Rickety stairs lead to his room, creaking under his weight. Darkness enveloped him along with the smell of mildew and dirty laundry. He inhaled, the coolness putting out the fire in his chest, replacing it with ice. Better frozen gasps than fire that licked at his rib-cage, furiously fighting for a way to burn through his body. Bringing the dust of the wooden floors onto his shirt, he clutched his heart, pressing and releasing his hand to calm his erratic breathing. Alone in that dark, cold room, he scrambled into the laundry basket, falling into a mass of tangled tanks and dirty lingerie. Mommy didn’t look good in the lingerie, especially when she went out into the street wearing it but he knew much better  than to say that. He kept one hand clamped over his mouth, trying to smother his sobs. His tummy groaned and he quickly grabbed it, like he could stop the sound, like he could punish it for prompting him to tell mommy he was hungry. If he got too loud, she’d hear and  she’d come with the cane or the stick, the slipper if he was lucky. Viridian flipped himself over onto his stomach, tiny fingers grabbing at  mommy and daddy’s clothes. Cigarettes, stale french fries, cheap perfume and sour diesel wafted into his nose. If he closed his eyes hard enough, buried his face deep enough, he felt the warmth  of mommy’s stomach, holding him close, telling him it would be okay. His back ached where he’d fallen and he bit his lip until it bled. He sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees and rocking back and  forth. Slowly, he touched a hand to his split lip. Warm, feverish and sticky. He could think he’d done it to himself if he wanted to but  lately mommy’s slaps have been getting a little stronger, little higher. When he was four, she only raised her hand till her elbow  created the L shape she taught him last year. Now, it rose past her shoulder and came crashing down, shaking his whole world and shifting the ground. “Jada! You slut! Where’s the beer?” Viridian heard daddy slur downstairs and he brought his hands up to his mouth again, biting down on his palm so he wouldn’t make a sound. He didn’t like it when da called mommy that, he didn’t like it one bit. But he also didn’t like  it when he’d press mommy up against the wall or when he’d grab at his crotch and chest and stomach and face and arms and neck until his soft skin broke, until he was battered and bruised all over with black and blue, until he didn’t know how to breathe anymore.  He didn’t like this either, though, he didn’t like the warm trickle spreading down his legs. The clothes. His eyes widened and then squeezed shut again as terror and hunger gnawed his gut. Ricocheting steps sounded downstairs. Would mommy forgive him his  fear?

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AN: Sooo…yeah. This is the kind of stuff my brain spouts out at 2 AM. More on Vi’s backstory later and please note, these don’t come in chronological order. Once I write more, I’ll make a masterpost in order. Also, I’m sorry. Please forgive me ;w;