"Arthur"
For the mousey who lost their work, here is your story. Please just add a child abuse warning to the header and you'll be all set. Thanks again for creating a fill for the meme!
ETA: Omg, sorry about the f-lock! This journal is set that way automatically. I'm a very sleepy mouse tonight.
Arthur's had enough. He might be small, but this is it. He's big enough now- he can open the front door. But Father doesn't know that. Father can sleep on, snoring loud enough to keep Arthur awake.
Arthur tiptoes past Father's door, heart beating right out of his chest. He has to stop by the window and run his fingers over her initials, dug under the sill where Father doesn't find them.
Arthur takes the first step. This is what he's been training for. He knows the traps, knows the creaks, knows every inch of these stairs. He's been practising every day then every night for almost a year.
His feet are little so he can squeeze one between the two creaking boards and the other... just balance on the edge of the step... No creak. Next step.
This one is tricky. Every part of this one creaks. Father said he bought the house for the creaky steps, to keep Arthur in. Arthur has it though. His feet fit between the banisters where they're further apart at the top. He pushes his socked feet through and balances, climbs down... no creak. Next step.
The third step is easy, doesn't creak. The fourth is all right, keep on foot on either edge and shuffle. The fifth is tricky again, but Arthur keeps his steps light and quick. After that it's easy peasy like Chinesy. Only he oughtn't to say that according to Miss Smith. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. That's it.
He jumps the last step and lands lightly, just as he's practised. He opens the cupboard under the stairs, feels for the loose floor board without any lights on, as practised. He grabs his rucksack and... the top stair creaks.
Arthur scuttles out, looks up, panicked. There's a shadow there, but no one. Not yet. Not a person. Not Father. Then the bedroom door opens.
"Arthur? Little rat."
Father still sounds slurred and fuzzy. Arthur quickly rubs the groove of his mother's name, dug here on the cupboard door too. Then he scrambles up and bolts for the door. The lock he's practised, but his heart's too big right now and he can't...
One, two, three. Count the locks. Now, one is a simple Yale. Flick. Two has a key, in his pocket, in. Turn. Gently does it. Click. Three is a bolt, heavy and stiff, by the floor. Pull, pull! Tug it, twist it. No luck. But... kick. He has it.
Turn the handle. Father's footsteps on the stairs now, no Arthur in his room see. Arthur pulls the heavy door. The cat flap flaps.
"Arthur! You little shit, get up... don't you dare."
Arthur looks up into the red, bright eyes of his father. The stern mouth that never curls except in disgust or grief, the red nose from some kind of sickness, the heavy feet stepping, creaking, groaning. Running. Running!
Arthur tugs the door shut behind him, runs as fast as he can. He can hear Uther's breath behind him, hear him shouting, huffing, panting. But Arthur knows where to go. Knows to head straight over the road, down the path and into the field. Through the grass, swishy swashy swishy swashy. He can't go over it... he has to go...
Over the river and into the woods. Through the trees, no tripping now. Keep running. Keep running. The woods aren't really woods, not like Father told him. Not full of wolves and starving children being eaten. Just a few trees.
Arthur runs through and pops out into a cluster of dirty little houses. Father calls this 'the estate'. Miss Smith calls it home. Miss Smith. Arthur looks around, trying to find her. But all he sees are identical doors, identical windows.
He's assumed that once he was here it would be easy. Find her house, find her, be safe. But he can't. He walks through the street, trying to escape the street lights and windows. But there's nothing here that tells him Miss Smith lives here. Or there. Or there.
Arthur cries. He cries and cries but silently. Father might hear him and come to his room. But he's not at home, he's out here. He looks down the next corridor of houses. Maybe this one is where Miss Smith is hiding.
"Don't hide from me, please."
No, the same... no. Not the same! Arthur's eyes widen in wonder. Not the same. There's a house here. There are colourful stars in the window, lit by light that shines from within from behind curtains. There are butterflies, huge butterflies with so much colour, stuck to the walls. The garden is all sleeping flowers and beautiful leaves. Arthur walks up the path, bag trailing. There are steps.
Steps are hard. He's tired. He wants to ring the bell, find Miss Smith, but his leg hurts where Father hurt it last week and his back aches from the bruises. His head throbs with tiredness and sadness.
He falls and curls round his backpack. He's never going to run his fingers over her name again. Never be able to sneak past Father and see the little tiny photo hidden in the under the stairs secret place. Never going to see his Father again, either. Though that might be a good thing.
He cries until he can't cry anymore, till his body is shaking with it instead of shaking with cold. He curls tighter round the bag that hides Mr. Cuddles and finally, finally he sleeps. He knows Miss Smith is just behind the walls on butterflies. She must be. He's safe. So he sleeps.
