The gun was heavy in his front pocket, where he had stuffed in quickly when Jack had walked in on him raiding the safe. Blair. Again, she blows it. He rolled his eyes, thinking back to how she offered him the gun, tried to shrink him out of killing Victor, and then left the safe open. A small part of him wished he had just took her and held her instead of arguing with her. "It wouldn't be us, would it?" he said aloud, and shirked it off. He had bigger things to do. He was going to blow Victor off the face of the earth and get back everything that was his.
He admonished himself for calling Jack names. He should have been able to hold it together better than that. He knew, after all this time, that Jack had missed out as much as he did. He thought back to their interaction again, and regretted most of it. And, he vowed to never let it get out of control again. His worst fear was becoming his adoptive father, Peter Manning, and he didn't even want to come close to something Peter would do. His whole time being a father, he had worked so hard to make sure he never crossed any lines into Peter territory where Starr was concerned. And yet, the interaction with Jack, though probably deserved based on what everyone told him, had sprinklings of the Manning Manner. Of course there were things that no one else really knew that Peter had been capable of. He knew, in his soul, that he would no longer ever be capable of those things, because he had seen, first hand, what it had done to a soul. That soul was his own.
Lilly put a cold towel back on Todd's head, hoping to see him stir. She would, at this point, a week later, settle for Pete cursing at her, if he would just change his position, or his focus, and come back to them. It had been seven days, and six hours, and he was staring at the same spot on the ceiling, as if to burn a hole.
As the other seven mornings, the cold towel didn't stir him. Neither did the smell of breakfast, the slam of the door and the wheels of Aman's cart going to work, or her calling to Tom and Todd, softly. Once, she even called to Pete. If Aman had known, she would have been in trouble with him, and he probably would have called the doctor, or worse, the police. She had tried just about everything.
This 8th day, she did her usual routine, and made lunch, washed laundry, and did household chores. Of course, she did not watch him every moment, so she had missed the instant in which his hand twitched. His eyes blinked a few times but remained stiffly focused on the ceiling. He was dreaming, and in her daily work routine, she had no idea what he was coming upon in his mind's eye.
He was back in the living room, on his birthday, with Michelle and the cake and the lighter. Like a film being rerun, he watched it all happen again, just as all the other times.
The girl smiled, and said, "Are you going to light the candles?"
Tom had stepped in as he did many other nights. The same. "No, Todd, put that back."
"I gotta light the candles, Tom, leave me alone."
"Todd, no, come on. He's gonna be mad at you."
"I can take whatever he dishes out."
"What if you can't someday?"
Todd felt doubt rise in his throat. "I dunno, Tom. Leave me alone, seriously."
"Why get him all mad? Put the lighter back."
He saw himself take it, relish holding the cool metal, and ignore Tom. He felt powerful then, even for that short time. Smiling, he reached out with the flame in hand. He started to light the candles, when the door flew open, and his father stepped into the room, enraged.
"What are you doing with that lighter?" he screamed, and Michelle began visibly shaking. The cake almost toppled from her hands, but Todd reached out and steadied it, taking it and moving it to a nearby table. Tom was watching from the corner.
"Nothing, Dad, I just wanted to . . ."
"You have disobeyed me for the last time." Peter Manning's voice was loud and penetrating. Michelle raced to the door, and pulling it open, she left without uttering a word. Peter laughed. "Give me the lighter." He brought his voice down lower. "Now."
Todd handed the lighter to his father, sure of what was coming next. "You're going to burn me, right Dad?"
Peter did not answer. "Why, that's not good enough for you? You need something else?"
He didn't respond. He pulled up his shirt sleeve and readied himself. His father put him through the ritual of forcing him to hold his hand over the flame as long as he could, without crying, and he had gotten so good at it; he would go into his head every time, or let Tom take over and be somewhere else. He did as he was asked; he never shed a tear. His father would make it go longer and longer, but no tears. Todd was determined.
Peter stopped the lighter suddenly, as if defeated. He looked at Todd. "Don't think you won, because you didn't. You will NEVER beat me, if it takes me to hold your hand over that flame until it turns to ash and falls off."
