the need to try and fix what had been done. But there was no power short of God’s own hand that would be able to soothe that wound. She could only pray and hope that the support and comfort they gave him helped him through this dark time.
She felt sick that people did this to others. Especially to children. Trowa was fifteen–but he was just a child. A helpless, defenseless child that didn’t deserve what had happened to him. Her throat clogged with emotion, and her lashes collected with tears. She didn’t know what to do. Her God was not helping her; He was not giving her the answers she needed to soothe her child’s wounds. She looked at Sam for a sort of anchor, to keep herself from flying off the handle. The doctors had mentioned that this period was critical; especially since he was already on meds for being manic-depressive.
They could only up the dosage of his medication and pray for a miracle that his strength alone was able to keep himself from spiraling into a deep depression.
“Trowa?” Her voice hitched. She glanced at Duo, to see if he’d heard it. But the younger boy was busy shoveling food into his mouth to even listen. “What about you, son? What did you do today?”
Trying to be helpful, sensing that Trowa didn’t feel like talking, Duo said, “He watched tv. And he made us lunch.”
“He did? What did he make?”
“Cereal. I like Apple Jacks. Trowa, huh? That’s what you made us, huh?” Duo winked his way with a conspiratorial expression. But Trowa continued to stare at his food, refusing to acknowledge either of them.
Sam, frowning grimly, lowered his fork. “Trowa? Would you like to talk, son? You know we’re here for you...all of us.”
“He’s just tired!” Duo interjected, watching with some confusion as Trowa continued to ignore them. But he wanted to be helpful. If the boy didn’t want to talk–then he was going to do his brotherly duty and keep their parents from pressuring him. “He doesn’t feel like talking when he’s tired!”
“He’s old enough to tell us that on his own, Duo,” Helen said gently. She looked back at the eldest. She wished she was a mind-reader; she wished she was able to know what was swirling beneath those auburn locks of his. He was brushing his hair forward, she realized. Hiding his eyes behind it. “Trowa?”
Duo frowned as the silence grew stronger at the dining table. The sounds of a car driving by outside created a sort of comfort noise as three pairs of eyes settled on the silent teen. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Duo then blurted out, “Guess what, mom? Today, when we were at the stream–”
“You were at the stream?!” Helen repeated, blinking repeatedly as she looked at her youngest. This was cause for concern. “Was Maria with you?”
“Yeah! When we were at the stream, Quatre farted. It was stinky. I almost died.” Duo laughed.
“Don’t joke about that, Duo. Death is a serious subject.”
“Bodily functions are normal, son.”
“But they’re funny. So, I farted too. But it wasn’t as stinky as his. I think his are the best. Miss Noin says it’s cuz he doesn’t like to poop, because he’s scared of the toilet, so–”
“Duo, this isn’t appropriate conversation for the dinner table,” Sam said on a sigh, serving himself some steamed green vegetables.
“Yeah, but–”
“Let’s talk about something else, all right? There’s a year-round school nearby–your mother and I were thinking of enrolling you there.”
“Quatre’s home-schooled. I wanna be home-schooled.”
“Oh, is he? Maybe we’ll talk with his father about it...”
“I really don’t like the idea of enrolling Duo in a public school, Sam,” Helen began looking at her husband with a worried frown. “Once the children find out that he’s positive, their parents will object to his attending with them.”
“He can’t be sheltered forever, Helen. He’s a real people person. Keeping him cooped up isn’t the way to raise him,” Sam argued.
Duo sighed quietly. This one was an old argument–just as old as the ones they had about Trowa. He lifted his eyes from his empty plate, and stared across the table at his older brother. For several days now, Trowa hid all the time in his room. Duo wasn’t sure what made his brother suddenly withdraw from the world, but he wanted to help. He had a bad sense of feeling that Trowa wasn’t feeling very well–inside and out.
But he didn’t know how to fix it if he didn’t know what was bothering him.
110101010101100
Both boys were walking along the barb wire fence line that separated one neighborhood from the next when they heard the sounds of other kids playing in a nearby secluded area. Because Duo was curious as to what they were doing, he ran over in that direction. Quatre followed at a slower pace. The secluded area consisted of a group of oak trees, the stream rumbling through with a much deeper setting than the one they was used to. There was a deep embankment with steep walls that charged through the group of trees–the stream ran in this dirt gap and reappeared a small distance away within an outcropping of rocks. Duo gasped in its many possibilities, already conjuring up places where he and Quatre could set up small forts for war games and crawdad hunting.
