Fear

Pierce Starlight was fourteen years old when he decided he was going to take his father down.

He can recall the entire experience as clear as day. He still remembers the way the bastard had come to his room and leaned on the doorframe, telling him if Pierce wants any food for the rest of the night it’s now or never, because he’s working on a new book and the kitchen is the quietest place for him to do his writing, and—of course—he absolutely won’t be disturbed.

Pierce is all too ready to brazenly refuse, but as soon as the slightest whiff of alcohol on his father’s breath meets his nose, he’s filled with an adamant conviction, and he decides that he’s finally going to do it. His mother is at work, his sister is fast asleep in her room. Nothing is in his way. No more waiting. Today would be the day.

So he prepares. He informs his father he’ll come down soon—he just has to use the bathroom real quick.

Hunched over the bathroom sink, he sucks in deep, slow breaths, staring into his own hazel eyes in the mirror.

He hates how much they resemble his father’s.

Pierce takes out his phone with shaking hands and starts recording.

Dinner is strange; Pierce isn’t sure he’s ever eaten with his father alone before. The man eats fairly gracefully for the beast that he is, Pierce will give him that; he neatly cuts his chicken into small, square pieces and chews each one silently.

Pierce stares down at his dish, prodding at the food childishly with his utensils. The meat looks too dry, the spinach too wet.

He stiffens as his father’s hand reaches out across the table, slowly wrapping thick, powerful fingers around his half-empty glass of whiskey. He seems calm, but Pierce knows better; he knows something is off. Something about the energy in the room, the energy between them, feels different, even more strained than usual. He knows that the man across from him feels it too. Pierce likes to think he’s an observant person, but nothing even slightly out of the ordinary ever seems to escape his father.

Pierce knows this, has known it for a long time.

He feels the weight of the phone in his lap.

“How’s school?” his father asks gruffly.

Pierce stabs into the meat with his fork.

“Fine.”

A normal family dinner — Pierce can do that.

He seizes his cup, maybe a bit too aggressively, raising it to his lips and gulping down a few deep sips of the clear liquid; it’s water, but for some reason it tastes bitter and nasty on his tongue, burning his throat like arsenic.

He’s not a helpless child anymore.

He won’t be stopped by anxiety or trepidation.

He won’t lose.

“You seem upset,” Todoro says tonelessly.

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so.”

“Since when do you care about my feelings, anyway?”

Dangerous eyes flash to meet his own— a warning.

Pierce stabs his chicken again, glowering.

“You’re moping like a child.”

“I’m not moping.”

A pause.

“You’re doing poorly in school.”

Pierce doesn’t say a word.

“Your grades are slipping. You’re becoming mediocre.”

“I’m passing all my classes with 90s and above,” Pierce snaps. “Please explain to me exactly how I’m slacking.”

“You could be passing with 95s and above if you got rid of that unbearable attitude.”

“Is that what this is about?” Pierce demands. “How stupid I am?”

“I never said you were stupid. I’m just stating that you’re not—”

“Applying myself,” Pierce mutters bitterly, twirling a piece of spinach around his fork. “Yeah, I know.”

“Get those grades up, Pierce.”

The ‘or you’ll regret it’ wasn't said out loud, but Pierce hears it perfectly clear.

He glares into his water.

“Pierce.”

“What?” he says a bit too defensively, clutching his glass harder.

“Why are you hiding your phone under the table?”

Damn his stupid nervous habits—with a slight, tremulous jolt of his fingers, the cup slips out from his grasp, shattering against the floor with a loud, heart-wrenching crash.

Pierce stares at the shards of glass brokenly, desperately willing time to retreat back just a few seconds.

It’s silent for a long moment.

His father’s eyes narrow with premonition.

Then—

“Pierce.”

Pierce’s eyes shoot up.

“Are you recording this conversation?”

Pierce lets out a short laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as weak to his father’s ears as it does to his own. He picks up his fork and stabs his grilled chicken with unnecessary force. “Recording it? Why would I do that?”

Dark eyes narrow. “You tell me.”

