Work Text:
Boris Habit holds himself tight in the corner of his underlit bathroom, his useless ugly legs curled up with his long, disgusting arms tight to his sides, his hands over his ears. He could hear him even when he wasn’t there. It felt like his dad’s memory, that control over his life, that scrutinizing, hideous influence was always with him, like a little devil on his shoulder. As a grown man who hasn’t seen his father in at least 15 years, he still felt his blood run cold and his body go stiff with fear and shame at the mere idea of his dad seeing him in this stage of his life
Crash. Smack. Bang.
The feeling of having his blood, iron and lava, drip from his mouth and nose will haunt him forever, he’s sure of it. Sometimes it still stung to feel tears on his face and he would rub his face raw in a panicked effort to make sure no one ever saw what a pathetic thing he was. He always was.
He can feel it all over again in his worst moments. His head cracking off of the bedside table, the smashing of terracotta as it shattered on the wood floor. He remembers in his panicked state, in the moments after, really hoping the shards from the pot hadn’t scratched up the boards. Knowing that if they did, he’d likely be punished for that as well.
He hadn’t done anything wrong, he had been the perfect little girl expected of him. That name spat at him like he was supposed to live up to it as he’s caught with his back to the door, his lily hugged tight to his chest. He’s just wanted to get Him some sun, a few moments in the wonderful summer afternoon light, a few kisses, a drink because He was starting to look parched, that’s all.
I was a child I was a child I was a child
He went too far.
He barely had his head turned before the first smack came down on the back of his head. To this day if someone or something touches the back of his head in the wrong way he’ll feel his heart flip in his chest and his stomach knot itself into impossible, nauseating shapes. The next was a punch, knuckles breaking his nose and a few teeth. And he dropped his lily. And he fell. And it shattered.
Habit curled in tighter on himself, rocking as tears streamed like heavy fall rain down his face and breathing like he’d been choked out. Desperate, ugly, tired sobs wracked his form, he’s shaking and he feels like he can’t get a full breath in. He feels small, he’s helpless, he’s a child still and he hasn’t changed. His fault or not, he hasn’t changed. He’s pathetic. Dad was always right.
His father had said that day, and many before and after, that he wanted a legacy when he left, expected Boris to hold up the family tradition of making too much money for anyone to need and putting on a facade to hide what happens behind closed doors. And in a way he’d guessed he’d gotten what he wanted, Boris and his children and his children’s children could live off the money his dad left him in his will for the rest of their lives and Boris would always have to put on a facade to make it through the day only to break down when he crossed the threshold to home. It made him something more than sick, and he couldn’t place it
A black hole in his gut and a burning in his mouth is all he has to remember his sad excuse of a father. He wished he had more, he wished he had even less.
He also wished he could waste away on that floor, but his legs were going numb and he couldn’t even summon the energy to take action on his own self destruction. So Boris dragged himself up off the floor with as much gusto as he had left in him in him, only getting himself to his knees like that. He pushed himself the rest of the way by gripping the counter and basically pushing his body up. He looks down almost deadpan but still sniffling, noting blood on the counter where he’d gripped it. His awful sharp fingers must have dug themselves into his palm at some point and he was going to have to clean that up. But he didn’t care yet.
He took what limited time he had on his feet to wash his hands, wipe his face clean, and drag himself all the way down the hall to bed. He flopped down, not having the energy or care to take off his bloody, tainted dentist coat. He seemingly always reeked of pennies and mint. He’s thought before that even if he took steel wool to his skin, he could never fully wash out the putrid stink of it all.
His exhausted mind and body finally on the soft mattress, he feels sleep finally settling in. In the last moments before unconsciousness, he hopes for a less tragic end to his tomorrow.
He fits with nightmares once he can dream, bouncing from one to the next like routine.
He’s exhausted by the time he decides to drag himself out of bed. It’s still dark out when he does. He’s still exhausted.
He fears it’s always going to be like this.