Blue
Title: Blue
WC: 1059
Characters: Huck, Molly [mentioned: Toby, Andy]
Rating: R, for character death and dark themes.
Summary: When Huck comes home with the bruises, Molly never says anything.
Notes: This is a dark fic that focuses on issues no-one ever wants to talk about, unless it's sensational to talk about them.
When Huck comes home with the bruises, Molly never says anything. Sometimes she'll go grab some antiseptic from the cupboard in the bathroom and dab it gently over the bruises while Huck holds himself real still and does his best not to cry. Molly never minds when he cries, it might seem mean, but she likes it. She likes when Huck realises that he doesn’t have to be so brave all the time, and especially not in front of her. Once he's cleaned up enough, she'll pull out her make-up kit and dab gently on his face, hiding the black-blue bruises as best she can from their mother. When she's done, she stops and looks in the mirror at both of them; they're both smallish, like their mother, but with the swooping strong jaw lines of their father. Huck looks tiny and afraid in the mirror and Molly looks like a fierce warrior. She wishes she didn't have to hold on to the secrets contained in the mirror - once they turn away, their faces become the mirror and Huck just acts the part of warrior.
Sometimes not all the bruises can be stopped. 'Ma, boys at recess were just being boys. Huck was defending me. The other boys are just as bruised.' Lies, but essential ones. She couldn’t bear to tell her mother the truth. Once, Huck's arm is swollen and blue and neither of them can tell if it’s broken or not. Molly doesn’t hesitate before going to the bank and withdrawing the several hundred dollars she was saving for Berlin. At the ER, she kicks her feet against the X-ray machine and steadfastly maintains to the nurse that they are indeed, 18 years old. His arm isn't broken, but the doctor cautions that Huck should take it easy. Huck’s eyes meet Molly’s and he shakes his head just once.
It was something akin to a miracle, then, when his arm breaks of its own accord, at home, two days later. She's impressed it lasted two days. It is a different doctor, but the same nurse, who looks at Molly curiously. She holds the nurses gaze as her mother frets over Huck, and does not say anything at all. The nurse speaks in crisp words after that. Molly counts the ceiling tiles, icy-grey blue to match the words and the crumbling wall she will not go visit.
The bruises get worse and sometimes he is crying before he comes in the door. He is breaking, and cannot control his vulnerability and it is that fact that terrifies her. She wakes in a cold sweat and creeps to Huck's room, listening to the murmured sleep-prayers to a god she is certain does not exist. 'Oh Huck,; she whispers to her brother, who cannot hear her, 'that god can only help you as well as I can.' His face is still raw in the morning when she paints over it, gently as she can. It just needs to stay long enough for their mother not to notice anything, then she'll gently swirl it off, peeling away hope and innocence and little layers whose meanings she cannot possibly know.
He crawls to her, after the graduation party, at four-thirty in the morning. She hadn't elected to go, except to be Huck's protector, but he had taken her hands in his and whispered, 'I'll be fine at a school event.' He crawls to her, after the graduation party, at four-thirty in the morning. Their mother had retired to bed earlier, asking her to stay up for him. Around one, the book slipped from her tired fingers and she turned the blue plaid quilt over, and slept. He crawls to her, after the graduation party, and all she sees is the trail of blood down the backs of his legs. There is nothing to do but what she has always done. She takes him to the bathroom, sits on the bright blue toilet and looks critically at his injuries. There is a matchbox car, a rubber bouncing ball, and half of a seat buckle that Huck tells her 'came from the backseat'. She stops talking after that and just rinses the cloth over and over again, running pink and red and grey. She wants to give him words, to dance them eloquently like her father's book does, but she does not have words - Huck wouldn't react to the words. But to the gentle sealing of secrets under a damp washcloth, he does react. His palm presses against her knee, and she holds herself still for both of them.
When she is done, Huck stands, kisses her cheek gently, and limps to his room. She imagines the sleep-prayers to a god - any god - and wonders what she will tell her mother in the morning. Huck answers for her with his bedsheet wrapped tightly around his neck and hanging from the banister.
It is her father, pulled back from his refuge in the isolated Vermont hills, who asks her for the answers, over and over again. 'I don’t know, Daddy,' she says, over and over again, imaging nothing but a washcloth and hope and innocence and layers of meaning she couldn't ever possibly understand. She keeps the matchbox car and seat buckle in her purse, bleached over and over again. The rubber ball, once neon blue, was stained grey and no amount of bleaching could make it right again. That one she threw into the ravine behind their house, as hard as she could throw it. Her father won't look her in the eyes. Her mother stays curled in bed, hugging the pillows tightly. Molly spreads the newspapers across the kitchen table, dancing her fingers across the newsprint, spilling orange juice on some pages, erasing words that never should have been written.
It is the mirror she avoids, everything all too smallish, and the strong jaw line. She stands with her back to it, cuts her hair short the night before the funeral. She grabs the bleach and pours it over the floor. The black seeps out of the hair, leaving something pale and translucent behind. Molly picks it all up, tosses it in the shower and lets the water run. When she is done, she turns off the light and sits on the floor, looking up into a mirror whose reflection she cannot see.
