|[GOSPEL]| for the |[VAGABONDS]| :: lyulf/leah
Feb 28, 2014 14:43:44 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 28, 2014 14:43:44 GMT -5
"We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict."
_Jim Morrison
_Jim Morrison
I am not my step-siblings' babysitter. I'm not responsible for the little fuckers; have no desire to be. I didn't choose for their father to marry Mom, sure as hell didn't choose for them to come thundering into our house like a goddamned squinty-eyed stampede, didn't choose to have to put up with sharing the shower with twice as many people or Baptiste keeping a meticulous notebook of things that piss me off for his later use. I didn't choose any of this, but that doesn't do anything to prevent what's already happening.
Ever since the Descartes Plague descended on our house, it's like everyone looks to me to keep our veritable hurricane of shit together. Idris, make sure your step-siblings are assimilating to their new school. Be nice to your stepfather even though he's an antisocial dick, Idris. Stop fighting with Baptiste, Idris, it's not his fault he's a hollow-souled little creep. Every minute I spend in my own home is another minute closer to me having a complete psychotic break, and it's not fair. Nothing has ever been fair for me. So I grit my teeth, I bite my tongue. I spend more time at the training center, make my morning runs longer. But I can't escape school. A truancy suit would put a nail in the coffin of me ever getting out of my hell-home until I hit eighteen and have the legal ability to run so fast and far that maybe I can finally make it out of Fyffe's shadow and my mother's expectations.
There's a storm in my step as I part the hallway like the Red Sea, people practically flattening themselves against their lockers to get out of my way. It's satisfying in a way that it probably shouldn't be. Fear's a decent substitute for love, and I've seen enough of what Fyffe has made of herself in search of the latter to ever want it for myself. Speak of the devil, she's the only one that doesn't recoil when I shove past her to get to my locker, Antoinette and Antoinette, right behind hers. Idris comes after Fyffe. Isn't that just the fucking story of my life, a metaphor that the school's alphabetizing system only cements. I growl at her as a greeting, yanking the lock out and throwing my math book away from me like it's on fire. My sister smiles at me. She has a beautiful smile. I want to punch her in the face until her bones turn to mush.
Snarling, I snatch my History book out of my locker and slam it shut, stalking off and trying not to think murderous thoughts. I'm pretty sure murdering your twin makes you even worse than your run-of-the-mill fratricidal maniac. Maybe I should ask Baptiste. It's only a matter of time before the fucker chops someone up to alleviate his empty-eyed boredom. Five minutes until the bell. I just have to make it through this period, and then I can go to training, get out, get away, lose myself in the ring of clashing steel and the satisfying thump of flesh on a punching bag. Fifty more minutes of teeth-gritting, and...
And it's too much to ask for a little bit of normalcy. It's only because I take the back way to my class in an effort to avoid getting caught in Fyffe's slime trail that I spot it out of the corner of my eye, the telltale flash of hair softer than my own and Lyulf's delicate little silhouette backed into a corner by some senior twice his size. My jaw clenches tighter. I try to keep my eyes fixed forward and my feet going one in front of the other. I am not my step-siblings' babysitter.
But I do have an extremely low tolerance for assholes.
One more trip to the office is an automatic suspension, but that's not what I'm thinking of when I throw my book to the ground with a loud snap, stalk across the hallway, and peel the puffed-up dickwad off of Lyulf with a guttural growl. It's all practiced motion from there, carefully honed Career reflexes, the proper form of a fist, draw back, piston forward, contact. The satisfying crack of knuckles on bone, once, twice, three times. There's something about watching a guy a foot taller than you hit the ground like a fucking sack of potatoes. Before he has time to get to his feet, I stomp down on his forearm, feeling radius and ulna creak in protest under the weight. "Here's the deal, fuck train. Next time you even fucking look at my brother wrong, I'll rip your goddamn limbs off and make you watch me feed them to my cousin's pet tiger. Do I make myself clear? Clearer than the used douche water that you obviously have sloshing around in your skull instead of a fucking brain?"
Brother. Lyulf may be a Descartes, but he's got that invisible Antoinette tacked onto the end of his name now. Dad taught me a lot of things before he died, but the first and foremost lesson was always that we look out for our own, Idris. That is our highest duty in life. I grind my foot down a little harder.
After a few seconds I get a pained groan and a quick nod, which is good enough. On to the next obstacle, my gaze rising to wrap like a fiery net around the witnesses in the hallway. "The same promise applies to any one of you shitdicks that tries to rat me out. I will find you. Understood?"
Silence.
"Good, now fuck off and go to class." I won't be going to History. My guilt would be evident in my heavy breaths and bruised knuckles, rumpled hair and hands shaking with the vestiges of an omnipresent rage. Skipping class will only get me detention, and I practically live there anyway. It's better than suspension and being trapped in the house all day. Sighing, I grab Lyulf by skinny shoulders and haul him to his feet, hands gripping the sides of his face in a way that's not as gentle as I wish it could be as I look him over for any signs of damage. "Ripred's left ass cheek, Lyulf, were you just gonna sit there and fucking take it?"
I know the answer to that. While I've got a major beef with Baptiste and I'm not overly fond of Dear Stepfather, Lyulf's a sweet kid. Not angry, not violent. Not like me. A frown carves its way onto my face as I judge him none the worse for wear and step back to pick up my book, raking a hand through my hair. "You've got to learn how to throw a fucking punch, kid. I won't always be around to protect you."
After I get the hell away from that house, they'll all be on their own.
