#jcwclthicf

The house was still. 2:41 in the morning and the world was silent. Quite. After the mishap in her father’s office, after Christian had simply stormed away leaving Daddy speechless, Emma had expected nothing less. But she hadn’t expected her mother to still be up. For those emotions to carry into her room. To be restless in her sleep. Yet there she was.She’d wandered the mansion, hoping to suss out the source or at least tire herself out. She hadn’t thought to find her mother in the study, poring over old family albums. For a woman who was stoic the site was oddly unnerving. She’d been so adamant about allowing daddy dearest to go on about his ‘business associate’.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that’ She said, her head hung low, “Mother, I never meant for you to find my camera or the picture I’d taken of Daddy and that—"

“That woman?  Really, Emma, you have too vivid an imagination…”

The words stung, and cut deep. how dare she turn a blind eye! She can feel her temper rise. the words sling from her lips as her mother deflects them in the only way Hazel Frost can.

“Haven’t you helped enough?” The words are like poison and Emma can feel her lip curl with disgust. She can’t think that can she?

She had only meant to grab her mother’s arm. She’d just wanted her to see. To know, to understand what a monster her father — her husband— was. She hadn’t wanted this. All before her eyes Emma saw her mother’s life flash before her. Her marriage, her children. Whizzing past, again and again. Her first dance at her debutante.  Meeting Daddy. Flirting with the bachelors. Riding a bike.  Their first dance. Their first party as man and wife. Her third Christmas as his wife. The annual balls.

They whizzed past her, vivid and real. The world blurred except for the sound of her mother’s gargled cry. her hand shook as it feels away from mother. 

“Mother?” My god, what had she done?

Hazel kneeled on the floor, blood dripping profusely from her nose into a puddle on the hardwood.

“I-I can see him and her…Guhhh.” She faced the ceiling, blood running in a steady stream from her nose, dribbling at her ear. A gurgling sound branded into Emma’s mind.

Emma’s hand shook and terror gripped her tightly as she took in the sight.

‘”Can see them together…Make it stop,“ the horrible cry grew louder, ‘Please make it stop. Gah... Make it stop!!”

Paralyzed Emma watched her mother struggle about on the floor as blood polling at her cheek. She’d done that…She’d caused…She hadn’t... It’d been an accident. Just like Lucy St. James. Just like Claire. Oh god, oh god....she thought unable to stop the shaking of her body. Daddy’d been right. The panic rose in her chest

“Help!” Her voice was shrill as it wavered, “Someone help!” Still, she inched away. What had she done to her mother?

The sound of Winston, Cordelia, and Adrienne arriving did nothing. Their talking muffled around her. Her attention focused solely on her mother. Writhing in pain that Emma had caused. Pale skin grew paler. Her blue eyes welled up with tears and yet she was helpless. What could she say? It was her fault? It was an accident? The thought of it was unthinkable. daddy would throw her in some mental ward for sure. Middle Frost daughter has a mental break down the papers would read. She felt sick. bile crawling up the collum of her throat. She swallowed the lump and willed the tears away. Blank-faced Emma pushed her way out of the room, to her room. The cold numb of reality did nothing for her mind as it rolled over and over the image.  She was a monster more so than her father.

She’d just wanted her to see the truth…To hear her out. To listen instead of sweep it under the rug. Not this…

If there were memories before it, they were all dashed away when his head collided with the edge of the coffee table.  Bruce still doesn't know how old he was (three?  four?  does it really matter?) because when he was older he never wanted to ask his mother.  But he was pretty sure it was Christmas, because there were twinkling lights in his vision as he looked up from where he was sprawled, multicolored and cheerful before the blood from the gash in his head started to drip down and turn everything a painful crimson.

It was just a fucking erector set, Bruce still couldn't believe it, years later, just that was enough to change everything.  But his father hadn't liked something about what Bruce had been able to build.  The words were so hazy now, because the memory really starts from the first slap, but he vaguely remembers his father screaming about it being 'too smart' and 'he's just a kid he shouldn't have been able'.  And it was that, that one moment, that had set Brian Banner against him.  Just a little boy playing too well with his toys.