Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > A Little Less Pete Wentz (but) A Little More Pete Wentz
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“(Y/N), I’m sorry I-” Pete tried to say sorry for assuming that you had a good relationship with your family but you cut him off. He didn’t need to say sorry for something that he didn’t know about.
“Pete it’s fine I’m over that now … Especially considering-” You started before you remembered when you were little. You relived the memory and after it was finished you broke down and cried into Pete’s neck again. All the while Pete just sat there patiently cuddling you and giving you small kisses on your head.
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FLASHBACK
It’s the end of Semester One. You’re in your seventh year and you’re about to come home and hand over your school report cards to your awaiting parents. Your older sister, the eldest in the family, is in twelfth grade and she is driving both you, her and your older brother (who is in tenth grade) back home from the various schooling institutions you’ve been enrolled in. You arrive at the manor and file out of the car and into the main hall. Your maid takes your elder siblings’ bags and coats and goes about restoring them to their correct positions within the household. You have to do this for yourself. After you finish putting unpacking your school bags and getting changed out of your school attire, you go into the main lounge where your mother and father are expecting your presence.
“You’re so slow with everything you do. Hurry the fuck up you pathetic lifeform and bring me your school reports.” Your father bellowed at you.
“Yes sir.” You reply, monotone and flat.
“Wipe that awful and disrespectful tone out of your voice right this instant young lady.” Your mother yells at you.
“Yes ma’am.” You reply in a slightly uplifted tone but still flat.
“That’s better child. Now where’s your school reports?” Your mother asks in a quieter voice.
“Here ma’am.” You reply in the same, flat tone whilst holding out the school reports but not approaching them. You had to be granted permission to approach your parents and you had to be granted permission to speak. You had to be granted permission to do basically anything within the estate grounds. Except things that were expected of you, like unpacking your school things and going about completing the homework and various chores your parents task you with.
“Bring them to me.” Your mother ordered. You complied without the slightest hint of emotion. You walked around the edges of the luxurious carpet rug that sat beneath the exquisite lounge suites and walked to where your mother sat in her armchair. You presented the unopened school reports to her whilst your father and elder brother and sister watched on from the rest of the couches and armchairs. You had once opened your school reports when you received them at school to view them as they were addressed to you. Then you brought them home and gave your parents the opened reports. They were … not impressed to say the least. You had received a stern beating for that one small mistake and you had never made it again.
“Good to see that you haven’t opened them yet and that you’ve learnt something.” Your father stated.
“For once.” Your brother remarked. Usually this kind of behaviour would not be accepted within the household and the offender would receive a full beating for this. However, it was your brother and he was something of an angel to your parents. As was your older sister. Had the circumstances been different, and it was you who had made the comment, you would have received the beating and extra punishment.
“Now let us review your marks for the semester shall we child?” Your father asked of you. You were not to respond to the rhetorical question. You waited for your parents to open the fresh envelope containing your marks and review what it contained. You had already opened it and knew that you were going to get a beating for the poor marks but you couldn’t let that show at all, otherwise they’d make it worse. You had picked up fast that they didn’t want you opening it before them, but it was addressed to you so you felt entitled to know what it contained first. So you brought your own envelopes that looked the exact same at the ones the school used and you traced the hand written addressing information from the front. This way you could open it and be prepared for the beatings without them knowing. It made you feel somewhat smarter than them and gave you something to hold on to. It gave you a sense of individuality and personality to hold on to that your parents seemed like they were trying to erase form within you.
After what seemed like hours your parents finally took one last glance at each other. You knew what was coming next and prepared for when the calm before the storm would end. You prepared for the pain and the hurt and the harsh punishments to come following your report card. This was what your reports contained inside:
(YOUR LAST NAME), (YOUR FIRST NAME)’S SCHOOL REPORTS FOR SEMESTER ONE:
MATHEMATICS: B+
ENGLISH: B-
SCIENCE: B+
HISTORY: C-
BUSINESS STUDIES: A-
MUSIC: C+
DRAMA: B+
ACCOUNTING: B-
DANCE: B+
INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC (EXTRACURRICULAR): A+
And yet it wasn’t good enough for your mother or your father.
“HOW COME THE ONE THING YOU GET A SOLID GRADE ON IS THE ONE SUBJECT THAT IS GOING TO LEAST BENEFIT YOU IN LIFE?!?!?!” Your father bellowed at you. He was referring to the Instrumental Music that was extracurricular. You had to fight every nerve in your body to resist flinching when he bellowed and when he started to approach you. It was hard, but the amount of times you had to give them a school report had made you well prepared and had trained your body to respond just how you needed it to.