Looking up, he saw a group of boys and one girl playing with a single rope that was tied to a large branch of one tree–they were using this rope to swing across the deep gap. It looked very exciting. Duo dropped his walking stick, watching with wide eyes as a boy ran from his spot on the opposite bank to catch onto the rope and swing himself over the gap. He rose high into their end with a swoosh of sound and laughter. Nearly vibrating in place, frantic and eager for a turn, Duo watched as the boy swung back onto the other side and launched himself into open air.
When he landed, the kids cheered, drawing a line where his feet landed first. It looked so fun–Duo wanted a turn. He was sure that he’d go further than that kid.
“Hi!” he shouted, running out to where they could see him. He waved just in case they didn’t see him. “Hi! My name’s Duo!”
“Get out of here, kid! This is for older kids!” one of the boys shouted at him from the opposite bank. They were all dressed in summer clothes, but many had a respectable amount of dirt on them. It was apparent from their sweaty faces and flushed skin that they had been at this for awhile.
“I can go further than you can!” Duo challenged as another boy took a running start at the swinging rope. He stepped aside so that he wouldn’t get hit by him as he swung over the gap.
“This is dangerous stuff, kid! Go back home to your mommy!” the single girl shouted, laughing with the others.
“Yeah, little boy. What are you, three?”
“NO! I’m seven! And he is, too!” Duo shouted back, pointing at Quatre, who was trying to hide behind one of the trees. Older kids made him nervous.
“Your mommy’s going to get mad that you ran away from home! Go home!”
“But I wanna try! Just one time! I wanna try just one time!”
“No! It’s too dangerous for you!”
Duo ground his teeth, clenching his fists as he watched another kid take to the rope. He watched the obvious fun the boy was having, laughing and swinging as he began his descent to earth. Stepping back out, he watched as the boy launched himself into open air, and tumbled in a painful somersault along the ground. All the kids roared with laughter and shouts as he laid there, in obvious pain.
“I can do that better,” Duo muttered, looking for a way to get over.
“Duo, we’d better not go over there,” Quatre whispered, afraid to be heard by the others. “They’re older than us. They look like they’re twelve. They’ll beat us up.”
“No, they won’t! They can’t touch us little kids! They’ll get thrown into jail if they do!” Duo declared, sliding his way down their side of the gap, jumping across the stream, and making his way up the steep bank to the other kids.
Quatre watched fearfully as Duo made his way over, determined to take a turn with the others. The other kids looked at him with skeptical and concerned frowns as he took his place in line with them. The girl turned, looking at him with a glare.
“Go home, kid!”
“Not until I had my turn! This is a free country! You can’t tell me what to do!” Duo challenged her, hands on his hips. “I just want one turn!”
“No! You’ll get hurt! And then you’ll blame it all on us! Go home!”
“After my turn! I’m good at ropes! And I don’t cry at anything. I wanna turn!”
“Give him a turn, Hilde,” a boy said, where he was standing against one of the large trees. He gave Duo a smirk. “He looks like a sissy-girl.”
“I’m not!” Duo shouted at him. “I’m a boy! And I’m a better boy than you!”
“Whatever, kid. You look like a sissy to me.”
“And you look stupid!”
“Takes one to know one, sissy-boy.”
“You just called yourself stupid! Stupid!”
“Hey, don’t call Heero stupid, kid,” Hilde said, frowning at him. “He’s not. He’s the one that made this swing.”
Duo scowled, then looked up at the rope. It was tied on a branch that reached out precariously between the gap, and was tied with several tight knots that looked sturdy and reliable. Skeptically, he traced the path the kid must have taken to get to that height and that position. He then had to grudgingly respect the kid’s braveness to get to that branch. It did look very hard to get to.
“He’s still stupid to me,” he muttered, crossing his arms and waiting his turn. Heart racing furiously, he remembered his friend, and looked across the gap to see Quatre standing on the opposite bank, watching him with a worried expression. “Hey! Kitty! Watch me, okay!”
Heero snorted, glancing at the little kid on the other side. “What kind of name is that? That’s an even sissier name for a kid.”
“Shut up, you! He’s my friend! And he’s better than you! I bet he can do this too!”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“Because. He doesn’t want to do this. This is kid stuff to him,” Duo snorted, shaking his head. “He’s braver than he looks.”
“You’re stupid, sissy-kid.”
“I’m not a sissy!”
To prove it, Duo waited for the kid ahead of him to take his turn. When he landed back on their end, he watched as the other kids recorded his landing, and then took a running start for the rope that swung lightly across the gap.
