Praying Under Pressure

33 - A Son Is Not Made Of His Father

Childhood is such an important thing. 

You're born a slab of marble. Experience and people chip you away until you are you. Or, at least, what they expected you to be. You don't get a choice on what chips away at you. You don't get a choice of who controls your statue. You can't move or stop anything. 

Sometimes they mess up. And all of a sudden, one quick chip, and your neck had broken off, leaving you just a body cemented in marble. Or, sometimes you don't even get to start out as a pretty piece of rock. You might just get to be a pebble found on the street that gets run over time and time again.

When the bell rang nine times consecutively, Ward was the first one to look. Here he was crying on the corner of a big white church while the lord praised the hands that haunted his sleep. Beside him was man who wiggled into his heart like a worm in a rotten apple. Beside him was a face that laughed at him for months, taunted him for months. 

All three sat ducks in a row, heads bowed, noses running. The bell struck inside only two of them. The survivor and the unaware. The man positioned between them was trying his hardest not to puke on his own shoes. 

It was only at the sound of the doors opening did any of them actually make a move. The unware, pushing up into a semi-standing position, gazing down at his...friends.

"We should go or we'll just have to deal with their bullshit." In was true. But suddenly anything the people coming out could say or do meant nothing. 

Ward wiped across his mouth, acutely aware of the disgust and dirty building all around him -all on him. He wanted to drown in the bathtub, choked on a toothbrush, and bleeding out of his ass. It was what he deserved. He'll never be clean, might as well die trying. 

Reality presenting itself made him understand that he had spoken. For the first time in years, after his own brother told it was a sick lie, he had told someone. They didn't recoil, they spit at his feet or slap him across the face. 

But there was no way they believed him. 

"Ever raise your voice to me again, boy, and you'll lose it screaming for me to stop."

"P-Please don't say anything," Ward still held Elliot's hand, squeezing it in frantic fear of being outed as a sick liar, "I didn't mean. Just..don't say anything to anyone."

Elliot lifted his head, a nauseated glare shifting from his feet to Ward. Though there was no real anger behind the narrowed eyes. Just confusion. 

Everything in Elliot's head could be labeled under confusion, guilt, and anger. It was a hurricane, spinning and spinning and spinning. The only safe spot, the eye of the hurricane, was light memories of Ward teaching how to rollerskate. Or the time Ward drew him a bath after treating him like gold in bed. Or the way Ward could bounce in his seat when he thought he had something amazing to share. 

Inside the hurricane were different memories. Memories of Warren's cold exterior. Memories Jace dealing with all the rumors Ward had regarding his loose ass. Memories of Warren with bruises and scratches complimenting the dead looking in his eyes after Jace and Kenny died. Memories of Mr. Locke's disappointed tone when news spread Warren was no longer around to spread. 

Memories of Ward freaking out over Elliot or Ryan being around. Memories of no one know Ward's childhood before he came to Califriona. Memories of Ward crying over the phone and shaking in Elliot's arm. Memories of finding Ward in a motel room with no food, sleep, or courage. 

The crippling idea that Ward regretted sharing man's worse horrors to the point of trying to make it all disappear ripped an even larger hole in Elliot's heart.