hi!! i hope you are doing well! i would LOVE to hear about your wip Metal Detector :) have a great day!!
Hiii!! Sorry for the delay!!
So, Metal Detector is a wip that I think is not gonna be finished, since a few people already took a stab at it and knocked it out of the fucking park. So I'll share what I have so far, but please check out @lostsprit 's fic, "Running from the past, dreading the future" !
[Context for the WIP]
Ford doesn’t wake up this morning. There’s no waking up when you spend the night awake, staring at the ceiling through blurred lenses.
Your usual help when being unable to sleep is no longer here.
He groans when the alarm clock rings. It’s too soon. He just wants to stay on the floor, laying uncomfortably until his back hurts more than his head. He doesn’t want to go to school today and face his daily dose of bullying. He doesn’t want to sit next to Stan for six classes straight.
But he has to. He won’t give Stan the satisfaction of giving up even further. So he eventually stands up.
He goes to the bathroom to wash his face, the cold water helping somewhat with his headache. He goes to the empty kitchen, pours himself some milk and cereal and just stares at them. Not hungry. He looks sideways to the coffee pot. Maybe some caffeine will help.
After a quick coffee, he goes back upstairs. Brush your teeth. Brush your hair. Put on some clothes. Make your bed. Gather all the school stuff. Check you have your keys. Without the usual sounds from his mother and Stan, everything seems more paused, slower. Completely mechanical, like a to-do list.
His mother is nowhere to be seen. She doesn’t open her psychic call service until later, so she’s either in his office or running some errands. Judging by the silence, it’s anyone’s guess. He thinks he hears some soft noises coming from her office, but maybe he’s just tired.
He goes downstairs towards the door, saying good morning to his father on the way. As usual, he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even grunt today.
< < < < > > > >
When he arrives at school, Stan is not there. The seat next to him is empty, and when the teachers ask he has to reply that he’s sick. Whatever. Stan can answer to his own problems. That’s not Ford’s job.
The rest of the classes go by as usual, if not less loud and slower. No stupid quips when the teacher messes up, no doodles in a notebook next to his, no questions about what the teacher just said. Just a simple, plain and boring class.
How do people endure this every day?
When the bell rings and the recess begins, Ford realizes he’s forgotten to pack some lunch. Whatever. Not like he’s hungry. He goes to his usual spot at the janitor’s closet before Crampelter and his minions can find him.
There’s more space here today. The janitor finally cleaned this place up, I suppose.
When the last bell rings, Ford quickly picks his things up and leaves without making eye contact with anyone. That doesn’t keep the usual suspects from chasing him through the streets. It doesn’t matter how fast he runs; it’s never enough. He manages to land a punch to a couple of them, but it’s a losing battle. They leave after checking his bag and finding nothing there.
Does a black eye always hurt this much?
The rest of the way home is as silent as the home itself. There’s food in the kitchen, but he barely registers it. He just goes upstairs to his room and sits in his chair, ready to go through some of his homework.
He falls asleep 15 minutes in.
< < < < > > > >
The following days just repeat themselves. Wake up, get ready, go to school, go back home, repeat. There’s nothing new, nothing interesting. His mum is finally visible, but she moves like a ghost around the house. Silent, slow, out of reach. His dad is, too, but in different ways.
Two, three, four more days go by. Stanford has something nasty growing deep in his chest, and he tries his best to ignore it. But with no distractions, no noises, no laughs next to him, there’s nothing to grasp. So he just moves along hoping it will go away. It doesn’t.
The fifth day rolls around and he goes to bed exhausted. He slept for ten hours at least last night, but he can’t move. He’s tired, physically and mentally, even though he hasn’t done anything strenuous. He hates it, wants to punch this feeling out of him. So he punches the mattress. One, twice, a dozen times. He punches miserably, just like he does in boxing class, and cries even more miserably. He feels pathetic, crying like he just got beaten up, when he doesn’t even have a good reason too. He’s on his own. He’s… alone.
He punches again, harder this time, because what’s a man gonna do about rage. He learned that lesson early in life. He punches, and cries, because why the hell won’t this feeling go already.
His fault, my fault, fuck it! His fault for ruining my life, for being so selfish and not care about my future. And my fault, because I want him here, why won’t he come back already and apologize, just apologize, you coward! Tell me the truth, that you couldn’t handle being left here and decided to make it my problem as well!
And look at that. Now that he’s gone, it’s Ford who feels like shit.
This is so unfair. So fucking unfair! Why do I get to feel like this while you’re out there living your life free of expectations and homework and chores? Why do I miss you when you didn’t care about me enough to let me be free too?
He stops punching the mattress, but the tears keep running down his face.