He felt his feet leave the ground, his hands reaching out for the rope. With the coiled material within his hands, Duo held on tight as his body weight and momentum took him over the gap. But he didn’t count on his hands growing slick with sweat, and for his weight to be something heavier than he expected. He slid right off the rope, flying into the dirt on the opposite bank. He hit hard, with a startled grunt as the steep incline forced him to slide and roll all the way down into the stream between the gap.
Mortified, Duo laid in the stream, trying to get his thoughts in order. He heard wild shouts of laughter, and felt his face redden with embarrassment as he climbed out from the stream, dripping wet. With a defeated expression, he climbed the bank to where Quatre was, and hurried home.
Quatre stared after Duo as the boy raced toward the direction of his home, then looked back at the kids that were rolling around in the dirt, laughing their heads off. A dark expression crossed his face, and he bent, picking up some rocks from the ground. Hurling them as best as he could, having a good aim that resulted from the various Freddy incidents, he beaned that Heero kid right in the middle of his forehead. Several other rocks hit Hilde, and a couple of other boys. Enraged, the kids began shouting, and raced down their embankment, racing for him.
Giving a startled gasp, hearing Maria and Dillon ordering him to run like hell, Quatre turned and raced after Duo. He could hear the other kids racing after him, their longer legs eating up the distance that separated them. With a surge of desperation, Quatre quickly ducked under the barb wire fence, and scrambled through the meadow, heading toward the familiar settings of his house. The kids were still after him, yelling and screaming. He could see Duo still running for the stream that separated the meadow from his house, and he called for Duo to wait for him.
Duo turned. His eyes widened with surprise, and he began picking up rocks. Hurling them at the kids that were running after Quatre, he strove to protect his friend as the blond joined him. Together, the two began hurling rocks at the older kids, all of whom were shouting and trying to protect themselves from the onslaught.
Duo giggled, reaching out to grab his friend’s shirt and jerking him along behind him. Panting heavily, the kids raced across the stream, climbed up the bank to the wooden fence of Quatre’s backyard, and raced around it to get to the front. Once they scrambled over the front yard’s fence, Duo gulped air deeply, looking behind them as Quatre fell onto his knees on the grass, breathing heavily.
Heero rounded the fence, looking pretty ticked off as Hilde joined him. Duo pointed at them as they surveyed the area for any adults. They didn’t want to venture any further–it was obvious this was some sort of trap.
“HA! You can’t come in here! His dad will beat you up!” he shouted. “And my brother’s older than you! He’ll beat you up!”
“You little shits! Get out here and face us like a man!” Heero growled, leaning on the small fence that kept him from the two kids.
“We’re just boys! We aren’t men yet!” Duo shouted, sticking his tongue out. “You can’t touch us! You can’t touch us! The police will come after you if you do! You’ll all go to jail and get butt-raped for life!”
“I’m going to kick your ass, you little jerk! Yours, too!” Heero growled, pointing at Quatre, who hid behind Duo.
“What’s going on out here?!”
All four looked up at the porch to see Quatre’s older sister, Iria, standing on the porch, looking at all of them curiously. The high school sophomore gaped at the blood on Heero’s face, and at Duo’s muddiness. Her eyes dropped to the various scrapes and cuts that he’d gotten from his crash into the dirt bank. Panic arose in her as she remembered her father mentioning that Duo was HIV positive. She looked from him to her younger brother, imagining immediate infections from the child to her loved one.
“What happened?!” she demanded, hurrying down the porch steps.
She roughly pushed Duo away from Quatre, jerking her brother to his feet. Her voice rising to a panicked shriek, she hauled Quatre into the house.
Duo stared after her in shock, taking a few steps in that direction. Then he looked back at Heero, who was frowning in puzzlement at the entire scene.
Suddenly aware that he was all alone, Duo gave a shaky grin and started for the front porch.
“C’mon, Heero,” Hilde muttered, jerking on the other boy’s arm. “He’s just a kid. He isn’t nothing.”
“Yeah...whatever. Don’t come back there again, sissy boy. You and your dumb sissy friend,” Heero threatened, glaring at Duo.
Duo stuck his tongue out, and watched with a sense of relief as the two older kids disappeared around the higher wooden fence. Then, cautiously, he made his way back to his house.
110101010101100
Later on that week, Trowa angrily kicked at the dirt as he searched for his younger brother and his friend. He didn’t like watching over Duo; serving Duo; listening to Duo; being around Duo. Duo was the world’s most annoying brat, and he despised the kid. Not because Duo was annoying–but because Duo was annoyingly naive. And happy. Trowa despised both.
