A/N: Man, that's it. I am giving up on reading fanfics anymore until I finish ONE of my multiparts. BennyP, lycanthrope, this is all your fault! Why do you have to be so good?! And why do Aaron Lohr and Elden Ryan Ratliff have to be so...so /suggestive/ together?? (completely random side-note, I have custom pixel-dolls of them...anyone want to see?) And why is it that I can't write anything but angst for my favorite characters?
Well, enough of my buck-passing and whining I'm sure that you readers don't want to hear it. This is my strange-ass, probably pathetic version of Fulton Reed's troubled past. (You know he has the most screwed-up childhood of all the Ducks...)
****
"The Unforgiven"
a mighty ducks fanfic by SchizoAuthoress
"New blood joins this earth/
And quickly he's subdued/
Through constant pained disgrace/
The young boy learns their rules/
With time the child draws in/
This whipping boy done wrong/
Deprived of all his thoughts/
The young man struggles on and on he's known/
A vow unto his own/
That never from this day/
His will they'll take away."
--from "The Unforgiven," Metallica
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Get in there!" The man roars, shoving the young boy into the small space of the linen closet. The boy stumbles, throwing his hands forward to halt his progress toward getting a faceful of wall.
The door slams, and there is a faint, audible click of the lock being set. A woman's voice, slurred and strangely distant, sobs, over and over, "Mitch, no, please...Mitch, please..."
"Stupid bitch," is the man's snarled reply. The boy in the dark closet winces at the sound of the slap he gives her, cracking like a gunshot. The woman screams, brought back to reality by pain.
Their seven-year-old son presses shaking hands over his ears and tries to pretend that nothing is wrong. He's playing a game, that's all. 'Hide-and-seek. They'll never find me in here.'
Why does he have to hit her? Why does she have to scream and plead and cry? And why does Fulton see it, even though his eyes are tightly shut, like it is right in front of him? His mother crawling on the floor like an animal, pale and wasted fingers grasping submissively at his father's legs as tears fall unnoticed from her dark, empty eyes.
With a shriek of rage, Fulton throws himself against the door. But he is only a child, and although big for his age he is not exceptionally strong. He continues nonetheless, clawing at the door, wild with guilt from his failure to help, to protect his mother who needs him. "Mom, Mom!" He cries, his voice hitching as the tears of defeat begin to fall.
'I can't even keep my mother safe. I can't stop just one bastard from hitting her.' Fulton thinks shamefully, as despair envelops him. There is laughter on the other side, strong and mocking.
The father is the master of them still.
*-*-*-*
Fulton, age eight, looks apprehensive as he approaches onto the creaking, rickety porch sagging listlessly in front of the dented front door leading into the old house. Setting his hockey stick against the cracked railing, he surreptitiously peeks into the grimy front window. Satisfied by what he sees, he turns the knob and pushes the door open.
"Mom? You here?" He calls out, in an uncertain, soft voice.
There is a groan from somewhere in the house, and a woman's voice, hoarse and slurred, calls back, "Fulton, baby, that you?"
Fulton brushes his longish black hair out of his face and crosses the small living room to the hallway, which is lightless and dim. "Where are you, Mom?"
There is a sound like something being spilled, followed by a few choking coughs. Fulton looks into the bathroom hesitantly, knowing already what he will see.
A woman with long, ratty brown hair and a softly rounded face reminiscent of Fulton's own gazes back at him, shame and sickness showing in her bloodshot brown eyes. Her clothes, cutoff jeans and a bleach-stained green tee shirt too large for her small and wasted body, are a mess; vomit is splattered all over them and the floor as well. She turns away, gropes for the grayish towel hanging from the towel-bar, and uses it to vainly attempt cleaning herself up.
"Fulton, call Taylor for me." Mrs. Reed mumbles, still not looking at her son.
"The phone isn't working," Fulton informs her quietly, also looking away. "Dad forgot to pay the phone company."