ETA: Omg, sorry about the f-lock! This journal is set that way automatically. I'm a very sleepy mouse tonight.
Arthur's had enough. He might be small, but this is it. He's big enough now- he can open the front door. But Father doesn't know that. Father can sleep on, snoring loud enough to keep Arthur awake.
Arthur tiptoes past Father's door, heart beating right out of his chest. He has to stop by the window and run his fingers over her initials, dug under the sill where Father doesn't find them.
Arthur takes the first step. This is what he's been training for. He knows the traps, knows the creaks, knows every inch of these stairs. He's been practising every day then every night for almost a year.
His feet are little so he can squeeze one between the two creaking boards and the other... just balance on the edge of the step... No creak. Next step.
This one is tricky. Every part of this one creaks. Father said he bought the house for the creaky steps, to keep Arthur in. Arthur has it though. His feet fit between the banisters where they're further apart at the top. He pushes his socked feet through and balances, climbs down... no creak. Next step.
The third step is easy, doesn't creak. The fourth is all right, keep on foot on either edge and shuffle. The fifth is tricky again, but Arthur keeps his steps light and quick. After that it's easy peasy like Chinesy. Only he oughtn't to say that according to Miss Smith. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. That's it.
He jumps the last step and lands lightly, just as he's practised. He opens the cupboard under the stairs, feels for the loose floor board without any lights on, as practised. He grabs his rucksack and... the top stair creaks.
Arthur scuttles out, looks up, panicked. There's a shadow there, but no one. Not yet. Not a person. Not Father. Then the bedroom door opens.
"Arthur? Little rat."
Father still sounds slurred and fuzzy. Arthur quickly rubs the groove of his mother's name, dug here on the cupboard door too. Then he scrambles up and bolts for the door. The lock he's practised, but his heart's too big right now and he can't...
One, two, three. Count the locks. Now, one is a simple Yale. Flick. Two has a key, in his pocket, in. Turn. Gently does it. Click. Three is a bolt, heavy and stiff, by the floor. Pull, pull! Tug it, twist it. No luck. But... kick. He has it.
Turn the handle. Father's footsteps on the stairs now, no Arthur in his room see. Arthur pulls the heavy door. The cat flap flaps.
"Arthur! You little shit, get up... don't you dare."
Arthur looks up into the red, bright eyes of his father. The stern mouth that never curls except in disgust or grief, the red nose from some kind of sickness, the heavy feet stepping, creaking, groaning. Running. Running!
Arthur tugs the door shut behind him, runs as fast as he can. He can hear Uther's breath behind him, hear him shouting, huffing, panting. But Arthur knows where to go. Knows to head straight over the road, down the path and into the field. Through the grass, swishy swashy swishy swashy. He can't go over it... he has to go...
Over the river and into the woods. Through the trees, no tripping now. Keep running. Keep running. The woods aren't really woods, not like Father told him. Not full of wolves and starving children being eaten. Just a few trees.
Arthur runs through and pops out into a cluster of dirty little houses. Father calls this 'the estate'. Miss Smith calls it home. Miss Smith. Arthur looks around, trying to find her. But all he sees are identical doors, identical windows.
He's assumed that once he was here it would be easy. Find her house, find her, be safe. But he can't. He walks through the street, trying to escape the street lights and windows. But there's nothing here that tells him Miss Smith lives here. Or there. Or there.
Arthur cries. He cries and cries but silently. Father might hear him and come to his room. But he's not at home, he's out here. He looks down the next corridor of houses. Maybe this one is where Miss Smith is hiding.
"Don't hide from me, please."
No, the same... no. Not the same! Arthur's eyes widen in wonder. Not the same. There's a house here. There are colourful stars in the window, lit by light that shines from within from behind curtains. There are butterflies, huge butterflies with so much colour, stuck to the walls. The garden is all sleeping flowers and beautiful leaves. Arthur walks up the path, bag trailing. There are steps.
Steps are hard. He's tired. He wants to ring the bell, find Miss Smith, but his leg hurts where Father hurt it last week and his back aches from the bruises. His head throbs with tiredness and sadness.
He falls and curls round his backpack. He's never going to run his fingers over her name again. Never be able to sneak past Father and see the little tiny photo hidden in the under the stairs secret place. Never going to see his Father again, either. Though that might be a good thing.
He cries until he can't cry anymore, till his body is shaking with it instead of shaking with cold. He curls tighter round the bag that hides Mr. Cuddles and finally, finally he sleeps. He knows Miss Smith is just behind the walls on butterflies. She must be. He's safe. So he sleeps.