WC: 1059
Characters: Huck, Molly [mentioned: Toby, Andy]
Rating: R, for character death and dark themes.
Summary: When Huck comes home with the bruises, Molly never says anything.
Notes: This is a dark fic that focuses on issues no-one ever wants to talk about, unless it's sensational to talk about them.
When Huck comes home with the bruises, Molly never says anything. Sometimes she'll go grab some antiseptic from the cupboard in the bathroom and dab it gently over the bruises while Huck holds himself real still and does his best not to cry. Molly never minds when he cries, it might seem mean, but she likes it. She likes when Huck realises that he doesn’t have to be so brave all the time, and especially not in front of her. Once he's cleaned up enough, she'll pull out her make-up kit and dab gently on his face, hiding the black-blue bruises as best she can from their mother. When she's done, she stops and looks in the mirror at both of them; they're both smallish, like their mother, but with the swooping strong jaw lines of their father. Huck looks tiny and afraid in the mirror and Molly looks like a fierce warrior. She wishes she didn't have to hold on to the secrets contained in the mirror - once they turn away, their faces become the mirror and Huck just acts the part of warrior.
Sometimes not all the bruises can be stopped. 'Ma, boys at recess were just being boys. Huck was defending me. The other boys are just as bruised.' Lies, but essential ones. She couldn’t bear to tell her mother the truth. Once, Huck's arm is swollen and blue and neither of them can tell if it’s broken or not. Molly doesn’t hesitate before going to the bank and withdrawing the several hundred dollars she was saving for Berlin. At the ER, she kicks her feet against the X-ray machine and steadfastly maintains to the nurse that they are indeed, 18 years old. His arm isn't broken, but the doctor cautions that Huck should take it easy. Huck’s eyes meet Molly’s and he shakes his head just once.
It was something akin to a miracle, then, when his arm breaks of its own accord, at home, two days later. She's impressed it lasted two days. It is a different doctor, but the same nurse, who looks at Molly curiously. She holds the nurses gaze as her mother frets over Huck, and does not say anything at all. The nurse speaks in crisp words after that. Molly counts the ceiling tiles, icy-grey blue to match the words and the crumbling wall she will not go visit.
The bruises get worse and sometimes he is crying before he comes in the door. He is breaking, and cannot control his vulnerability and it is that fact that terrifies her. She wakes in a cold sweat and creeps to Huck's room, listening to the murmured sleep-prayers to a god she is certain does not exist. 'Oh Huck,; she whispers to her brother, who cannot hear her, 'that god can only help you as well as I can.' His face is still raw in the morning when she paints over it, gently as she can. It just needs to stay long enough for their mother not to notice anything, then she'll gently swirl it off, peeling away hope and innocence and little layers whose meanings she cannot possibly know.
He crawls to her, after the graduation party, at four-thirty in the morning. She hadn't elected to go, except to be Huck's protector, but he had taken her hands in his and whispered, 'I'll be fine at a school event.' He crawls to her, after the graduation party, at four-thirty in the morning. Their mother had retired to bed earlier, asking her to stay up for him. Around one, the book slipped from her tired fingers and she turned the blue plaid quilt over, and slept. He crawls to her, after the graduation party, and all she sees is the trail of blood down the backs of his legs. There is nothing to do but what she has always done. She takes him to the bathroom, sits on the bright blue toilet and looks critically at his injuries. There is a matchbox car, a rubber bouncing ball, and half of a seat buckle that Huck tells her 'came from the backseat'. She stops talking after that and just rinses the cloth over and over again, running pink and red and grey. She wants to give him words, to dance them eloquently like her father's book does, but she does not have words - Huck wouldn't react to the words. But to the gentle sealing of secrets under a damp washcloth, he does react. His palm presses against her knee, and she holds herself still for both of them.
When she is done, Huck stands, kisses her cheek gently, and limps to his room. She imagines the sleep-prayers to a god - any god - and wonders what she will tell her mother in the morning. Huck answers for her with his bedsheet wrapped tightly around his neck and hanging from the banister.
It is her father, pulled back from his refuge in the isolated Vermont hills, who asks her for the answers, over and over again. 'I don’t know, Daddy,' she says, over and over again, imaging nothing but a washcloth and hope and innocence and layers of meaning she couldn't ever possibly understand. She keeps the matchbox car and seat buckle in her purse, bleached over and over again. The rubber ball, once neon blue, was stained grey and no amount of bleaching could make it right again. That one she threw into the ravine behind their house, as hard as she could throw it. Her father won't look her in the eyes. Her mother stays curled in bed, hugging the pillows tightly. Molly spreads the newspapers across the kitchen table, dancing her fingers across the newsprint, spilling orange juice on some pages, erasing words that never should have been written.
It is the mirror she avoids, everything all too smallish, and the strong jaw line. She stands with her back to it, cuts her hair short the night before the funeral. She grabs the bleach and pours it over the floor. The black seeps out of the hair, leaving something pale and translucent behind. Molly picks it all up, tosses it in the shower and lets the water run. When she is done, she turns off the light and sits on the floor, looking up into a mirror whose reflection she cannot see.