Todd looked up at him, and something snapped. He tipped his head back and spit into Peter's twisted, incensed face. Why did he do that? What made him? And why hadn't he EVER remembered this?
The next events were moving like a slow motion film. Peter put the lighter on the table, and unbuckled his belt. Todd knew what was next, but he didn't flinch. Before he could even think of a way to escape, Peter had grabbed him and shoved him down to the floor, face down, lifting his shirt almost over his head. Todd could see Tom out of the corner of his eye, standing, watching. "Stay away." He said softly to him. Peter began the ritual of beating his back, using the end of the belt with the buckle. "I'll teach you," Todd heard, "I'll teach you to obey me. I control you, you don't control me." Tom's image started to blur in Todd's eyes.
Tom reached his hand out, "Let me take a turn, Todd."
Todd shook his head no. Though he refused to cry out, tears streamed from his eyes and he shook all over. He couldn't let Tom have this. Not this time.
Then he saw Tom look up toward Peter with a ragged look. He heard Tom, "No! No Dad!"
Peter had stopped the beating, but Todd heard familiar sounds of his father's pants zipper, and panicked. Tom was yelling as loud as he could, but soon after, Todd could barely hear anything but the pounding of his own heart and could only feel excrutiating pain he never imagined. Tom was begging to take over, Todd refused, and faded into nothingness until Peter finished with him. He could barely understand what was happening to him, but knew it at the same time for exactly what it was. A few times, he tried to speak, but didn't. Within a few minutes that seemed like days, it stopped, and Peter got up.
Todd rolled himself over, barely able to move. His father stood, sneering, repeating words he couldn't make out, almost like he was speaking another language. Then as suddenly as a flash of lightening, Todd was standing by Tom, looking at Peter being strangled by another Todd. "Tom, who is that? Tell me?" he cried.
"I don't know! I don't KNOW! But he's gonna kill Dad."
Both were amazed at the sudden strength that came over the tall, lanky fourteen year old as he attempted to choke the life out of Peter. And that was when the door flew open, and The Coach came in through the door, pulling Todd off his father, by prying his fingers off his father's neck. But it was the teen's reaction that horrified them both. "Get your fucking hands off me!"
Sam stepped back, alarmed, the look in the boy's eyes was unrecognizable. He said, "Todd, it's me, Sam."
"I don't care who the fuck you are, get your hands off me now," he stopped, "I'll kill you. I'll kill you both."
Tom stepped forward, saying, "Todd, I have to go. That guy's going to hurt Coach and Dad and you're going to get in trouble."
Todd said nothing. When Tom turned and looked, Todd was staring straight ahead, unable to move. Tom shook him. "Todd? Todd!"
Sam somehow got the other guy to calm down. Peter was screaming about pressing charges; the scene was a mess of pain and sound. Tom stepped back. "Todd, let me go." He couldn't take over.
Todd, in his trance, stared into the angry boy's eyes across the room by Sam and said, "Yeah, I hear you. I hear you. Not The Coach. Ok, Pete. Ok. I won't tell, ever." Of course, Tom didn't hear anything, but he just watched in terror as Todd kept repeating himself softly.
He shook Todd's shoulder. "Todd?"
Todd did not respond. Tom just looked to Pete. "Pete, I'll take over if you want me to."
Pete sneered in his direction, while Peter made up a story about what had happened that evening. Just disciplining his son, he had said. Sam reluctantly accepted the story, and left them alone. Pete waited until Sam was out the door, and turned to Peter. "If you ever touch Todd like that again, I will kill you. I won't let anyone pry me away. I'll fucking kill you, and squeeze your neck until you die and after you're fucking dead, I'll keep squeezing." Pete said, walking down the long hall to his room, pain palpable and a certain degree of defeat evident. As he passed the table, he stepped onto Michelle's cake, that had been tossed to the floor by his father, further destroying it in one movement.
"Happy Birthday, Pete." Tom said, through tears.
Todd said nothing.
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