“WHY CAN’T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT!! A C-?!?!?! HOW THE FLYING FUCK DO YOU GET A FUCKING C- IN HISTORY?!?!?! WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS YOUR GOOD FOR NOTHING BRAIN?!?!?!? DON’T YOU HAVE ONE YOU STUPID FUCKWIT?!?!” Your father continued. You could see the veins in his neck and forehead pulsing.
“Darling please, you’re going to upset them.” Your mother intervened, referring to your elder siblings who were trying not to laugh at the sight that beheld them.
“You’re right, you’re right, I’m so sorry my darlings.” Your father calms down and turns to your now innocent, acting siblings. “We’ll deal with you later child.” He turns back to you and states sternly.
“Now, Rebecca, where is your report card darling?” Your mother asks in the sweetest voice of silk.
“Here it is mummy.” Your elder sister says, proudly presenting her reports. Your parents take their time to inspect it and congratulate her on every single thing in the report. Her reports read:
(YOUR LAST NAME), REBECCA’S SCHOOL REPORTS FOR SEMESTER ONE:
MATHEMATICS B: A+
MATHEMATICS C: A+
ENGLISH: A+
BIOLOGY: A+
CHEMISTRY: A+
ECONOMICS: A+
MODERN HISTORY: A+
BUSINESS STUDIES: A+
JUSTICE STUDIES: A+
And they were proud of Rebecca. They gave her $100 in cold hard cash instantly. $90 was for the A+ grades ($10 for each A+) and the extra $10 was just a bonus for being so “perfect”. Your mother and father cooed over her success and how well she was going. She was in the OP course pathway, which meant that she was going for an OP rank score to try get into University and have the leeway to whichever course she saw fit for her time. She was on track to get an OP rank score of 1. That was the highest you could get and it basically gave you automatic entry into whatever course you wanted. They then moved on to your elder brother, Maximus, who presented his report card with equal pride in his marks. His reports read:
(YOUR LAST NAME), MAXIMUS’S SCHOOL REPORTS FOR SEMESTER ONE:
MATHEMATICS: A+
ENGLISH: A+
SCIENCE: A+
SCIENCE EXTENSION: A+
HISTORY: A+
WOOD/METAL WORKS: A+
GRAPHICS/DESIGNING: A+
ENGINEERING: A+
ART: A+
Your parents were proud of your brother. They also gave him an automatic $100, the same deal as your sister. He was smirking at you whilst your mother and father gave both your elder siblings the utmost praise and all the attention any child could ever want from their parents. They were so busy praising the both of them that the maid had come in and alerted them that dinner was only an hour away from being served before they remembered that they had to deal with you.
“Downstairs.” Your mother stated bluntly, with such a poison in her voice that it would have surely killed anyone else had she said it to someone normal. But you weren’t normal and so it didn’t affect you in the slightest. It only gave you warning of what was to come. The storm was fast approaching and there was nothing you could do to stop it.
You followed your orders and went downstairs, past the cellar with the wines, to the basement. Nobody ever went down here and it was fairly difficult to access. You had to move a large rum barrel that was always full off the trapdoor. Then you had to fight with the key against the rusted out lock to unlock the opening mechanism. After winning that battle there was yet another one. You had to fight the grime and the dust and the rusted hinges and the heavy solid oak trapdoor itself to lift it open enough for you to slip in. There was no real set of stairs attached to the trapdoor opening, just a creaky old set of stairs, handmade by your slave labour, leading down into the darkness. If you weren’t in the basement by the time your father got there, the punishment lasted well into the night and the small hours of the morning.
You managed with ease to get to the basement and you waited. You had done this so many times that you were strong enough to move everything and be in the basement within 10 minutes on a bad day. Usually your father would be down within 40 minutes on a good day and you would be waiting patiently and silently for him. But not today. Today, you had to wait three whole hours before you heard faint voices approaching. The calm before the storm had ended. You heard your father call out to your mother, saying that he may be a while, and you instantly regretted failing in suicide all those times. You knew that you could die down here this time.
This time. Wasn’t that what you said every time you came down here though? This time. When you were younger you used to wistfully think: “Maybe this time he’ll be nice and let me off easy? Maybe this time I’ll get fed? Maybe this time I’ll be able to go to school and not hospital?” This time. You really needed to stop thinking about “maybe this time”. It was never going to happen. Nothing was ever going to change in this estate for as long as you lived. Which, to be perfectly honest, could be a very short time.
