Caught Up [5/?]
Caught Up
Rating: PG 13?
Pairing: None
Genre: angst
Word Count: 1143
Summary: In a world where being different is on par with the most heinous of crimes, hiding is the only option. Being found out brings about the worst nightmares for most-betrayal, abandonment, imprisonment, experimentation.
Death.
Warning: child abuse
Yixing is eight when he discovers something amazing.
A crash from the kitchen jolts him awake in bed, and he flinches, fingers scrabbling to grab a hold of the stuffed unicorn toy he sleeps with, pressing his face into its soft fur. He hates it when his father is angry, and he burrows further under the blankets, trying to hide even though he knows it's useless. It's impossible to hide.
He doesn't know how long he lays there, trying to keep his breathing quiet, trying to stay beneath the blankets so he can't be seen, can't be heard, just like he's always been told.
"Don't wanna fucking hear you, don't wanna fucking see you. Understand?"
He hopes that this morning it's enough, that his father will tire himself out, and then Yixing can get ready to catch the bus in an hour. He hopes that he can just be left alone this morning so that he doesn't have to wear a coat today in this heat, so that he doesn't have to wear long pants instead of the shorts that he wants to.
He doesn't know how long he lays there, pretending to disappear, but the door is wrenched open far too soon, something hitting his back through the blanket, shattering on impact. He yelps, trying to scoot away, off the other end of the bed where his father will have a harder time grabbing him, but he's too slow.
His father takes hold of his arm through the blanket, pulling him, his bedding, and his precious unicorn, Lay, to the floor. He feels the shattered glass from the picture frame poke at his arm, the comforter enough to keep him from getting cut, but not enough to lessen the hit he receives.
"Why are you still here?!" his father yells, digging Yixing out of his cocoon of imaginary protection, big hands squeezing his arms until he cries. "Answer me!"
"Baba I-" he starts, hiccupping and gagging at the smell of alcohol. It makes sense now, why this morning is worse than most.
"What did I tell you?" he asks, shaking Yixing so hard his teeth click together, and he shrieks when his tongue gets between them, blood filling his mouth.
He wants to tell his father that he's confused. Is he supposed to answer or stay quiet? He wants to ask why he's supposed to be gone when school doesn't start for two more hours. He wants to ask what he did so wrong this morning that made his father angry enough to hurt him like this, more than usual.
He doesn't though. He keeps his mouth shut so he doesn't bite his tongue again, eyes on the broken frame on the floor so he doesn't have to see the look in his father's eyes. Not that the picture is any better really-it's the only one they have of his mother, and now it's missing the protective glass, picture torn from the shards.
His father notices, he's sure, because in the next second he's picking up the ruined picture and hitting him with it, jagged glass cutting his cheek, ear, and eyebrow. Yixing screams, trying to jerk himself out of the grip, away from the pain, but his father is hitting him again, yelling something that he can't quite make out over his own sobbing.
"Do you see this?!" he shouts, shoving the picture in his face so hard that Yixing hears a sickening crack, blood spilling from his nose and over his lips.
Yixing barely nods, trying to bring his hands up to his face to stop the bleeding, choking out something that might have been a yes, but he can't be sure because he's crying too hard.
"Do you know where she is?!" he yells, and Yixing just barely manages to bring his hands up in time to shield most of the hit. "Do you?!"
He nods shakily, trying to move out of the way of another hit. He hears ringing in his ears as he's knocked to the floor, but he doesn't need to actually listen to know what his father is screaming now. It's all about how Yixing killed her, how it's all his fault, that he stole his mother away from his father, and Yixing chokes out tiny apologies over and over. It's probably the one thing he does know, and will never forget.
Things are a blur after that, until his father's finally gone, and he gingerly picks himself up, alarmed at the amount of blood he's losing. It's more than he thinks there should be, and he shakes as he stands, stumbling to the bathroom to clean up, one hand under his nose so he doesn't drip blood on the carpet. He'd be in even more trouble if he did.
He leans over the sink once he gets there, letting the blood drip onto the porcelain and he turns the water on, trying to wash the red from his hands. He doesn't want to look in the mirror to see how much his dad has hurt him, but it's a morbid curiosity that makes him lift his eyes, tears blurring his vision as he takes in the damage. There's a jagged cut through his right eyebrow, a cut on his ear, two on his cheek, blood dripping from his nose, and the shadow of several forming bruises. It's not a pretty sight at all, and he chokes a little, hands coming up to cover the injuries like that will somehow make them disappear.
It does, and he watches with his mouth gaping as the blood stops dripping, the purple marring his skin lightening until it fades away completely. The cuts take longer, but fifteen minutes later he's standing pain free in the bathroom, the only evidence that he'd been hurt being washed away with the damp cloth in his still shaky grip.
He drops the washrag into the hamper, leaning on the counter to see closer in the mirror. And he can't help the delight when his face stares back at him, smiling and perfectly whole. He sniffs a little, turning his head this way and that, just to make sure, sticking his tongue out to check for the holes that he's sure are there. He grins widely when he finds none, only wholly healed flesh, and he can't help the way he bounces, dangerously close to letting out something akin to a giggle.
He knows he should probably be worried, should even be upset. Being able to heal yourself isn't exactly something that's normal, and he knows he'll be in trouble for it once it's found out, but for now he's excited, relieved.
He'll be okay. No matter how much anyone hurts him anymore, he'll be okay. And that relief overwhelms all the terror surrounding the fact that he's one of them.
