Just you wait~ Lams AU

Chapter 8: Regret

John's POV

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I scrunched up my eyes in numb guilt, curling into my side and clutching my sheet with rigid hands.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Why did I have to go and ruin everything? Alex had been through so much shit that I never even knew about, and here I was. Here I was fucking up his life as if he was meaningless.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He is a human fucking being. Why did you have to degrade him to nothing more than his scars? I yelled at myself in my head, kneading my forehead with one clenched hand.

I let my hand drop violently into my mattress, opening my eyes to let the tears fall. Through clenched teeth, I choked out a guilty sob, hating the cold twist of regret in my gut.

Just because you're a fucked up freak, doesn't mean he has to be as well. You're so stupid for not realising he had nobody. You're so idiotic for not helping him. You're so fucking dumb for being so harsh and relentless towards him.

"Stop it." I sobbed, gripping my hair in my fist. Tears fell thick and fast, soaking my neck.

This...this is why papa does what he does. You're just a worthless little shit and you'll never amount to anything. Just like he always told you.

"Fucking stop!" I choked, rolling over to sink my teeth into my pillow, as if that would stop the pain.

John. Think about it. Look at your bruises. Why else would you have then unless you deserve them? You can't, seriously, expect that you could get away with the abomination that is your existence, right? Because as papa always says,

Filthy fucking faggots must be punished.

I screamed out in agony, sobbing violently into my pillow. I couldn't stop the voice in my head, so I let it continue to torment me. After all, that's all I deserve.

~flashback five weeks earlier~

I stumbled up the steps, head low and hoodie wrapped tight around me. With apprehension and trembling hands, I reached up and knocked lightly on the door in front of me.

From inside, there was a succession of footsteps, then a boy opened the door.

"Hey Kai. Is Papa home?" I asked quietly. Kai smiled sadly at me, his left green eye bruised. The black waves that hung over his forehead were shielding most of his face, but I could see a large bruise travelling from his right temple to the centre of his cheek.

His freckled face was beaten and bruised, baby pink lips cut and bloodied.

"He isn't in a great mood, I take it." I muttered. Kai swallowed and looked down.

"He's better than normal." He mumbled softly. My stomach twisted at the sight of the vulnerable 14 year old in front of me. I wrapped my arms around him, slowly. He flinched at first, but then relaxed into me.

"I'm going to go and see him. You go to your room, take Abbie, Micky and Taylor and don't come out. Whatever you hear, stay with them and keep them safe. I'll be careful." I smiled bravely at him, and he wiped a couple of tears away.

"Okay." He turned and ran down the hall, silently, before murmuring some quiet bribes to the 6-year-old girl occupying the playroom. Abbie grabbed at him, her blonde hair swishing as he picked her up.

Taylor opened the living room door, walking slowly over to me. She had Micky in her arms, the 3 year old awake but silent. Silence was a rule in this house. Complete silence.

"Papa has been waiting." She lilted quietly, her thick Scottish accent soft and careful. Her dark red curls were held in two Dutch braids, neat and precise. As was necessary. Micky smiled at me brightly, and I grinned back, anxiety flushing through me.

"Go with Kai." I ordered, "I'll be up soon." They all nodded and ran upstairs. As soon as I heard the door slam, I began to creep forward. I came face to face with the living room door sooner that I would've liked, and took a deep, rattling breath. I pushed the door open.

His back was turned. He sat on the ancient armchair with rigid posture, spine pressed forcefully against it and knuckles white with the pressure he was exerting on the arms.

"John." His voice was silky, smooth and deadly. I straightened up subtly as he spun to face me. His black hair was turning silver, a perfect monochrome ombré. Ice cold eyes, dark and calculating, scanned me up and down. His thick eyebrows raised as he took in my posture, and his thin, pale lips straightened into a line of discontent.

"John, what have I told you about posture?" I straightened up more, breaths shortening in panic.

"Better." The man before me smiled unpleasantly, "so how have you been?"

"Good, Papa." I replied coolly.

"Good? Really? Well do you know why I called you here, John?"

"No, Papa."

"According to your teacher, your grades have been slipping. Is that right, John?" He asked, standing up slowly and walking over to the mantelpiece. As poured himself a glass of whiskey, I grimaced and looked at the floor.

"I've been very busy with sports, Papa."

"Yeah, okay." He replied smoothly. My eyes shot up in surprise.

"Okay?" I asked in disbelief.

"Of course it's okay. You can become a complete failure and disgrace so long as you ace your sports."

My smile dropped rapidly. "I wasn't making excuses, Papa." I assured, futile.

"YOU BETTER FUCKING NOT BE, JOHNATHAN LAURENS." He screamed at me, hurling the glass of whiskey. I ducked in time for it to narrowly miss me and shatter against the wall behind me.

"I would never do that, Papa." I stuttered, backing against the wall. Wrong move.

In three long strides he was beside me, grabbing me by the neck and throwing me hard against the wall. My back cracked painfully against the impact, and my throat closed instantly.

His large hand wrapped around my neck was rapidly tightening, cutting off my air. I clawed desperately at his hand, cutting off what he was telling at me as high pitched ringing filled my ears.

"YOU DON'T EVEN FUCKING LISTEN, LAURENS." He bellowed into my ear, dropping me to the floor and leaving me gasping for sweet breath. Before I could drag in any air, he kicked me hard in the side.

I rolled over out of instinct, crying out as he dug the heel of his shoes into my shoulder. I was pinned in place, helpless on my back.

The leather of his shoes cut into me as he applied more pressure leaning down to grab my jaw roughly. I felt him draw blood on my shoulder and whimpered in panic.

He pulled my face up to meet his, his shoes tearing my skin, and whispered dangerously softly into my ear.

"Failures must be punished."

He slammed my head back into the stone slabs of the floor, bringing back his arm to punch me repeatedly in the stomach. He kicked and scratched and screamed and clawed but me?

I just lay there, helpless.