Your father opened the heavy trapdoor and walked down the stairs and shut the door behind him, sealing you both in suffocating darkness. Your father moved in the darkness and you had to fight the urge to flinch away. He finally found the light cord and yanked it, revealing in a depressing light the basement for all its worth. There was a metal table in the dead center of the room, gleaming in the light because it was always clean. Everything down here was always kept in the best condition, always working, always clean, always gleaming in the sickening light. Attached to the metal table were an array of straps, varying in lengths and positions along the table. They were used to tie down the victim securely. Along the far wall was masses of cases and cabinets and holders. All filled with tools and instruments of pain. All gleaming behind the glass of their casings, all perfectly well kept. All deadly. Along the wall closest to the trapdoor and staircase was an Iron Maiden.
An Iron Maiden was a torture instrument from the Medieval Period and it was basically a thick, heavy coffin with metal spikes all through it. The spikes all faced and pointed towards the inside of the coffin. All of them were sharper than death’s scythe. It was always open and was merely a decoration. It now had shelving inside that held precious liquids and fluids that were sometimes used down here. Next to the Iron Maiden was a metal rack attached firmly to the wall. This rack held your father’s most prized and favoured pain inflicting tools. Such instruments of horrible pasts don’t deserve attention here. Your father barely used them upon you anymore anyway. He originally started out using the biggest and scariest looking instruments but then he slowly progressed to merely threatening to use them to force you to behave when told to.
“Get on the table.” Your father commanded. You obeyed. Down here, the rules were different. Down here, you were not to speak or make a sound. If you did, the punishment would be worse. Either that or you’d have to go back to the private hospital again. You couldn’t tell what was worse now days. Everything seemed the same blur of events leading on from one to the next.
Your father fastened all the straps. They cut into your skin and they burned. Your father had re-soaked them in the acid. Just your luck. You’d have chemical burns by the morning. Nice bright pink and red depending on which acid solution he decided to use this time. You could barely breathe because the strap around your throat to keep your head still was so tight. But your father didn’t care. Less chance for you to make noises. Less chance for you to complain. Less chance for you to attack back.
“Since you seem to be forgetting your lessons, maybe we need to reteach them hmm?” Your father said absently, walking over to the Iron Maiden and getting out a scalpel and a flask. The flask contained a pale green liquid that glowed. The second you saw it you knew what you were in for. It had been used on you only once before. It was a special poison that wouldn’t kill the victim. Only seriously injure and leave everlasting scars that would never go away. Funnily enough the scars also seemed to glow in the dark occasionally. But they mainly showed up under black-lights or UV (ultraviolet) lights. It had hurt like a bitch back then and it was going to hurt like a bitch this time.
Your father prepared his safety equipment to protect him from the effects of the poison and then came over to you, where you were strapped way too tight to the table. He then ripped your clothes and tore them from your body, exposing the binders and skins you wore to hide the scars. He used the clean scalpel and cut the binders and skins from your body and left you in nothing.
“There they are.” Your father said to himself as your scars were revealed. He then proceeded to dip the scalpel in the flask and coat it in the poison. “Don’t worry, this will only hurt as much as you let it.” Your father always said this, every time. You never understood what he meant by it though. How can something only hurt as much as you let it?
Your thoughts were interrupted by the blade gently pressing into your skin and you mentally prepared yourself for the onslaught of pain to come.
By the time it was over you were unable to think clearly through the pain. You could barely understand yes and no. You could barely remember your name. You were a vegetable under the power of the pain your father had brought upon you.
He had retraced every single line that he had ever carved into your body. Old scars slit and bleeding a mix of blood and poison. He even added in some fresh new ones for good measure. You were covered from head to toe in scars. You felt like a tiger some days and that small thought alone made you happy that you lived in this household. You loved animals. Felines are your favourite, and being able to pretend late at night that you’re a tiger princess was the only thing that could make you happy besides music, which you rarely ever got access to.
Your father bandaged you and carried you to your bedroom and locked the door from the outside. You were surrounded in darkness, pierced only by the sliver of pale moonlight that broke through your curtains and iron bars. Yes, your parents put metal grates and bars on your windows. To prevent you from escaping again. You had nearly escaped when you were younger. There was a big, sturdy tree that grew right outside your window and one night you decided to break the rules and try escape. You packed your bag and got changed into fresh clothes and opened the window. You had practiced climbing up and down the tree for ages, so it felt like second nature to you. You had managed to make it a mile out of the estate gates before your father rolled up in the car after coming home from a night out in the city. Let’s just say you never tried anything else of the sort ever again. Then next day after the escape attempt they had installed the metal bars and removed the tree for good measure. You were so skinny from the lack of proper food that you could almost effortlessly get through the metal bars. But you never let anyone know.