“What, you think I’m trying to blackmail you or something?” He snorts, slicing the meat neatly with the knife clutched in his trembling hand, but his voice is nice and steady, confident even. “To get what in return? I don't want anything from you.” Todoro doesn’t respond. “Paranoid much?”

“Your phone is on your leg.”

“Is that not allowed?” Pierce snaps. “Don’t be a conspiracy theorist. Why would I want to record you?”

“You tell me,” his father repeats.

Pierce shakes his head, lifting the chicken to his mouth and biting into it. “It makes no sense.”

“Of course it does.”

His mouth goes dry, the food losing all flavor.

“You hate me, don’t you? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at your little attempt to smear my name. If anything, I’m surprised you haven’t tried it sooner.”

“I’m not trying anything — I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Pierce swallows the mush hard with great effort. “You sure have an inflated sense of your own importance, old man.”

“And you,” Todoro says softly, “are a terrible liar.”

Cold, suspicious eyes probe Pierce with such an intensity that he can’t help but suppress a shudder. “I’ll ask you again. Have you been recording me?”

“No,” Pierce insists angrily.

“Liar,” his father snaps again, angrier this time.

“I’m not a liar!”

“When I ask you a question, I expect an honest answer.” He slams his fork down onto the table, making Pierce recoil. “You owe me at least a modicum of sincerity, you disrespectful brat.”

Pierce levels his father with a glare of his own. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Todoro abruptly pushes back his chair with a loud scrape. “You’re nasty and insolent. You have no manners. You refuse to live up to your full potential. You have no respect for anyone, and you never accept responsibility for a single thing you do. It's always someone else’s fault, isn’t it?”

He looks down at his son icily.

“And it’s easy for you to put that blame on me—your awful father. It’s always my fault whenever you indisputably fail at something like the unlucky little catastrophe you are, and it’s always up to me to pick up the pieces of what you broke.”

“Since when have you done a damn thing for me?” Pierce demands, boiling from the inside out.

His father scowls down at him. “Calm yourself, boy. You’re a nuisance.”

“And you’re a piece of garbage who puts his hands on his wife and kids,” Pierce says fiercely. “But I suppose we can’t all be perfect.”

Todoro is quiet for a while.

“Hand over your phone, Pierce,” he says finally, “or you’ll regret what happens next.”

“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” Pierce shoots back, clenching a hand around the phone on his thigh. “Hit me? Would you hit your own child? Do it. I know you want to.” He leans forward, burning hatred in his eyes. “I have been recording you, because I’m done with you. It ends here and now. I’m going to expose all your terrible secrets to the public, and you can’t stop me.”

Todoro is silent for a long, terrible moment.

“Do you truly believe that?” he asks finally.

Pierce does.

He has to.

“I do.”

Something akin to annoyance crosses over his father’s features.

The boy narrows his eyes as Todoro straightens up to his full height, a threatening 6’3 and 230 pounds of pure muscle.

“You don’t scare me,” Pierce hisses. “I’m fourteen now. I’m not a scared little kid anymore. Your intimidation tactics are useless against me now, old man.”

He takes one step to the right; Pierce’s eyes follow the movement cautiously.

“Is that so?”

Dread begins to pool in his stomach despite himself, contradicting the words he had just spat at his father only seconds prior. He has to escape with the recording no matter what; that isn’t disputable. But how? He can’t take his father in a fight, he knows he can't, there’s no way; he’s five-foot-six and barely 120 pounds—it would be a death sentence, and with the previously constrained anger now openly smoldering in his father’s cold eyes, he doesn’t mean that figuratively.

He’s been drinking, though, Pierce reminds himself fervently, desperate to hold on to hope. He might not be drunk, but his father isn’t the type of person to drink just for the hell of it, so Pierce is certain he’s at least tipsy.

Which, admittedly, doesn’t mean much, because Todoro’s compromised strength and speed due to intoxication are still damn impressive, way beyond Pierce’s.

But maybe if he just—

Pierce seizes the wooden table and pushes it forward as hard as he can, making Todoro’s whiskey glass wobble violently as his plate falls over and clatters to the ground, chicken and watery spinach spilling all over the floor.

