Harsh Canadians Winters

Michèle (the troll)

CW: Child abuse, Emotional abuse, Pedophilia (heavily implied)

He exhaled tiredly, the plane behind him had stayed put for the past week as he waited for the guy to arrive. Trevor had been called a month prior, a guy calling himself "L". One of his companions was meant to arrive soon and they would be in need of his services during the week. There had been no specific date except for an approximate. Well, it's not like he was meant to go anywhere ever since the... evaluation.

Still, what a waste of his time. But the pay was good. Really good. Almost too good. Illegal activities and such, which is most likely why they had hired an other illegally involved individual.

The radio sat on the ground beside him garbled before the message went through. "To all units, a man in a black SUV robbed the bank on 2 nd avenue" GASP, a criminal? In this lovely, friendly town? What are the odds.

Far away on the odd road that led to this isolated place, a trail of black smoke rose under the wheels of a Black SUV, followed closely by a red Volkswagen Jetta.

Trevor's hair was up in a ponytail, the 1988 American summer heat taking a toll on him. Canada's weathers were much gentler, he was especially used to the long, cold, and harsh winters. He remembers the hours he had spent outside, with barely a layer of clothes covering him, scratching away at the ice in front of his mom's doorstep.

He always made sure to do a good job, maybe hoping he would get a reward for it. The snow kept falling, all of his work completely useless. He hadn't been able to feel his toes for over an hour, a sharp pain coursing through him, he tried to warm his hands by rubbing them together, puffing hot hair between his fingers.

His boots were old and worn, his feet cramped together. He knocked on the door, it's state just as pitiful as his own. It was windowless, scratched and worn, the handle slowly corroding away. In the summer, it didn't stop the insects from coming in anymore.

His mom opened the door, she looked at what he had done, grabbed him by the hair and dragged him close to her. He cried out, reaching out for her hand. In another life he would have called for his Daddy, but in this one, he knew he would be better off not doing it.

She leaned in, her mouth now close to his ear, her warm breath should have felt good, but instead, a very instinctual fear took over his heart. "What are you doing, boy?" he could hear her smile widely, her red lipstick probably cracking from the stretch. Trevor looked up at her, her black eyeliner was smudged, her eyes red, puffy.

He kept eye contact, "I did what you asked me to," his head was sharply turned around, his mom now holding onto his shoulder with her other hand, to stop him from running, probably.

"That's not what I'm seeing," the snowstorm had started to cover up the trail he had dug.

He tried turning to his Ma, but she held his head firmly, "I swear I did what you asked of me," he begged, his voice wavering just a little.

Her hand gripping his hair softened a little, "I know you did, sweety," her voice was kind and inviting, "why don't we go back inside?" His little, tiny, fragile heart filled with hope.

She let go of him, gently opening the door, letting him enter the sad house they had. The exterior was broken, the roof loosing tiles, and the doors never reached the floor, letting air constantly flow through their house, no matter the season.

His father wasn't home, he was off getting money. He took off his boots, his feet now bare on the cold, wet floor. He had hoped he would be able to run to his room, hide amongst his things, but his mother took a hold of his arm. She squeezed hard enough to leave a bruise.