You woke up the next morning stiff as an ironbark tree. You could barely move your joints and it took an hour to even sit up. You then heard footsteps fast approaching your “bedroom” and you instantly laid back down. After several locks clicking your father threw the door open, dropped a crate in your room, and hauled you off the floor.
“Hurry up and get yourself decent we will be having guests before you go to school today so behave or else.” Your father commanded. He kicked the crate towards you before slamming the door shut and relocking all the locks. “Get yourself decent …” You thought to yourself. That basically meant: “Cover up the evidence and be human …” whenever he said those words.
The crate wasn’t anything special, just an ordinary wooden crate usually used for fresh produce being delivered to the store, or something like that. But this crate didn’t contain fresh produce like you had wistfully hoped when you were younger. This crate held the clothing to make you “decent”. You open it and found it full of neatly folded binders and bandages and everything else needed to “cover the evidence”. You took out the items and started working them onto your body to cover last night’s pain. As you pulled out the last skin to wear you saw a perfect and fresh school formal uniform in the bottom of the crate. You pulled it all out very carefully and you realised that your father was serious. You had a very special guest coming over today and you had to act like you were a part of the “perfect family”. You got the annoying and unpractical uniform on. You could never understand why anybody would think that it was the “ideal uniform” for any school-based activity. Your school was ridiculous when it came to uniforms.
10 minutes later you heard the familiar footsteps of your mother and the sound of the locks being undone. She opened the door and said:
“We are having the Lestrange family coming over from the next city to pay us a visit for the next month. This means that you will be moving rooms and you will be getting driven to school by either your father and I or the Lestranges. For the next month your room will be the one next to the library and everything has been prepared for you. You are to act just like a family member and as our daughter. Step out of line and the punishment will be double the usual. However it will be administered after the Lestranges leave our estate. Are we clear?”
You reply with a simple nod.
“We had better be (Y/N).”
That was when you knew this was serious. Nobody in your family had ever called you by your name unless it was a serious occasion. But something so serious to require your name being spoken hadn’t happened in years. You were almost certain that your family didn’t even remember your name. You bet your mother had to dig up the birth certificate to get your name right.
Your mother stepped aside and allowed you to walk before her down the stairs. You descended the stairs and was lead to the dining room where the most extravagant breakfast was laid out before you. You hadn’t seen such food in many years and it was very shocking to your senses. But you quickly snapped out of it as you were seated next to your father at the head of the table, opposite your mother. Maximus was seated beside your mother and Rebecca was beside you. The Lestranges were seated in a similar fashion. The maid laid out the cutlery and everyone began eating. You only took the smallest amounts of food as you knew that if you pigged out and took advantage of the situation you would be punished for it. After breakfast was eaten and hearty conversations between your father and Mr. Lestrange and your mother and Mrs. Lestrange it was time for school. Your maid gave you your school bag and ensured that your uniform was perfect. The same happened with Maximum and Rebecca and soon you were standing in front of the main entrance doors waiting. You were all walking to school today, so your mother and father were saying their goodbyes here before you all went outside. Your father warmly hugged and kissed your siblings. When he came to you he hugged you and kissed you the same. But it wasn’t. It physically looks the same, but it was without the same warmth and love as the others. His affection towards you was fake and empty. It was cold. Next was your mother and she did the same, hugging and kissing your siblings with all the love in the world, and hugging and kissing you with silent wishes of death to you.
You then proceeded to follow your sister to the door and you turned back to face your parents. Your father waved with a toothy smile. Your mother waved and gave you the warmest smile you had ever been given. But it didn’t reach her eyes. It never had. And now it never would.
PRESENT
You had been in a distressed state for well over an hour now and Pete was still cradling you, protectively holding you and rubbing small circles on your back. Every now and then he would say sweet things to you to try and help calm you down. It was soothing and very welcome. 20 minutes later and you were finally calming down enough to lift your head from the crook of Pete’s warm neck. You realised that you had been crying heavily but silently for at least an hour when your eyes saw the time on the clock beside your bed.
“Pete, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to cry all over you and make you have a shower in salty tears. I guess I’m not quite over it yet ha ha.” You tried, making a joke at yourself. But it didn’t make you feel any better.
“Hey it’s fine, I’m here for you that’s all okay. I know your friend wants you to tell me stuff but you don’t have to do that now okay? I’ll wait I promise. We both live with demons that haunt us, trust me.” Pete said, his voice making you feel safe and calm.
You both sat there in the peace for a while. Just cuddling. It was something that hadn’t happened for a long time, and you thought it would never happen again. Yes, your best friend who you lived with currently was amazing and yes she was always there for you. But it wasn’t the same. With Pete, it was different. It had a slightly different intimacy thrown into the mix. And that was more what you needed.