Todoro’s head jerks to the side, startled by the loud clamor.

A quick diversion, that small, momentary distraction—it’s all Pierce needs to end the video with a quick, careful tap and start another one, hoping it’ll be enough, praying it'll be enough for something to happen, something to change when he shows it to somebody: a concerned frown from a teacher, a confrontation, an interrogation, just a fucking shred of doubt from the public, something to show them all that the great, talented, venerable writer Todoro Starlight was not the man they thought him to be—for the sake of his family, for the safety of his family, let it lead to something, anything at all.

With that fleeting plea in mind, he tucks the device away safely in his pocket and makes a run for it.

Pierce is fast. He’s been complimented on his long legs and his adept swiftness countless times by his mother, his sister, even his brother whenever he sees him around the neighborhood. Mia. Myla. Kirai. Mia, Myla, Kirai; he repeats their names like a mantra in his head as he bolts for the exit, ready to outrun his father for a hundred miles if he has to.

The front door is close, so close. It’s located directly parallel from Pierce’s chair in the kitchen, straight down a long, narrow hallway. As his feet pound rapidly against the wooden floor, he realizes he hasn’t exactly thought this though—he doesn’t know where he’s going with the video or who he’s going to show it to, but he can deal with that after he escapes from his father for good. He isn’t thrilled with the concept of leaving his sleeping three-year-old sister upstairs alone, but at least he’s leading the bastard away from her.

Thoughts flood through his brain and back out, none of them really sticking. He knows how to get to his school from here; it’s only six-thirty in the evening, a teacher could still be there. He knows where his classmate Allison Montgomery’s house is, too—her family seems so kind, and he’s positive they’ll help him if he shows them proof of his current living situation.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins. He can do this. He can easily escape an intoxicated man nearly three times his age. His father may be quick on his feet, but there’s no way he can win against Pierce in a game of endurance.

This is nothing.

He’ll protect the phone with his damn life.

His fingers brush the doorknob.

And then a sudden burst of white-hot pain explodes across the back of his head.

Pierce can’t help but let out a shocked whimper, jerking forward clumsily before a hand grasps his shirt and yanks him backwards. He sees a vague glimpse of Todoro’s merciless face as he lands hard onto his back, the world spinning around him.

Clutched in his father’s right hand is a piggy bank, Pierce realizes incredulously, the white and pink piggy bank that had stayed there on the kitchen counter for years, untouched since the days where he and his mother would practice counting change when he was a kid, now stained with a dark smear of crimson blood.

Pierce reaches a shaky hand to the back of his head and presses it against the warm wetness coating his aching scalp; it comes back red.

Todoro locks eyes with him before pointedly releasing the tainted, bloody piggy bank from his grip. It shatters to pieces on the floor and, for the first time today, Pierce actually feels like crying.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks dangerously. “Stupid boy.”

Pierce snatches a thick, pointed piece of ceramic from the floor and lunges forward like an animal, pushing the sharp corner of it down hard and ripping it brutally across his father’s calf. When he hears Todoro grunt in pain, Pierce quickly rolls himself away and stumbles to his feet, making another desperate beeline for the door.

This time he’s grabbed tightly by the hair and yanked backwards harshly, colliding with his father’s hard body.

“No,” he cries out, sagging for just a moment before struggling against his father’s tight grasp relentlessly, his breaths coming in pathetic gasps, his eyes bleary with barely restrained tears, his body shaking so hard that Todoro would be blind to not have noticed it by now. “No, please—”

“And just who do you think you’re begging to?” scoffs a voice right above his ear, making his chest heave with another painful sob. The other burly arm snatches one of his wrists, twists it forcibly behind his back.

Pierce swings his free arm back wildly. “Don’t touch me!”

“You’ve gotten slower.”

“Fuck you,” Pierce snarls. “I hate you.”

The fist tightens in his hair, and he cringes away when he hears his father’s jeering voice right next to his ear. “You truly thought you could get away from me, venture out and get the whole wide world on your side. How admirable. If only you weren’t such a sniveling mess, I might have even called you heroic.”