He’s much too happy, Catherine said. She was tucked in one of the various pockets he had in his cargo shorts. He carried her around everywhere. His voice of sanity. That’s because Sam and Helen love him more. They love him because he’s younger than you...because he has a sickness that begs for sympathy...
What about me? He wondered to himself.
It was a thought he had often. At the orphanage, he’d been passed over in favor of younger children. No one wanted a broody, easily depressed child. They’d wanted a happy go-lucky child that laughed at the appropriate times and looked cute even when doing something bad. Catherine continually whispered that Duo was the favorite because of these reasons. That Sam and Helen did not respect Trowa anymore for letting that man violate him.
They don’t want broken kids, Trowa, she whispered. They want happy ones. Happy ones that will take care of them when they get old. They don’t want kids like you, Trowa. But that’s all right. You have me, now. I’ll always take care of you.
She knew how to speak to him in ways that he understood perfectly well. She played on his insecurities and doubts, and did so with relish. But she was never snide. She never said anything bad about him. She praised him and complimented him, and became the only voice he’d listen to. Because he suddenly refused to talk, no one knew of Catherine, or the amazing creatures of his room. Of Bed, of Comforter, of the Dustbunnies–he knew his own little world, and no one had to know. In a way, he was confident and secure in knowing that his world was his own. When everything was so violently ripped away from him, he had his own world to cradle and comfort him.
No one had to know.
No one had to know.
Not even happy little kids that were going to die later on in life, anyway. Especially with that homo-virus. He hated Duo. He hated Duo for being so happy, for being so cute, for taking all the attention with his stupid childish antics. As he watched the two small kids play, lost in their own worlds of naive dreams and wonders, he would sit and stare at them both–hating them. Hating their innocence. Their beauty. Their laughter.
It burned within his gut. He wanted to hurt them. To make them feel what he did. To drag them down to his level.
His parents didn’t know these dark thoughts of his. The counselor didn’t know this. Only Catherine did. Catherine was his only friend.
Today, his parents had made him baby-sit the two kids. Noin would be back on Monday. The blond’s sisters were at their stupid girl things. Trowa didn’t like the responsibility of watching the two brats. He hated them.
But they had disappeared on him, and some niggling fear deep within him, hidden beyond the burn of hate, had been concerned. Concerned that the Predator was still around, watching them. Waiting to do to them what he’d done to Trowa. And that human aspect of Trowa had him looking for the kids, now. As his human aspect and Catherine argued, he listened for their childish voices, and barely kept his nails from digging into his palms. The need to hurt was strong.
He tromped over the stream that the boys played at regularly. Duo was going to get it when Trowa found him. He knew that Trowa hated doing this sort of thing.
Walking along the barb wire fence line, he heard the sounds of kids’ voices, and ventured in that direction. From the rising shouts, he could identify his brother’s voice, and those of other kids’. He began marching faster in that direction, fists clenching.
He came up his adopted brother and his friend as they played near an outcropping of rocks near the running stream, three older kids shouting at them near a swinging rope. He didn’t give those kids any lingering interest–he zeroed in on his brother and his friend as they lifted several large rocks, in search of crawdads.
When Duo looked up, a perky smile on his face, Trowa felt his anger burst.
He jerked his brother from the stream, gripping that unruly braid of his. His brother was so fragile–delicate. One could snap those thin bones of his like sticks if they applied the correct force. Trowa could do so easily.
You can do it, Catherine whispered. Make him broken like you. Make him understand what it’s like to be you...
“You little shit!” he cursed fiercely, dragging the child behind him. He spoke just as easily as he had before. It was as if he hadn’t gone through a week of not saying a word. “How many times did I tell you to not run off?!”
“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry, Trowa!” Duo cried, reaching up to try and save his braid. “OW! Ow, you’re hurting me!”
“So, what?! I told you time and time again–I don’t wanna go looking for you all the fucking time!”
“OW! You’re really hurting me!”
“Cry some more, then! See what happens.”
Duo tripped over the dirt, falling to his knees. Trowa didn’t bother with helping him up–he jerked even harder on his braid, dragging him through the dirt.
Quatre raced over, fumbling as he helped Duo to his feet.
“Why do you have to be so mean to him, Trowa?!” he asked. “Why can’t you be nicer to him? He’s always nice to you!”
Despite his tears of mortification from the treatment, Duo shouted at him, “Don’t yell at my brother!”
Quatre let go of his arm, looking startled at the shout.