“(Y/N), I’m sorry I-” Pete tried to say sorry for assuming that you had a good relationship with your family but you cut him off. He didn’t need to say sorry for something that he didn’t know about.
“Pete it’s fine I’m over that now … Especially considering-” You started before you remembered when you were little. You relived the memory and after it was finished you broke down and cried into Pete’s neck again. All the while Pete just sat there patiently cuddling you and giving you small kisses on your head.
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FLASHBACK
It’s the end of Semester One. You’re in your seventh year and you’re about to come home and hand over your school report cards to your awaiting parents. Your older sister, the eldest in the family, is in twelfth grade and she is driving both you, her and your older brother (who is in tenth grade) back home from the various schooling institutions you’ve been enrolled in. You arrive at the manor and file out of the car and into the main hall. Your maid takes your elder siblings’ bags and coats and goes about restoring them to their correct positions within the household. You have to do this for yourself. After you finish putting unpacking your school bags and getting changed out of your school attire, you go into the main lounge where your mother and father are expecting your presence.
“You’re so slow with everything you do. Hurry the fuck up you pathetic lifeform and bring me your school reports.” Your father bellowed at you.
“Yes sir.” You reply, monotone and flat.
“Wipe that awful and disrespectful tone out of your voice right this instant young lady.” Your mother yells at you.
“Yes ma’am.” You reply in a slightly uplifted tone but still flat.
“That’s better child. Now where’s your school reports?” Your mother asks in a quieter voice.
“Here ma’am.” You reply in the same, flat tone whilst holding out the school reports but not approaching them. You had to be granted permission to approach your parents and you had to be granted permission to speak. You had to be granted permission to do basically anything within the estate grounds. Except things that were expected of you, like unpacking your school things and going about completing the homework and various chores your parents task you with.
“Bring them to me.” Your mother ordered. You complied without the slightest hint of emotion. You walked around the edges of the luxurious carpet rug that sat beneath the exquisite lounge suites and walked to where your mother sat in her armchair. You presented the unopened school reports to her whilst your father and elder brother and sister watched on from the rest of the couches and armchairs. You had once opened your school reports when you received them at school to view them as they were addressed to you. Then you brought them home and gave your parents the opened reports. They were … not impressed to say the least. You had received a stern beating for that one small mistake and you had never made it again.
“Good to see that you haven’t opened them yet and that you’ve learnt something.” Your father stated.
“For once.” Your brother remarked. Usually this kind of behaviour would not be accepted within the household and the offender would receive a full beating for this. However, it was your brother and he was something of an angel to your parents. As was your older sister. Had the circumstances been different, and it was you who had made the comment, you would have received the beating and extra punishment.
“Now let us review your marks for the semester shall we child?” Your father asked of you. You were not to respond to the rhetorical question. You waited for your parents to open the fresh envelope containing your marks and review what it contained. You had already opened it and knew that you were going to get a beating for the poor marks but you couldn’t let that show at all, otherwise they’d make it worse. You had picked up fast that they didn’t want you opening it before them, but it was addressed to you so you felt entitled to know what it contained first. So you brought your own envelopes that looked the exact same at the ones the school used and you traced the hand written addressing information from the front. This way you could open it and be prepared for the beatings without them knowing. It made you feel somewhat smarter than them and gave you something to hold on to. It gave you a sense of individuality and personality to hold on to that your parents seemed like they were trying to erase form within you.
After what seemed like hours your parents finally took one last glance at each other. You knew what was coming next and prepared for when the calm before the storm would end. You prepared for the pain and the hurt and the harsh punishments to come following your report card. This was what your reports contained inside:
(YOUR LAST NAME), (YOUR FIRST NAME)’S SCHOOL REPORTS FOR SEMESTER ONE:
MATHEMATICS: B+
ENGLISH: B-
SCIENCE: B+
HISTORY: C-
BUSINESS STUDIES: A-
MUSIC: C+
DRAMA: B+
ACCOUNTING: B-
DANCE: B+
INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC (EXTRACURRICULAR): A+
And yet it wasn’t good enough for your mother or your father.
“HOW COME THE ONE THING YOU GET A SOLID GRADE ON IS THE ONE SUBJECT THAT IS GOING TO LEAST BENEFIT YOU IN LIFE?!?!?!” Your father bellowed at you. He was referring to the Instrumental Music that was extracurricular. You had to fight every nerve in your body to resist flinching when he bellowed and when he started to approach you. It was hard, but the amount of times you had to give them a school report had made you well prepared and had trained your body to respond just how you needed it to.
