Chapter 1: Speechless and Shaken

Hi! This is my new rewritten version of Overachiever! I'm sorry I didn't warn anybody...I tried... *hysterical sobbing*

This is my best attempt at a good version of the story. I hope it lives up to everybody's expectations!

Warnings: Rated T for child abuse, low self-esteem, bullying, dark thoughts, possible suicidal thoughts, possible self-injury or self-injurious behavior aaaaaand angst. This is set back when Hiccup is 10, right after his mother died.

I guess I was young. I frowned to myself as I plugged up the microwave, my thoughts far from what my hands were doing. I checked to make sure the plug was all the way in. It was.

I mean, I was ten years old. That wasn't that bad, right?

I stretched a little as I walked over to the pantry, opening the doors. I'd thought we had a few cans of soup in there, the last time I'd checked, but they weren't anymore.

I sighed, eyes scanning the shelves for something different.

My mind returned to the conversation that I'd overheard Gobber having with a few other family members.

"He's so young," Gobber had said drearily, sadly, like he was upset for me. There were enough people who sounded upset for me, I thought as I lowered my gaze, absently looking at the lower shelves, even though I knew there were only plastic dishes.

I might have been a little young, but there had been too many people looking over at me with tears welling up in their eyes for my taste.

Of course, I completely understood why that had been…

I tried to push the thoughts away, latching onto the debate about what age made a person be considered young.

Eventually, my negative thoughts planted themselves firmly in my mind and refused to leave until I at least looked at them.

I reluctantly acknowledged their existence and another one sneaked in while my mind was busy with the others.

I wondered, for a brief, scary moment, where my dad had gone. He had disappeared two days ago and he hadn't come back. I had been alone since then.

I had slept with all the lights on for these two nights and I was still a little too scared to really go fully to sleep. I was running on such little rest that I thought as I shut the pantry doors that I might just sleep for a day or so. I hadn't been in to school since everything that had happened, either, not since…

I sighed and closed my eyes tightly. I didn't want to think of her. I wouldn't let myself, I decided. I slammed the pantry doors shut and walked instead to the fridge. I grabbed at the door and pulled firmly, yanking, really and it came loose with ease.

The light flickered on and I surveyed my options; there really was nothing there. I wasn't that hungry, but routine was comforting. Routine meant peace. Routine reminded me of Mom, but not in a painful way; it was a nice way.

Gobber was planning to drop by to check on us in a few days; he'd told me so himself when he'd called. The way he spoke indicated that he thought my dad was there, but I just kept repeating that he was in the middle of stuff and couldn't talk.

I didn't know why, but I didn't want people to know that I was alone here right now.

I shut the fridge and opened the freezer instead, pulling out a box of frozen chicken nuggets and another one of fries.

I decided that this would be my dinner and that I would make a little extra, in case Dad came home tonight. I knew how to operate the microwave – I thought. I heated the fries and the chicken nuggets, sitting down at the table and studying the tabletop. My thoughts drifted away from the humming microwave and settled instead on how crazily surreal everything had been these past few days…

I slowly breathed in and out as I thought of it, feeling a lump start building up in my throat. I didn't want to cry anymore, considering how many tears I'd been shedding, on and off, for the past two days, but they wouldn't stop coming.

The numbness always came before the tears and I welcomed it. It allowed me to get up and do something, shove my mind away from it. Then the tears would come and then, after awhile, the numbness would take over again and I'd insist that this couldn't really be happening. The peace I found was temporary and fickle, but at least it was some small, twisted form of it.

The front door opened just as the microwave dinged loudly. I rose from my chair, forcing myself back into the numb state. I had never seen my dad cry before everything that had happened and I didn't want to see it happening again.

My back was to him when he entered the kitchen, his footsteps on the wooden floor unnaturally loud in the silence. I didn't look at him as I drew the plate of fries and chicken nuggets from the microwave. "I made dinner," I said quietly.

There was nothing but silence, but I was used to that – my dad had always been a man of few words. "I'm glad you're back," I gabbled, secretly relieved that he had returned.

"Nobody has seen you for a really long time," I continued, dividing the food on the plate between two saucers and grabbing a bottle of ketchup from the fridge. I set it down on the table between the two plates, pulled out a chair for myself and turned to him with a bit of a smile, just glad that he was here. "Gobber called, by the way." My smile dropped as I remembered why. "He said he was going to drop by later."

My dad stayed silent.

"I…I'm glad you're back," I mumbled, never taking my eyes off the table. Dad and I had never been very good at expressing our emotions – Mom had always been our go-between. I swallowed the lump of emotion when I thought of her and I studied the table even more intently as I wondered…

"Dad?" I whispered. I didn't wait for an answer; I plunged right on in with my question. "What do you think…do you think…do you think Mom's okay?"

I'd heard of 'heaven' before, but I wasn't terribly religious, and neither was the rest of my family; I only knew it because I'd heard others mention it from time to time and I knew that it was where people went when they died.

Dad's face twitched. "What?" his voice was suddenly cold and hard and I glanced nervously up at him. He was scowling at me.

"Do you—

"What does it matter?" he said it slowly, like he was trying to pronounce each word clearly, which must've been hard for him, because his voice was unnaturally slurred. "She is dead, Hiccup, and she…" he took a breath, like he was trying to calm himself. "She's dead!" His voice was rising.

"It's not a matter of 'oh, I hope she's okay'. She's dead!"

I was gripping my fork a little too tightly. I didn't want to admit it, but he was scaring me. "Um…Dad…?" I began.

He did something frightening, then; he literally picked me up by the shoulders and shook me, yelling. "Is any of this making sense to you? She's dead! She's dead because of you!"

The words were terrible and ugly, but one glance at him and I knew he was trying to be. I felt myself shrinking down, I felt guilt attacking me from all sides and I don't know how I knew, but I knew I'd done something very, very wrong.

He smacked me then, smacked me so hard on the cheek that he sent me tumbling to the ground.

I sat there, staring at him for half a second, fingering my stinging, throbbing cheek. And then, without warning, I burst into tears.

"Stop it," my father said harshly from somewhere above me, but I was crying so hard by now that my vision was blurred and I couldn't see him. "Stop crying, boy."

He waited a few minutes and, when nothing changed, he sighed in disgust and walked right past me, leaving me sitting there, speechless and shaken.