“What’d you say?!” Trowa snarled, whirling around to face Quatre. The blond stared at him with wide, terrified eyes as Trowa let go of Duo, and started in on him. “You think you’re so good, running around, acting all stuck up. You little rich homo–you don’t have shit to say to me! He’s my brother! I treat him the way that I want!”
“Stop it, Trowa!” Duo wailed, clinging to his leg.
Trowa stopped advancing on Quatre, and looked down at him. He began stomping on him with his other foot. Quatre launched himself at the other boy, sinking his teeth into his arm when he wouldn’t stop kicking Duo. Trowa gave a startled gasp, then curled his fingers into a fist, hitting him hard.
When Quatre fell to the ground, Trowa advanced on him. Kicking the little boy over and over, he was faintly aware that Duo was screaming at him to stop, but Trowa couldn’t stop–he kept seeing that man in the Mercedes, telling him in that quiet voice of his that if he ever told anybody what happened between them, he was going to tell his parents that he was a homo. He was going to expose to the world what had happened. The pictures, taken in certain moments, would only prove what the world thought of Trowa. That he allowed this violation. That he allowed this man to pick him up.
The world would know he was a whore.
This little boy looked like that man–the colorless hair, the blue eyes...if Trowa squinted, he would see that man in this boy’s features.
His rage consumed him, and Trowa began kicking harder and harder, ignoring the screams and the sobs.
Make him feel it, Trowa, Catherine whispered.
He just wanted to destroy that man. Destroy him for what he’d done, for what he’d said, for what had happened.
He doesn’t understand what happened...make him...do unto him as others had done to you...him and Duo...both of them deserve to be broken.
He wanted to kill him.
You’re eldest, Trowa...make them understand...
He wanted to tear him to shreds.
It’s your duty, Trowa! You’re eldest! Make the young understand!
He wanted to–
He flopped over with a dazed expression, stars racing in front of him. His vision blurred for a few moments, and a sort of ringing sound began within his head. His skull felt loose, his bones jarred with enough force that for a brief moment, he felt as if he’d just dissolved into a pile of goo.
Unsteadily, he rose to his feet. His head ached. He saw double. Nausea made his stomach lurch.
Curses! Catherine growled, childish voice conjuring up a feminine scowl. Foiled!
Blinking in a sleepy manner, Trowa looked up at the sneering face of one of those older kids, who was holding a good sized stick in his hand. He was standing in front of the two little boys. He was the one who hit him with the stick.
Too confused and dazed to continue his assault, Trowa turned and stumbled away. Reaching out for some sort of support, his hand found the barb wire fence. His fingers trembled before clenching the metal wire, his skin giving away easily to sharp metal pricks.
Don’t worry, Trowa, Catherine soothed from his pocket. There’s always tomorrow, and the next...we’ll make them understand, sweetie. We’ll make them know our pain...
Skin, torn by the metal of the barbwire, oozed brilliant color and splotched on his shorts. He was too dazed to realize what he was doing. He continued to hold onto the fence as he made his way back home.
Duo blinked, then looked back at his friend. Torn between wanting to stay with his friend and going to his brother, he whimpered slightly. The older kid, Heero, looked down at them with a bewildered expression. He’d been the one to whack Trowa several times with that stick to get him to stop kicking on Quatre.
His blond friend was crying, covering his bleeding face with both hands. Giving a hitched sob, Duo hugged his friend tightly, then got up and raced after his brother.
“Hey, wait–!” Heero yelled, lowering his stick as he watched the braided kid race after the teenaged psycho. With a confused expression, he looked down at the other little kid. He dropped his stick, and crouched beside him, peering anxiously at the kid’s dirtied face. “You all right? Let me see. Let me see.”
When the blond lowered his hands, revealing a bloodied nose and busted lip, Heero grunted. He took off his shirt, using that to sop up the blood that dribbled everywhere. The kid started to cry a little more, and, embarrassed, Heero awkwardly patted his back.
“You’re okay, kid. Here, get up. Are you hurt? Stand up, okay? What’s that guy’s problem?”
Quatre shook his head, clutching the older boy’s shirt to his face. He felt confused that Duo had chosen to be with his brother rather than him, but he couldn’t be mad at his friend. He knew that Duo looked up to Trowa, and cared for him in ways that he’d never understand–but he felt hurt that Duo would chose Trowa over him. It was just a confusing moment.
Heero helped Quatre to his feet, glancing over his shoulder at Hilde and Nichol, who were watching with wide, curious eyes across the gap. With an awkward grunt, Heero started walking, to take this kid home.