“WHY CAN’T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT!! A C-?!?!?! HOW THE FLYING FUCK DO YOU GET A FUCKING C- IN HISTORY?!?!?! WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS YOUR GOOD FOR NOTHING BRAIN?!?!?!? DON’T YOU HAVE ONE YOU STUPID FUCKWIT?!?!” Your father continued. You could see the veins in his neck and forehead pulsing.
“Darling please, you’re going to upset them.” Your mother intervened, referring to your elder siblings who were trying not to laugh at the sight that beheld them.
“You’re right, you’re right, I’m so sorry my darlings.” Your father calms down and turns to your now innocent, acting siblings. “We’ll deal with you later child.” He turns back to you and states sternly.
“Now, Rebecca, where is your report card darling?” Your mother asks in the sweetest voice of silk.
“Here it is mummy.” Your elder sister says, proudly presenting her reports. Your parents take their time to inspect it and congratulate her on every single thing in the report. Her reports read:
(YOUR LAST NAME), REBECCA’S SCHOOL REPORTS FOR SEMESTER ONE:
MATHEMATICS B: A+
MATHEMATICS C: A+
ENGLISH: A+
BIOLOGY: A+
CHEMISTRY: A+
ECONOMICS: A+
MODERN HISTORY: A+
BUSINESS STUDIES: A+
JUSTICE STUDIES: A+
And they were proud of Rebecca. They gave her $100 in cold hard cash instantly. $90 was for the A+ grades ($10 for each A+) and the extra $10 was just a bonus for being so “perfect”. Your mother and father cooed over her success and how well she was going. She was in the OP course pathway, which meant that she was going for an OP rank score to try get into University and have the leeway to whichever course she saw fit for her time. She was on track to get an OP rank score of 1. That was the highest you could get and it basically gave you automatic entry into whatever course you wanted. They then moved on to your elder brother, Maximus, who presented his report card with equal pride in his marks. His reports read:
(YOUR LAST NAME), MAXIMUS’S SCHOOL REPORTS FOR SEMESTER ONE:
MATHEMATICS: A+
ENGLISH: A+
SCIENCE: A+
SCIENCE EXTENSION: A+
HISTORY: A+
WOOD/METAL WORKS: A+
GRAPHICS/DESIGNING: A+
ENGINEERING: A+
ART: A+
Your parents were proud of your brother. They also gave him an automatic $100, the same deal as your sister. He was smirking at you whilst your mother and father gave both your elder siblings the utmost praise and all the attention any child could ever want from their parents. They were so busy praising the both of them that the maid had come in and alerted them that dinner was only an hour away from being served before they remembered that they had to deal with you.
“Downstairs.” Your mother stated bluntly, with such a poison in her voice that it would have surely killed anyone else had she said it to someone normal. But you weren’t normal and so it didn’t affect you in the slightest. It only gave you warning of what was to come. The storm was fast approaching and there was nothing you could do to stop it.
You followed your orders and went downstairs, past the cellar with the wines, to the basement. Nobody ever went down here and it was fairly difficult to access. You had to move a large rum barrel that was always full off the trapdoor. Then you had to fight with the key against the rusted out lock to unlock the opening mechanism. After winning that battle there was yet another one. You had to fight the grime and the dust and the rusted hinges and the heavy solid oak trapdoor itself to lift it open enough for you to slip in. There was no real set of stairs attached to the trapdoor opening, just a creaky old set of stairs, handmade by your slave labour, leading down into the darkness. If you weren’t in the basement by the time your father got there, the punishment lasted well into the night and the small hours of the morning.
You managed with ease to get to the basement and you waited. You had done this so many times that you were strong enough to move everything and be in the basement within 10 minutes on a bad day. Usually your father would be down within 40 minutes on a good day and you would be waiting patiently and silently for him. But not today. Today, you had to wait three whole hours before you heard faint voices approaching. The calm before the storm had ended. You heard your father call out to your mother, saying that he may be a while, and you instantly regretted failing in suicide all those times. You knew that you could die down here this time.
This time. Wasn’t that what you said every time you came down here though? This time. When you were younger you used to wistfully think: “Maybe this time he’ll be nice and let me off easy? Maybe this time I’ll get fed? Maybe this time I’ll be able to go to school and not hospital?” This time. You really needed to stop thinking about “maybe this time”. It was never going to happen. Nothing was ever going to change in this estate for as long as you lived. Which, to be perfectly honest, could be a very short time.