“I don’t need your worthless praise,” he retorts furiously. “Let go of me!”

The hand slides down from his hair to his nape and pushes down hard, shoving him painfully onto his knees on the floor. Pierce attempts to swing an elbow into Todoro’s crotch, but Todoro catches it swiftly.

“Are you going to stop fighting back?”

“Never,” Pierce spits.

Todoro moves in front of him to tower over him, all but fuming, before brutally backhanding him across the face.

The humiliation of it all stings more than the slap.

Pierce lifts his head stiffly and glares up at his father, clutching his red cheek. The man says nothing, just stares at him calculatingly.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

“Are you recording this, right now?”

“So what if I am?”

“Hand me the phone, Pierce.”

“I won’t.”

Todoro raises a hand towards him again, making Pierce flinch away violently. He seizes a handful of red hair again, giving it a violent tug; Pierce can’t help but whimper as the sudden jolt sends a sharp pain to the open wound on the back of his head.

Todoro gives him a nasty smile.

Pierce lets an ugly sneer curl his own mouth, trying to distract himself from how badly he wants to simply fall down in defeat and cry. “You get way too much joy out of pushing a fourteen-year-old around, you son of a bitch.”

The older man’s hand flexes.

“Don't touch me!” Pierce cries, hating how shrill his voice comes out, how childish and pitifully afraid he sounds. “I’m so dizzy, I’m going to end up throwing up on you and then you’re just going to beat me harder, and I can’t…” He sucks in a deep breath, refusing to let his bastard of a father see him start to spiral.

“Then beg me to stop.”

Pierce feels his stinging face flush with shame.

“In your dreams, old man. I’d sooner let you beat me to a lifeless pulp.”

“Let’s compromise, then.”

The man finally releases his tight grip, lightly running a hand through the boy’s hair. Pierce tenses up immediately. “Apologize to me properly, and you can keep the video.”

Pierce’s head jerks up and away from his father’s touch, eyes filled with doubt. His fingers brush nonchalantly against the pocket of his sweatpants; his phone is still there. “Really?” he asks warily.

The man crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t like to repeat myself.”

Pierce swallows his pride. “I’m… sorry.”

“For what?”

“For… for recording you.”

“Do you think you deserve the punishment you got?”

Pierce’s mouth tastes sour. “Yes.”

“Do you think I should continue to punish you?”

“No.”

“And why shouldn’t I?”

Pierce hesitates, biting his lip. Everything is hazy and blurry around him, and he feels more than before. “Because,” his hands are trembling so hard, his mind is swimming and he can’t focus on a goddamn thing, “because—”

“Calm down, Pierce.”

And his father’s hand is on him again, touching his hair, lightly scratching through it, petting him like a dog. It’s derisively affectionate and inexplicably disturbing; Pierce closes his eyes in disgust, turning away from him as far as he can. Despite being tossed around like a pathetic rag doll by his father minutes ago, he feels oddly mortified in this moment, much more than before. He’s never been touched this way by Todoro in his entire life; he doesn’t understand it, but he hates it, distrusts it immensely. It's too parental, too much of a botched, dirty lie, even if it’s meant only as a mocking gesture. “Think of what you’re going to say before you say it.”

He thinks of the video, his one hope, and his heart swells.

“Because I want to show other people that you’re a bad person,” falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.

He’s done for.

He forces himself to pry his eyes open—his father is staring down at him with a coldness that could freeze hell over, and he cowers under the intensity of the searing gaze. The hand on his head stops moving, and somehow it’s scarier and more unnerving than both the caresses and the barbarous blows combined.

“What do you want me to say?” he cries, bringing up a hand defensively. “Because I don’t want to get pummeled by you anymore! You’re a grown man who’s much stronger than me! I can’t win against you!”

Todoro pauses.

“Why is that little video so important to you anyway, boy? What do you think it will do?”

Pierce squeezes his eyes closed again, nails biting harshly into his palms. “It can give me a chance.”

“What chance?”

“To get the hell away from you.”