"He's trying to kill me!" Mrs. Reed mourns, stumbling to her feet. The stench from the former contents of her stomach is strong. She flops gracelessly onto the toilet, which was where she was aiming and where she missed when the stomach cramps got severe. Tears start to run down her pasty-white cheeks as she begins to tremble and cries, "He's trying to kill me, too! Everyone's trying to kill me. Everyone..."
"Taylor will know that you don't have any more of your...medicine." Fulton knows that the drugs his mother takes are not beneficial to her, but 'medicine' is what she calls it, and she might get upset if he tells her otherwise.
Mrs. Reed stares at her son for a moment, a little bit of desperate hope gleaming in her destroyed gaze. "Yeah," she mutters, hugging herself, "Taylor will know, Taylor will know. Yeah...he'll know and he'll come and he'll give me more." She glances down at her wet, stinking clothes. "I should clean up before he gets here."
"Okay, Mom," Fulton says.
"You have homework, right?" Mrs. Reed asks, furrowing her brow as she tries to remember.
"Yes." Fulton lies, to keep her happy, "I'm going to do it now, Mom."
"You do that, baby."
*-*-*-*
A few days later, Mitch Reed storms into the house, tracking dirt all over the mustard-yellow carpet and slamming the front door hard enough to rattle every window in the tiny house. "Patty! Why ain' the damn phone workin'?"
Patty Reed, clad in a thin, threadbare bathrobe and with her long hair less tangled, steps out of the kitchen and gazes vaguely at her husband. She smiles, or at least her lips twitch upward in the semblance of one. "You're back."
"Yeah, yeah. I asked you, woman, why I can't call you on the fuckin' phone."
"Oh..." Patty thinks for a moment. "Oh. They turned it off."
"I know that, stupid." Mitch sneers at his wife, running his fingers in an irritated motion through short, thick black hair. She merely glances down at the carpet and doesn't reply. "You fucking junkie. I'll ask the boy. Least I get a straight answer out of /him/." Mitch turns and roars down the hall, "Boy! Get your ass in here!"
Fulton runs into the living room. Automatically, he greets his father with, "Hello, Dad."
Mitch scowls. "Why ain't the phone working, boy?"
"There wasn't enough money to pay all the bills like you said. I sent in the money for the water and the lights, but it was the heating or the phone after that." Fulton looks sullen. He mumbles, "Mom ran out of 'medicine', and she gave it to Tyler instead of letting me send it in for the phone."
"Don't you dare blame this on your mother!" Mitch yells. He reaches down and grabs Fulton by the shirtfront, lifting him up off the floor a few inches without visible effort. Punctuating each word by hitting the side of Fulton's head, Mitch shouts, "You know that she's sick, you selfish bastard!"
It was incredibly ironic. When Mitch decides that his wife was the one to bully, he calls her a junkie. But when Fulton is being beat up, Patty Reed is an object of pity in Mitch's universe, a sick and long-suffering martyr, as if the track marks running up and down her skinny arms are from IVs and blood tests instead of heroin.
"I wasn't!" Fulton yells back, struggling to free himself. As it is, the man is holding him too tightly for him to fall and soften the blows. Mitch Reed is a big man, physically overpowering for any eight-year-old. "I was just /telling/ you!"
"Mitch," Patty speaks up suddenly, "please don't. Please let him go."
Blue eyes spark with even greater fury. "Let him go?" Mitch repeats. At the crazed look on his face, Patty goes pale and backs away, losing all courage. Mitch glares at Fulton who, to his credit, glares right back even though he knows that his father can probably break him in two. "I'll let him go," Mitch growls, and his huge bear-paw of a right hand releases Fulton, only to land a punch on the boy's chest that sends him sprawling.
Eyes shut, Fulton gasps for breath. When he feels pain and dizziness from lack of air, he panics. Maybe his ribs are broken; maybe his lung is punctured... But then air is filling his lungs again. The breath rattles in him as he desperately tries to orient himself. What he does next depends on Mitch; if he is being looked down on with scorn, Fulton is to slink off to his room. If Mitch is tugging his belt loose, Fulton usually chooses to back away and try to avoid the beating. If he can't see Mitch...
Where is he?
