Blood
What Spike remembered first was also what he remembered last, a common thread stringing together the events of his life, unnecessarily shed and always constant. He knew it from a young age, familiar and thriving beneath his fingertips, comforting. A sight to see, red crushed velvet draped elegantly, crimson silk and chiffon, rills of scarlet delineating pretty, pretty pictures down a warm canvas. There were some nights where he tasted it, that cheap copper taste like pennies, stuck in his teeth and no manner of scrubbing would relieve him. What he hated and avoided, or maybe for what he longed and ached.
What Spike remembered first was blood.
It wasn't all about money, right? He was six and even he knew this, had read it and learned it, in story books and pictures. Someone couldn't buy happiness, love conquers all, anecdotes stretching to tomorrow and all he wanted was the damn truth. If love conquered all, then why was he bundled to a tee, on the crumbling front steps with the one, long railing, ignoring the familiar shouts and noises from inside?
They always fought like this. He didn't know why he expected holidays to be any different. He'd given up once the table had flipped, donned him now his gay apparel with every intention of running away, a thought he'd entertained more often than not. Then they'd notice. Then they'd see. Then-- Then maybe they'd just keep fighting and fighting and never even know he'd gone. He didn't want to risk it.
Snow didn't fall often on such a temperate planet like Mars. He'd stretched out his hands and caught a snowflake. It melted in his palm.
He'd lost count the number of times he'd knelt in that kitchen, dust pan in hand, trodding lightly on socked feet and trying real hard not to catch any glass in his toes. There was still evidence stuck in the wall, two steak knives, the ones that had missed. His mother sat slumped by the cabinets, calmly lighting a cigarette, wine glass left forgotten by the prescription vial. There had been three place settings. Three forks. Three plates.
"He'll be back. He never leaves for good."
Three spoons.
"Never fills out his promises. Be a dear, don't be like him."
Three knives.
He tried to ignore that fine trail of drips leading to the bathroom.