Your father opened the heavy trapdoor and walked down the stairs and shut the door behind him, sealing you both in suffocating darkness. Your father moved in the darkness and you had to fight the urge to flinch away. He finally found the light cord and yanked it, revealing in a depressing light the basement for all its worth. There was a metal table in the dead center of the room, gleaming in the light because it was always clean. Everything down here was always kept in the best condition, always working, always clean, always gleaming in the sickening light. Attached to the metal table were an array of straps, varying in lengths and positions along the table. They were used to tie down the victim securely. Along the far wall was masses of cases and cabinets and holders. All filled with tools and instruments of pain. All gleaming behind the glass of their casings, all perfectly well kept. All deadly. Along the wall closest to the trapdoor and staircase was an Iron Maiden.
An Iron Maiden was a torture instrument from the Medieval Period and it was basically a thick, heavy coffin with metal spikes all through it. The spikes all faced and pointed towards the inside of the coffin. All of them were sharper than death’s scythe. It was always open and was merely a decoration. It now had shelving inside that held precious liquids and fluids that were sometimes used down here. Next to the Iron Maiden was a metal rack attached firmly to the wall. This rack held your father’s most prized and favoured pain inflicting tools. Such instruments of horrible pasts don’t deserve attention here. Your father barely used them upon you anymore anyway. He originally started out using the biggest and scariest looking instruments but then he slowly progressed to merely threatening to use them to force you to behave when told to.
“Get on the table.” Your father commanded. You obeyed. Down here, the rules were different. Down here, you were not to speak or make a sound. If you did, the punishment would be worse. Either that or you’d have to go back to the private hospital again. You couldn’t tell what was worse now days. Everything seemed the same blur of events leading on from one to the next.
Your father fastened all the straps. They cut into your skin and they burned. Your father had re-soaked them in the acid. Just your luck. You’d have chemical burns by the morning. Nice bright pink and red depending on which acid solution he decided to use this time. You could barely breathe because the strap around your throat to keep your head still was so tight. But your father didn’t care. Less chance for you to make noises. Less chance for you to complain. Less chance for you to attack back.
“Since you seem to be forgetting your lessons, maybe we need to reteach them hmm?” Your father said absently, walking over to the Iron Maiden and getting out a scalpel and a flask. The flask contained a pale green liquid that glowed. The second you saw it you knew what you were in for. It had been used on you only once before. It was a special poison that wouldn’t kill the victim. Only seriously injure and leave everlasting scars that would never go away. Funnily enough the scars also seemed to glow in the dark occasionally. But they mainly showed up under black-lights or UV (ultraviolet) lights. It had hurt like a bitch back then and it was going to hurt like a bitch this time.
Your father prepared his safety equipment to protect him from the effects of the poison and then came over to you, where you were strapped way too tight to the table. He then ripped your clothes and tore them from your body, exposing the binders and skins you wore to hide the scars. He used the clean scalpel and cut the binders and skins from your body and left you in nothing.
“There they are.” Your father said to himself as your scars were revealed. He then proceeded to dip the scalpel in the flask and coat it in the poison. “Don’t worry, this will only hurt as much as you let it.” Your father always said this, every time. You never understood what he meant by it though. How can something only hurt as much as you let it?
Your thoughts were interrupted by the blade gently pressing into your skin and you mentally prepared yourself for the onslaught of pain to come.
By the time it was over you were unable to think clearly through the pain. You could barely understand yes and no. You could barely remember your name. You were a vegetable under the power of the pain your father had brought upon you.
He had retraced every single line that he had ever carved into your body. Old scars slit and bleeding a mix of blood and poison. He even added in some fresh new ones for good measure. You were covered from head to toe in scars. You felt like a tiger some days and that small thought alone made you happy that you lived in this household. You loved animals. Felines are your favourite, and being able to pretend late at night that you’re a tiger princess was the only thing that could make you happy besides music, which you rarely ever got access to.
Your father bandaged you and carried you to your bedroom and locked the door from the outside. You were surrounded in darkness, pierced only by the sliver of pale moonlight that broke through your curtains and iron bars. Yes, your parents put metal grates and bars on your windows. To prevent you from escaping again. You had nearly escaped when you were younger. There was a big, sturdy tree that grew right outside your window and one night you decided to break the rules and try escape. You packed your bag and got changed into fresh clothes and opened the window. You had practiced climbing up and down the tree for ages, so it felt like second nature to you. You had managed to make it a mile out of the estate gates before your father rolled up in the car after coming home from a night out in the city. Let’s just say you never tried anything else of the sort ever again. Then next day after the escape attempt they had installed the metal bars and removed the tree for good measure. You were so skinny from the lack of proper food that you could almost effortlessly get through the metal bars. But you never let anyone know.
