victim// a salvis fanfiction

two~the victim

hey! this chapter will have subtle mentions/references to child abuse! watch out for the * 

enjoy! :) 

~Travis Phelps~

The walk back from school that day seemed to drag on forever. It was because of the dread of arriving home, of facing my father. God knows how he'd react to getting a call home for me getting into a fight at school. **I was sure, whatever he did, would hurt like Hell. 

I impulsively winced at the thought of it, of the things he'd do.  I shake my head as if to shake away the thoughts of it, ridding them from my brain.**

I stopped in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat as I look up to see my house. The pristine white paint job complemented by blue trim, the pathway leading to the door lined with a wide selection of flowers that mother spent hours at a time slaving over. A white-picked fence, a car so clean you could see your reflection perfectly. 

It all made me sick. 

So sick that I had to force myself to take a step forward. And then another, and another. All I wanted to do was run, but I knew all I could do was take another step forward. 

As I reached the doorknob I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. I had to keep my nerves at ease, showing signs of anxiety could only make things worse. I'd hate to upset father. 

Opening the door, all of my previously calmed anxieties resurfaced in one giant, suffocating wave. 

He stood in the entryway, his collared shirt unbuttoned, his blond hair slipping out of its styled state. His tired eyes snap over to me, and I hoped so desperately that I hadn't kept him waiting. 

"Welcome home, Son." He nods to me, watching as I shut the door behind myself and turn over the lock. 

"Hello, Father, how was your day?" I force a smile and try to hide the shake in my hands.

Mother is cooking our supper, I can hear her soft humming and the clattering of pans in the kitchen. 

He takes a step forward, and it takes every bone in my body not to take a step back. "It was fine, I received a call from your school today." 

Oh, so we're just jumping, right into it? 

When I don't respond he takes it upon himself to move the conversation forward. "Can you tell me about that?" 

There's a tone in his voice I've never heard before, patience. 

"Well, there's this group of homos that I share a couple of classes with but there's one specifically that really irks me. He's a freak, and I wanted to make that clear to him. I have beat him up for the past few years, although I suppose today the staff wanted to bring attention to it." I try to watch my words, but I find it hard. Conversations with father are like walking over landmines. 

He nods to me, and I hear him say something I never thought I would hear from him. "Keep it up son, I'm proud of you for giving that freak what he deserves." Before I can acknowledge what's happening to me he's hugging me. 

It's increasingly difficult not to squirm out of his grip. The hug is stiff, it feels fake. It makes me sick. This all makes me sick. I've wanted nothing but my father's validation, his praise, for years, I've centered my whole life around achieving it waiting for this moment. And now that I have it, it makes me sick to my stomach. 

***

Three hours later after an exhausting dinner, I'm sitting in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The walls are bare except for a large wooden cross hanging above my bed. A slow exhale leaves my lips as I contemplate my situation. I reach under my bed and feel around until I find it and pull it up along with the pen beside it.

A leather journal with a cross engraved into the cover that makes me uncomfortable, it never had before. With a sigh, I open to the next empty page and begin to write. 

August 19, 1985

I've believed everything my father has told me, done everything he'd asked. Everything I did was to get his attention, his praise, his approval. All it took was years of tormenting some puny kids and forcing away any chance of getting friends, but I always thought it would be worth it. I always told myself it would be worth it in the end. 

But now, I know it never was. 

I've spent my whole life living for him when I should have been living it for myself. I want to have friends, I want to be nice, I want to decide what I believe. But I feel so tied down. My past actions hold me with such a tight grip I feel as if I can't escape from them. How can I fix them?  Can I change? Or is it too late for me as I am destined to follow the same route he did... 

I want to be better, I just don't know where to start. 

I close the journal and slide it back into its hiding place under my bed, pulling the bed skirt back over to ensure its secrecy. 

I hesitate, feeling as though I've forgotten something, but the thought of it slips my mind as I retreat under the covers and lose consciousness to a serene slumber. 

I sleep soundly for the first time in years, never realizing I didn't pray. 

I dream of a boy with blue pigtails and a prosthetic face. I believe I have found a place to start. 

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