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Rating: PG 13?
Pairing: None
Genre: angst
Word Count: 1143
Summary: In a world where being different is on par with the most heinous of crimes, hiding is the only option. Being found out brings about the worst nightmares for most-betrayal, abandonment, imprisonment, experimentation.
Death.
Warning: child abuse
Yixing is eight when he discovers something amazing.
A crash from the kitchen jolts him awake in bed, and he flinches, fingers scrabbling to grab a hold of the stuffed unicorn toy he sleeps with, pressing his face into its soft fur. He hates it when his father is angry, and he burrows further under the blankets, trying to hide even though he knows it's useless. It's impossible to hide.
He doesn't know how long he lays there, trying to keep his breathing quiet, trying to stay beneath the blankets so he can't be seen, can't be heard, just like he's always been told.
"Don't wanna fucking hear you, don't wanna fucking see you. Understand?"
He hopes that this morning it's enough, that his father will tire himself out, and then Yixing can get ready to catch the bus in an hour. He hopes that he can just be left alone this morning so that he doesn't have to wear a coat today in this heat, so that he doesn't have to wear long pants instead of the shorts that he wants to.
He doesn't know how long he lays there, pretending to disappear, but the door is wrenched open far too soon, something hitting his back through the blanket, shattering on impact. He yelps, trying to scoot away, off the other end of the bed where his father will have a harder time grabbing him, but he's too slow.
His father takes hold of his arm through the blanket, pulling him, his bedding, and his precious unicorn, Lay, to the floor. He feels the shattered glass from the picture frame poke at his arm, the comforter enough to keep him from getting cut, but not enough to lessen the hit he receives.
"Why are you still here?!" his father yells, digging Yixing out of his cocoon of imaginary protection, big hands squeezing his arms until he cries. "Answer me!"
"Baba I-" he starts, hiccupping and gagging at the smell of alcohol. It makes sense now, why this morning is worse than most.
"What did I tell you?" he asks, shaking Yixing so hard his teeth click together, and he shrieks when his tongue gets between them, blood filling his mouth.
He wants to tell his father that he's confused. Is he supposed to answer or stay quiet? He wants to ask why he's supposed to be gone when school doesn't start for two more hours. He wants to ask what he did so wrong this morning that made his father angry enough to hurt him like this, more than usual.
He doesn't though. He keeps his mouth shut so he doesn't bite his tongue again, eyes on the broken frame on the floor so he doesn't have to see the look in his father's eyes. Not that the picture is any better really-it's the only one they have of his mother, and now it's missing the protective glass, picture torn from the shards.
His father notices, he's sure, because in the next second he's picking up the ruined picture and hitting him with it, jagged glass cutting his cheek, ear, and eyebrow. Yixing screams, trying to jerk himself out of the grip, away from the pain, but his father is hitting him again, yelling something that he can't quite make out over his own sobbing.
"Do you see this?!" he shouts, shoving the picture in his face so hard that Yixing hears a sickening crack, blood spilling from his nose and over his lips.
Yixing barely nods, trying to bring his hands up to his face to stop the bleeding, choking out something that might have been a yes, but he can't be sure because he's crying too hard.
"Do you know where she is?!" he yells, and Yixing just barely manages to bring his hands up in time to shield most of the hit. "Do you?!"
He nods shakily, trying to move out of the way of another hit. He hears ringing in his ears as he's knocked to the floor, but he doesn't need to actually listen to know what his father is screaming now. It's all about how Yixing killed her, how it's all his fault, that he stole his mother away from his father, and Yixing chokes out tiny apologies over and over. It's probably the one thing he does know, and will never forget.
Things are a blur after that, until his father's finally gone, and he gingerly picks himself up, alarmed at the amount of blood he's losing. It's more than he thinks there should be, and he shakes as he stands, stumbling to the bathroom to clean up, one hand under his nose so he doesn't drip blood on the carpet. He'd be in even more trouble if he did.
He leans over the sink once he gets there, letting the blood drip onto the porcelain and he turns the water on, trying to wash the red from his hands. He doesn't want to look in the mirror to see how much his dad has hurt him, but it's a morbid curiosity that makes him lift his eyes, tears blurring his vision as he takes in the damage. There's a jagged cut through his right eyebrow, a cut on his ear, two on his cheek, blood dripping from his nose, and the shadow of several forming bruises. It's not a pretty sight at all, and he chokes a little, hands coming up to cover the injuries like that will somehow make them disappear.
It does, and he watches with his mouth gaping as the blood stops dripping, the purple marring his skin lightening until it fades away completely. The cuts take longer, but fifteen minutes later he's standing pain free in the bathroom, the only evidence that he'd been hurt being washed away with the damp cloth in his still shaky grip.
He drops the washrag into the hamper, leaning on the counter to see closer in the mirror. And he can't help the delight when his face stares back at him, smiling and perfectly whole. He sniffs a little, turning his head this way and that, just to make sure, sticking his tongue out to check for the holes that he's sure are there. He grins widely when he finds none, only wholly healed flesh, and he can't help the way he bounces, dangerously close to letting out something akin to a giggle.
He knows he should probably be worried, should even be upset. Being able to heal yourself isn't exactly something that's normal, and he knows he'll be in trouble for it once it's found out, but for now he's excited, relieved.
He'll be okay. No matter how much anyone hurts him anymore, he'll be okay. And that relief overwhelms all the terror surrounding the fact that he's one of them.
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