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wook77Title: He's Coming
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wook77
Fandom: Star Trek: XI
Genre: Gen
Character: James Tiberius Kirk
Warnings: Trigger material. *child abuse depicted* 2nd person POV
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~600
Summary: He's coming. Have to get away. Have to run.
A/N: Contains trigger material. Unbeta'd.
He's coming.
Your heart's racing as your feet pound the carpet. Legs moving as fast as they can go (not fast enough. God, it's never fast enough. He's coming. He's coming. He'scominghe'scominghe'scoming. Have to get away. Have to runrunrunrunrunrunrunrun), but it's not enough.
His legs are longer. His arms are longer. He's bigger. Stronger. Meaner.
Inebriation makes his steps slower than normal, though (still not slow enough. He's coming. He's going to get you and there isn't a thing you can do. Better run.) You cut around things, hoping it'll give you a bit more time. He fumbles, knees impacting a sofa, a chair, a table, as you race along.
You keep thinking this is a dream, if you can wake up, he'll be back to normal, like he was before the alcohol took him over. (You miss him like that. He's great like that. Yesterday had been a fantastic day and he'd even cooked breakfast today. Pancakes, your favorite. A pancake day has always meant a good day until now.) Oh god, he's coming and the hallway's so long.
"I'm going to get you, you little bastard!" he shouts after you and the words give wings to your feet as you runrunrunrunrun.
The door looms in front of you. If you can get in to your room, you can lock the door. You throw yourself through it. You take just a breath (of relief, inhaling safety for just a moment) and then fumble for the lock that isn't there. Your lock's gone. Oh God, the lock's gone.
You have two choices cause the third is to go back out there, (just take it, you little fool. Just take it and get it over with. It's going to happen anyway and there's nothing you can do. Running's just made it worse. You should just take it.) and there is no way you're doing that. You look to the windows. You can jump out and run across the yard, get to the neighbor's but what then? They love him. They think he's great. Everyone does. No one believes you when you tell. They tell you to tell and then they ignore you, tell you you're lying. You're acting out. You just want attention. You'll just end up back here again.
So you take the only option available. You fumble for your dresser and hamper, stuffing clothing, anything, you can find down your pants. The door bursts open and he shoves you, sending you flying (Not enough down your pants, oh god, there isn't enough. The last time you didn't have enough, you couldn't walk, couldn't do anything cause it hurt so bad).
He's enraged beyond words. Maybe you shouldn't have run. Maybe you should've just taken it because now he rips the trim from your dresser and swings it. The crack hits the padding but the nails are sure to puncture.
As the board hits again, you slip into your dream world. Space shuttles carry heroes onto ships. The car goes so fast as you race along. A dog barks as you chase after him, falling down a well and having him rescue you. You're free in your head, in your books and in your imagination.
You're five and your stepdaddy is a monster.
~*~
You're fourteen when you promise yourself you're never ever going to run again as you leave Frank's house. You're fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteennineteentwentytwenty-onetwenty-two when you remind yourself of your vow. Running makes your lungs seize up, gives you panic attacks (gotta get away. He's coming.) so you don't run. You're going to face everything. No more running.
No more.
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.
Author:
wook77Fandom: Star Trek: XI
Genre: Gen
Character: James Tiberius Kirk
Warnings: Trigger material. *child abuse depicted* 2nd person POV
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~600
Summary: He's coming. Have to get away. Have to run.
A/N: Contains trigger material. Unbeta'd.
He's coming.
Your heart's racing as your feet pound the carpet. Legs moving as fast as they can go (not fast enough. God, it's never fast enough. He's coming. He's coming. He'scominghe'scominghe'scoming. Have to get away. Have to runrunrunrunrunrunrunrun), but it's not enough.
His legs are longer. His arms are longer. He's bigger. Stronger. Meaner.
Inebriation makes his steps slower than normal, though (still not slow enough. He's coming. He's going to get you and there isn't a thing you can do. Better run.) You cut around things, hoping it'll give you a bit more time. He fumbles, knees impacting a sofa, a chair, a table, as you race along.
You keep thinking this is a dream, if you can wake up, he'll be back to normal, like he was before the alcohol took him over. (You miss him like that. He's great like that. Yesterday had been a fantastic day and he'd even cooked breakfast today. Pancakes, your favorite. A pancake day has always meant a good day until now.) Oh god, he's coming and the hallway's so long.
"I'm going to get you, you little bastard!" he shouts after you and the words give wings to your feet as you runrunrunrunrun.
The door looms in front of you. If you can get in to your room, you can lock the door. You throw yourself through it. You take just a breath (of relief, inhaling safety for just a moment) and then fumble for the lock that isn't there. Your lock's gone. Oh God, the lock's gone.
You have two choices cause the third is to go back out there, (just take it, you little fool. Just take it and get it over with. It's going to happen anyway and there's nothing you can do. Running's just made it worse. You should just take it.) and there is no way you're doing that. You look to the windows. You can jump out and run across the yard, get to the neighbor's but what then? They love him. They think he's great. Everyone does. No one believes you when you tell. They tell you to tell and then they ignore you, tell you you're lying. You're acting out. You just want attention. You'll just end up back here again.
So you take the only option available. You fumble for your dresser and hamper, stuffing clothing, anything, you can find down your pants. The door bursts open and he shoves you, sending you flying (Not enough down your pants, oh god, there isn't enough. The last time you didn't have enough, you couldn't walk, couldn't do anything cause it hurt so bad).
He's enraged beyond words. Maybe you shouldn't have run. Maybe you should've just taken it because now he rips the trim from your dresser and swings it. The crack hits the padding but the nails are sure to puncture.
As the board hits again, you slip into your dream world. Space shuttles carry heroes onto ships. The car goes so fast as you race along. A dog barks as you chase after him, falling down a well and having him rescue you. You're free in your head, in your books and in your imagination.
You're five and your stepdaddy is a monster.
~*~
You're fourteen when you promise yourself you're never ever going to run again as you leave Frank's house. You're fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteennineteentwentytwenty-onetwenty-two when you remind yourself of your vow. Running makes your lungs seize up, gives you panic attacks (gotta get away. He's coming.) so you don't run. You're going to face everything. No more running.
No more.