A kick to his lower back answers that question. Fulton arches away from the blow with a scream. Mitch is yelling something as he lashes out repeatedly, but it hurts so much that Fulton can't hear him through the pain and doesn't care. The world goes fuzzy and gray, darkening to black, and Fulton slips into blessed oblivion.
To be continued....
Well, enough of my buck-passing and whining I'm sure that you readers don't want to hear it. This is my strange-ass, probably pathetic version of Fulton Reed's troubled past. (You know he has the most screwed-up childhood of all the Ducks...)
****
"The Unforgiven"
a mighty ducks fanfic by SchizoAuthoress
"New blood joins this earth/
And quickly he's subdued/
Through constant pained disgrace/
The young boy learns their rules/
With time the child draws in/
This whipping boy done wrong/
Deprived of all his thoughts/
The young man struggles on and on he's known/
A vow unto his own/
That never from this day/
His will they'll take away."
--from "The Unforgiven," Metallica
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Get in there!" The man roars, shoving the young boy into the small space of the linen closet. The boy stumbles, throwing his hands forward to halt his progress toward getting a faceful of wall.
The door slams, and there is a faint, audible click of the lock being set. A woman's voice, slurred and strangely distant, sobs, over and over, "Mitch, no, please...Mitch, please..."
"Stupid bitch," is the man's snarled reply. The boy in the dark closet winces at the sound of the slap he gives her, cracking like a gunshot. The woman screams, brought back to reality by pain.
Their seven-year-old son presses shaking hands over his ears and tries to pretend that nothing is wrong. He's playing a game, that's all. 'Hide-and-seek. They'll never find me in here.'
Why does he have to hit her? Why does she have to scream and plead and cry? And why does Fulton see it, even though his eyes are tightly shut, like it is right in front of him? His mother crawling on the floor like an animal, pale and wasted fingers grasping submissively at his father's legs as tears fall unnoticed from her dark, empty eyes.
With a shriek of rage, Fulton throws himself against the door. But he is only a child, and although big for his age he is not exceptionally strong. He continues nonetheless, clawing at the door, wild with guilt from his failure to help, to protect his mother who needs him. "Mom, Mom!" He cries, his voice hitching as the tears of defeat begin to fall.
'I can't even keep my mother safe. I can't stop just one bastard from hitting her.' Fulton thinks shamefully, as despair envelops him. There is laughter on the other side, strong and mocking.
The father is the master of them still.
*-*-*-*
Fulton, age eight, looks apprehensive as he approaches onto the creaking, rickety porch sagging listlessly in front of the dented front door leading into the old house. Setting his hockey stick against the cracked railing, he surreptitiously peeks into the grimy front window. Satisfied by what he sees, he turns the knob and pushes the door open.
"Mom? You here?" He calls out, in an uncertain, soft voice.
There is a groan from somewhere in the house, and a woman's voice, hoarse and slurred, calls back, "Fulton, baby, that you?"
Fulton brushes his longish black hair out of his face and crosses the small living room to the hallway, which is lightless and dim. "Where are you, Mom?"
There is a sound like something being spilled, followed by a few choking coughs. Fulton looks into the bathroom hesitantly, knowing already what he will see.
A woman with long, ratty brown hair and a softly rounded face reminiscent of Fulton's own gazes back at him, shame and sickness showing in her bloodshot brown eyes. Her clothes, cutoff jeans and a bleach-stained green tee shirt too large for her small and wasted body, are a mess; vomit is splattered all over them and the floor as well. She turns away, gropes for the grayish towel hanging from the towel-bar, and uses it to vainly attempt cleaning herself up.
"Fulton, call Taylor for me." Mrs. Reed mumbles, still not looking at her son.
"The phone isn't working," Fulton informs her quietly, also looking away. "Dad forgot to pay the phone company."
"He's trying to kill me!" Mrs. Reed mourns, stumbling to her feet. The stench from the former contents of her stomach is strong. She flops gracelessly onto the toilet, which was where she was aiming and where she missed when the stomach cramps got severe. Tears start to run down her pasty-white cheeks as she begins to tremble and cries, "He's trying to kill me, too! Everyone's trying to kill me. Everyone..."
