"Scars Challenge"
Jul. 5th, 2004 12:55 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
wynterhawk.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionHere's a flash for the emotional scars bin. Warnings... hmm... contains some violence and language. Runs about 490 words. Enjoy!
Pain burned like fire up into the narrow cavity of his chest and throat.
But the agony of his pop’s words was worse than any punch he landed that night.
Ma was screaming incoherently, throwing herself at Pop, pawing at him.
“Don’t hurt my baby!” she cried.
Pop fought her off.
Drunk again and standing over his fallen son like a prize fighter waiting for the final bell, Pop waited for a response to the first round.
“Get up!” he yelled. “Get up you fucking little cocksucker! Take it like a man!”
The ten year old mustered his strength just enough to pull himself into a sitting position. Dizzy from the blows to his face and chest, he swayed and then crumpled altogether when his father grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet.
It was the same every time.
Always the same when Pop was drunk.
Always, when Pop had lost at the track.
Ray only hoped he wouldn’t throw up when Pop hit him in the gut. The last time he spewed his dinner over his father’s shoes, Pop hurt him more. Made him pay for being weak.
Pop threw him to the floor again.
“You were always a good for nothin’! Why don’t you get out and get a job? Make some money!”
The kick brought sharp sweet pain and Ray tried not to scream. He choked it back, squeezed it into a tiny strangled whimper and wrapping his arms about himself he held still.
Ma was on Pop again, angry this time, wrenching at his stiff arms, using her weight to hold him at bay. Pop let her hold him this time but then with a disgusted snort he shook her off, stormed into the foyer and grabbed his coat. He was gone without a word, leaving Ma to pick up the broken parts.
**
Nearly ten years later, at nineteen years old, going on forty, Ray Vecchio suddenly inherited the “man of the house” status. After the family had received the news, he held his mother while she cried just as she had done for him all those years ago when he’d been broken by his father’s hand.
Pop was dead. He had choked to death on his own vomit while sprawled out on the wet bathroom floor of some grimy pool hall.
Later in private, Ray tried to mourn for a man that never loved him.
He couldn’t.
Those wounds he’d inflicted never closed fully. The scars were still fresh and bled when he tried vainly to remember the good in his father.
But it didn’t matter anymore. Pop was gone.
On the day of the funeral, as he watched the casket disappear into the earth, Ray felt a cold surge of guilty joy.
And relief.
He knew that once the dirt had swallowed his father, he would finally begin to mend. He wouldn’t be broken anymore.
Pain burned like fire up into the narrow cavity of his chest and throat.
But the agony of his pop’s words was worse than any punch he landed that night.
Ma was screaming incoherently, throwing herself at Pop, pawing at him.
“Don’t hurt my baby!” she cried.
Pop fought her off.
Drunk again and standing over his fallen son like a prize fighter waiting for the final bell, Pop waited for a response to the first round.
“Get up!” he yelled. “Get up you fucking little cocksucker! Take it like a man!”
The ten year old mustered his strength just enough to pull himself into a sitting position. Dizzy from the blows to his face and chest, he swayed and then crumpled altogether when his father grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet.
It was the same every time.
Always the same when Pop was drunk.
Always, when Pop had lost at the track.
Ray only hoped he wouldn’t throw up when Pop hit him in the gut. The last time he spewed his dinner over his father’s shoes, Pop hurt him more. Made him pay for being weak.
Pop threw him to the floor again.
“You were always a good for nothin’! Why don’t you get out and get a job? Make some money!”
The kick brought sharp sweet pain and Ray tried not to scream. He choked it back, squeezed it into a tiny strangled whimper and wrapping his arms about himself he held still.
Ma was on Pop again, angry this time, wrenching at his stiff arms, using her weight to hold him at bay. Pop let her hold him this time but then with a disgusted snort he shook her off, stormed into the foyer and grabbed his coat. He was gone without a word, leaving Ma to pick up the broken parts.
**
Nearly ten years later, at nineteen years old, going on forty, Ray Vecchio suddenly inherited the “man of the house” status. After the family had received the news, he held his mother while she cried just as she had done for him all those years ago when he’d been broken by his father’s hand.
Pop was dead. He had choked to death on his own vomit while sprawled out on the wet bathroom floor of some grimy pool hall.
Later in private, Ray tried to mourn for a man that never loved him.
He couldn’t.
Those wounds he’d inflicted never closed fully. The scars were still fresh and bled when he tried vainly to remember the good in his father.
But it didn’t matter anymore. Pop was gone.
On the day of the funeral, as he watched the casket disappear into the earth, Ray felt a cold surge of guilty joy.
And relief.
He knew that once the dirt had swallowed his father, he would finally begin to mend. He wouldn’t be broken anymore.
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no subject
Date: 2004-07-05 12:09 pm (UTC)I couldn't breathe reading this horrific, vivid, and too real account.
What an awful trip into Vecchio's head. And I mean that in a good way.
no subject
Date: 2004-07-09 07:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-05 05:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-05 09:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-06 08:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-06 11:03 am (UTC)Thanks for taking this twist on the challenge. I really liked this a lot!
no subject
Date: 2004-07-09 06:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-06 01:25 pm (UTC)I love the oblique way in which we're shown in the show that Ray was an abused child and how that results in his outward shell of bluster and display; yet he still has such an open heart for his family and for Fraser, at least.
no subject
Date: 2004-07-09 07:02 am (UTC)this was good!
Date: 2004-07-09 04:42 pm (UTC)Re: this was good!
Date: 2004-07-09 04:57 pm (UTC)*cuddles Ray*
no subject
Date: 2004-07-17 05:12 am (UTC)