You woke up the next morning stiff as an ironbark tree. You could barely move your joints and it took an hour to even sit up. You then heard footsteps fast approaching your “bedroom” and you instantly laid back down. After several locks clicking your father threw the door open, dropped a crate in your room, and hauled you off the floor.
“Hurry up and get yourself decent we will be having guests before you go to school today so behave or else.” Your father commanded. He kicked the crate towards you before slamming the door shut and relocking all the locks. “Get yourself decent …” You thought to yourself. That basically meant: “Cover up the evidence and be human …” whenever he said those words.
The crate wasn’t anything special, just an ordinary wooden crate usually used for fresh produce being delivered to the store, or something like that. But this crate didn’t contain fresh produce like you had wistfully hoped when you were younger. This crate held the clothing to make you “decent”. You open it and found it full of neatly folded binders and bandages and everything else needed to “cover the evidence”. You took out the items and started working them onto your body to cover last night’s pain. As you pulled out the last skin to wear you saw a perfect and fresh school formal uniform in the bottom of the crate. You pulled it all out very carefully and you realised that your father was serious. You had a very special guest coming over today and you had to act like you were a part of the “perfect family”. You got the annoying and unpractical uniform on. You could never understand why anybody would think that it was the “ideal uniform” for any school-based activity. Your school was ridiculous when it came to uniforms.
10 minutes later you heard the familiar footsteps of your mother and the sound of the locks being undone. She opened the door and said:
“We are having the Lestrange family coming over from the next city to pay us a visit for the next month. This means that you will be moving rooms and you will be getting driven to school by either your father and I or the Lestranges. For the next month your room will be the one next to the library and everything has been prepared for you. You are to act just like a family member and as our daughter. Step out of line and the punishment will be double the usual. However it will be administered after the Lestranges leave our estate. Are we clear?”
You reply with a simple nod.
“We had better be (Y/N).”
That was when you knew this was serious. Nobody in your family had ever called you by your name unless it was a serious occasion. But something so serious to require your name being spoken hadn’t happened in years. You were almost certain that your family didn’t even remember your name. You bet your mother had to dig up the birth certificate to get your name right.
Your mother stepped aside and allowed you to walk before her down the stairs. You descended the stairs and was lead to the dining room where the most extravagant breakfast was laid out before you. You hadn’t seen such food in many years and it was very shocking to your senses. But you quickly snapped out of it as you were seated next to your father at the head of the table, opposite your mother. Maximus was seated beside your mother and Rebecca was beside you. The Lestranges were seated in a similar fashion. The maid laid out the cutlery and everyone began eating. You only took the smallest amounts of food as you knew that if you pigged out and took advantage of the situation you would be punished for it. After breakfast was eaten and hearty conversations between your father and Mr. Lestrange and your mother and Mrs. Lestrange it was time for school. Your maid gave you your school bag and ensured that your uniform was perfect. The same happened with Maximum and Rebecca and soon you were standing in front of the main entrance doors waiting. You were all walking to school today, so your mother and father were saying their goodbyes here before you all went outside. Your father warmly hugged and kissed your siblings. When he came to you he hugged you and kissed you the same. But it wasn’t. It physically looks the same, but it was without the same warmth and love as the others. His affection towards you was fake and empty. It was cold. Next was your mother and she did the same, hugging and kissing your siblings with all the love in the world, and hugging and kissing you with silent wishes of death to you.
You then proceeded to follow your sister to the door and you turned back to face your parents. Your father waved with a toothy smile. Your mother waved and gave you the warmest smile you had ever been given. But it didn’t reach her eyes. It never had. And now it never would.
PRESENT
You had been in a distressed state for well over an hour now and Pete was still cradling you, protectively holding you and rubbing small circles on your back. Every now and then he would say sweet things to you to try and help calm you down. It was soothing and very welcome. 20 minutes later and you were finally calming down enough to lift your head from the crook of Pete’s warm neck. You realised that you had been crying heavily but silently for at least an hour when your eyes saw the time on the clock beside your bed.
“Pete, I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to cry all over you and make you have a shower in salty tears. I guess I’m not quite over it yet ha ha.” You tried, making a joke at yourself. But it didn’t make you feel any better.
“Hey it’s fine, I’m here for you that’s all okay. I know your friend wants you to tell me stuff but you don’t have to do that now okay? I’ll wait I promise. We both live with demons that haunt us, trust me.” Pete said, his voice making you feel safe and calm.
You both sat there in the peace for a while. Just cuddling. It was something that hadn’t happened for a long time, and you thought it would never happen again. Yes, your best friend who you lived with currently was amazing and yes she was always there for you. But it wasn’t the same. With Pete, it was different. It had a slightly different intimacy thrown into the mix. And that was more what you needed.
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