"Taylor will know that you don't have any more of your...medicine." Fulton knows that the drugs his mother takes are not beneficial to her, but 'medicine' is what she calls it, and she might get upset if he tells her otherwise.
Mrs. Reed stares at her son for a moment, a little bit of desperate hope gleaming in her destroyed gaze. "Yeah," she mutters, hugging herself, "Taylor will know, Taylor will know. Yeah...he'll know and he'll come and he'll give me more." She glances down at her wet, stinking clothes. "I should clean up before he gets here."
"Okay, Mom," Fulton says.
"You have homework, right?" Mrs. Reed asks, furrowing her brow as she tries to remember.
"Yes." Fulton lies, to keep her happy, "I'm going to do it now, Mom."
"You do that, baby."
*-*-*-*
A few days later, Mitch Reed storms into the house, tracking dirt all over the mustard-yellow carpet and slamming the front door hard enough to rattle every window in the tiny house. "Patty! Why ain' the damn phone workin'?"
Patty Reed, clad in a thin, threadbare bathrobe and with her long hair less tangled, steps out of the kitchen and gazes vaguely at her husband. She smiles, or at least her lips twitch upward in the semblance of one. "You're back."
"Yeah, yeah. I asked you, woman, why I can't call you on the fuckin' phone."
"Oh..." Patty thinks for a moment. "Oh. They turned it off."
"I know that, stupid." Mitch sneers at his wife, running his fingers in an irritated motion through short, thick black hair. She merely glances down at the carpet and doesn't reply. "You fucking junkie. I'll ask the boy. Least I get a straight answer out of /him/." Mitch turns and roars down the hall, "Boy! Get your ass in here!"
Fulton runs into the living room. Automatically, he greets his father with, "Hello, Dad."
Mitch scowls. "Why ain't the phone working, boy?"
"There wasn't enough money to pay all the bills like you said. I sent in the money for the water and the lights, but it was the heating or the phone after that." Fulton looks sullen. He mumbles, "Mom ran out of 'medicine', and she gave it to Tyler instead of letting me send it in for the phone."
"Don't you dare blame this on your mother!" Mitch yells. He reaches down and grabs Fulton by the shirtfront, lifting him up off the floor a few inches without visible effort. Punctuating each word by hitting the side of Fulton's head, Mitch shouts, "You know that she's sick, you selfish bastard!"
It was incredibly ironic. When Mitch decides that his wife was the one to bully, he calls her a junkie. But when Fulton is being beat up, Patty Reed is an object of pity in Mitch's universe, a sick and long-suffering martyr, as if the track marks running up and down her skinny arms are from IVs and blood tests instead of heroin.
"I wasn't!" Fulton yells back, struggling to free himself. As it is, the man is holding him too tightly for him to fall and soften the blows. Mitch Reed is a big man, physically overpowering for any eight-year-old. "I was just /telling/ you!"
"Mitch," Patty speaks up suddenly, "please don't. Please let him go."
Blue eyes spark with even greater fury. "Let him go?" Mitch repeats. At the crazed look on his face, Patty goes pale and backs away, losing all courage. Mitch glares at Fulton who, to his credit, glares right back even though he knows that his father can probably break him in two. "I'll let him go," Mitch growls, and his huge bear-paw of a right hand releases Fulton, only to land a punch on the boy's chest that sends him sprawling.
Eyes shut, Fulton gasps for breath. When he feels pain and dizziness from lack of air, he panics. Maybe his ribs are broken; maybe his lung is punctured... But then air is filling his lungs again. The breath rattles in him as he desperately tries to orient himself. What he does next depends on Mitch; if he is being looked down on with scorn, Fulton is to slink off to his room. If Mitch is tugging his belt loose, Fulton usually chooses to back away and try to avoid the beating. If he can't see Mitch...
Where is he?
A kick to his lower back answers that question. Fulton arches away from the blow with a scream. Mitch is yelling something as he lashes out repeatedly, but it hurts so much that Fulton can't hear him through the pain and doesn't care. The world goes fuzzy and gray, darkening to black, and Fulton slips into blessed oblivion.
To be continued....