Disclaimer: I don't own Reno. I wish I did though XD
Sakura-Angel: Yup. Another one. I don't know what's with me these past few days. All these plot bunnies just pop into my head and I just have to write it down. Well, this one sort of wrote itself. I had no plan for his past when I started. Rambleramble.
Every parent ruins their child.
The relationship between a father and son is fragile, much like glass, starting out clear, and perfect as the idea of a forever.
However, a relationship can be tainted far too easily, little Reno discovered.
He was born without very much ceremony, no hustle and bustle of carts rolling and announcements over the intercom regarding where Doctor Jones should be. He was born in a sad excuse for an apartment, one vital attendant missing.
Later on, his father's notable absence from his life left him confused and yearning for a role model. He later discovered he needed none, but when one is a child, one can only hope for a companion, and he had never met his father, and so longed for as little as a glimpse of him.
Neglect.
Those were the first fingerprints on the glass.
As he grew up, he numbed his own heart. Put it on ice, so that nothing could affect him as deeply as the death of his mother had. He was alone. And with his new and improved outlook, he didn't care.
And then he saw him.
Him.
Of course it was him. He had the dangerous, crooked look Reno had always envisioned for himself. His slouching put wrinkles in his clothing, which was not half-bad for sector seven, the slum of slums. And then there was his hair. Reno unconciously ran his fingers through his own and eyed his father's fire-red locks. It was him. His father.
Once the man saw Reno, he knew it too.
He ran.
Refusal.
And those were the cracks in the glass.
Reno chose to glaze over that moment in his memory, which was extremely difficult considering it was burned into his psyche. The sight of his father running from him. But he was determined to strengthen both his mind and body and he did it well. Too well.
When he had put his heart on ice all those years ago, the cold festered and spread. His mind was numb. He wouldn't think twice about killing somebody, even if it wasn't out of nessecity. He'd gotten too good. Too good at being numb.
He met him again.
He couldn't control himself. The cold in his heart, it became so cold it was hot. Unbearably so. He wrestled his father to the ground, cussing him out, telling him he was a bastard for not being there for mother. What, you expected him to care about himself?
His father didn't fight back.
He simply drew a knife and marked his son's face as he lay pinned beneath him, air being forced from his lungs.
Reno didn't move as the skin beneath his eyes stung from the blade. Funny, he thought he was numb? Why could he feel that blade? Why could he feel those tears gathering up in his eyes, only to be caught by the cuts?
Withdrawal.
The pressure on the glass that made it crack and fly into a thousand, tainted pieces.
His father had marked him before his death. What a way to leave an impression, Reno'd think to himself coldly, the scars stinging to this day.
It's what he thought to himself now as he walked to a marker for his mother, heels of his shoes making muffled clacks on cobblestone.
A single rose fell onto the dirt, a temporary tribute to an eternal memory.
He walked away as discreetly as he had come.
Dust collected on broken shards.
Silence. The last impression on the glass.