“Hmph. And never see your siblings again?”

“Mother would… get custody of us,” Pierce says, his voice wavering with sudden uncertainty.

“You don’t sound too sure of yourself.”

Pierce feels something wild and relentless snaps within him. “Stop acting like you wouldn’t love that! You would love to get rid of us, forget about us all, so that you wouldn’t have to deal with us anymore, you selfish prick. That’s what you did with Kirai, right? You kicked him out the second you got the chance, because you don’t care about him—you don’t care about any of us.”

“Watch your tone, Pierce.”

“Unless you’re beating us or telling us we’re not good enough, it’s not like you give any of us the time of day! The only things you care about are your alcohol and your stupid fucking books! So why not just take the heat? Have a few people hate you for the way you treat your family, because you’ll find a way to get away with it since you’re you, and you can have the life you want!” His voice cracks. “Isn’t that enough? What more could you possibly want?”

His father looks at him with something similar to pity in his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like you fucking care!” Pierce screams, tears pouring freely down his face now.

“Don’t make a scene,” the man commands. “You’re a disgrace, Pierce.”

“I’m a disgrace,” Pierce reiterates emphatically, a crazed smile curling his mouth.

“Wipe that ugly smile off your face before I do it for you,” Todoro snaps. “Let me make something very clear. You are my son. You live under my roof, and until the day that you leave this house, you are mine.” A hand shoots out. Powerful fingers wrap around Pierce’s throat and squeeze hard—not enough to choke him out, but enough to hurt like hell. Pierce lets out a strangled cough. “And you will never disobey me again like you did today.”

“Let go of me,” Pierce croaks out, wrapping a hand around his father’s wrist.

“Disgrace,” his father hisses again. “I wish you could see yourself, you disgusting little shit. You’re pathetic.”

Pierce allows his hand to drop limply to his side. “I don’t know what Mother ever saw in you.”

Todoro sneers down at him, his grip tightening. “And just where is your precious mother now that you need her?”

The words sting.

“She’s out saving lives.”

Todoro scoffs. “She's a damn nurse.”

“She's a hero,” Pierce snarls. “She makes you look like a worthless piece of trash.”

A dark look crosses his father’s face.“Why does she stay with me, then?”

“Because she’s trapped here like we all are,” Pierce whispers, his pulse beating erratically under his father’s hand. “Because she's scared of you, because you’re a monster.”

“So she needs her runt of a son to protect her.”

Pierce clenches his fist.

Todoro levels him with an unimpressed sneer, releasing his grasp. “If you don’t start groveling in the next five seconds, you are going to be a very sorry little brat.”

Pierce can’t help but glare at him scornfully, that familiar feeling of humiliating dread returning back to him with full force.

Todoro arches an eyebrow before backhanding him again, much harder this time.

His split lip is deep now, trickles of blood running down his chin; the familiar, metallic taste of blood lingers in his mouth.

Pierce turns away, burning with shame.

“Get up, Pierce.”

He stumbles to his feet. The world spins around him.

“Apologize.”

Pierce swallows the lump in his throat. He feels stupider now than he ever has before, weaker than an ant, lower than scum. Everything aches.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry, what?”

Pierce glares daggers into the floor. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Will you disobey me like this again?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says, satisfied.

Pierce grits his teeth, hating the smugness in his voice.

“I suppose you can have this back, then.”

Pierce’s head jerks up.

Todoro reaches into his own pocket and holds something out to him, and Pierce can only stare down at it in incomprehensible horror.

The pieces begin to come together, clicking into place.

Instantly, that strange, comforting hand petting his hair makes sense. It had taken him off guard and he’d been distracted, he’d even closed his eyes—god, he feels like a fucking idiot.

Because in his father’s hand is his battered cell phone, the screen completely shattered.

When had he even—

How could he have—

Tears spring to his eyes.

He snatches the phone out of his father’s grasp, knowing full well that it didn’t matter whether he took it back or not.

His father turns around, smiling at him maliciously over his shoulder. “How unfortunate for you, Pierce. You must have dropped it.”