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Sullivan stumbles hastily down the familiar London street, unsteady, frantic, scared. The violent bruises swelling around his bloody face and battered ribs stunt his progress, each laboured breath feeling like red-hot needles in his lungs. He looks at his watch with hazy eyes, past the broken glass, past the blood, his blood—
Oh, no. No, no no no, he’s going to be late, he can’t be late—
He breaks into a lurching run. Pain lances through him with every stride, nerves set alight, his whole body screaming in protest. He grits his teeth, bites back a yelp — he won’t stop, he can’t stop, no matter how much he wants to.
Down the street, through the gate, carefully, quietly, don’t let it creak— Up the front path, to the door— The keys—
No, the keys were in his jacket pocket, and he doesn’t have his jacket anymore. It’s still in that alleyway, bloodstained and torn. Unsalvageable.
Christ, his father will be furious. Not even two months as a constable, and he’s already lost his uniform jacket. Stupid, useless—
The time, he reminds himself. He desperately grasps at the door handle, pushing with what little strength he’s got left.
It’s unlocked. He heaves a bone-shuddering sigh of relief as it swings open, silently thanking the God he doesn’t believe in anymore. Trying not to leave a trail of bloody fingerprints behind him, he staggers down the hallway and into the dining room.
“I’m sorry, sorry, I-I’m so sorry—”
He hardly registers his mother’s gasp as he collapses into his seat, heart thundering in his chest. Only notices her worry, her fear, when she begins to rise, reaching out for him, saying his name—
His father shoots her an icy look, and she freezes. Halfway out of her chair, hand outstretched, as though suspended in time.
“You’re late, Edgar.” His voice is cold, unfeeling, angry, without even a hint of concern.
Sullivan shrinks from his fierce glare. Struggles to dredge up the words he needs to soften the blow, his thoughts still clouded by adrenaline and pain.
“Er, yes, well, I— There were these men, and I couldn’t— I mean, I tried—”
“I’m not interested in excuses,” his father snaps. He casts a critical eye over Sullivan’s dishevelled state. “Are you a policeman or not?”
“…Yes, sir.” He sounds as pathetic as he feels.
It’s like he’s still a child. Like he’s been sat down in his father’s study, legs too short to reach the floor, and lectured for the crime of dirtying his shirt, or playing too loudly.
Fear surges through him as he remembers the consequences of these past transgressions. An iron grip on his wrist, dragging him towards the tiny little coal hole in the kitchen. Desperately begging his father not to put him in there again; promising to be good, to be obedient, but still being shoved into the pitch-black cupboard by a harsh hand. The door slamming behind him, the key turning in the lock— trapping him in there, in the tiny space where it was dark and cramped and he could feel things crawling on him and he couldn’t breathe.
He’s too big for that particular punishment now, thank God. But out of the corner of his eye, past the blood still dripping from his temple, he can see his father’s fingers twitching and tightening on his cutlery, as if itching to curl into a fist and hit someone.
“Grace. Sit.”
Sullivan’s gaze darts over to his mother. She’s still halfway out of her chair, hand outstretched, watching the two of them with something akin to indecision on her face. For one horrible, tense moment, Sullivan thinks she’s building up to refuse the sharp order — but then she seems to think better of it. Her hand pulls back, but her eyes, wrinkled with concern, stay fixed on him.
“I’m alright, Mother,” he quietly reassures her, even though he feels anything but. His head is spinning and pulsing, nausea crashing through him in waves he barely manages to keep down, and it hurts, God it hurts…
But there’s no sense in both of them earning his father’s ire, so he says none of this. He can deal with the injuries himself later, in the bathroom with the first aid kit, as he always does. For now, he just needs to be strong.
He gives her a pleading look, horribly aware of his father’s sharp eyes boring into his skull, desperate for his mother to stop putting herself in danger. She meets his eyes, a painful understanding passing between them — he wants, needs to protect her, even if it means another beating, more injuries to his already battered body.
“’m alright,” he says again. His voice catches, a slight tremble that he knows his father won’t be happy about.
Slowly, reluctantly, his mother sits back down. Thank God.
“Clean yourself up and go to your room,” his father says sharply. “You can go without dinner tonight.”
“Walter…” A tiny little protest, a defiance that could well get her hurt. Sullivan swallows as his father rounds on her again.
“So you think I should reward his bad behaviour, do you?”
His mother squirms uncomfortably. “I…”
“Do you?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Do you?”
Sullivan’s heart clenches as he watches the exchange. Watches his mother stutter against the fierce questioning; watches her bow her head, a silent acquiescence to keep the peace. Even through his hazy vision, he can see the defeat on her face, the pain in her eyes. And he wishes, more than anything, that he could help. Wishes he could stand up for her without making everything worse.
His father gives her a superior look, then turns back to Sullivan. “Go, now. We’ll talk about your disgraceful behaviour in the morning.”
A hollow opens up in Sullivan’s stomach. But really, he’s not sure what he’d been expecting. For his father to pull him into a hug and tell him everything’s alright? For him to actually care, for once? That was never going to happen.
He carefully pushes back his chair and forces himself to his feet. A fierce pain sears through him, his vision lurching and distorting as his body screams in protest. He’s going to be sick, he’s going to cry, but he can’t cry, he’s not allowed, he’ll get hurt—
Just take a step, he silently tells himself. Just… go. Just go. Before it’s too late.
He staggers away, out of the dining room, breaths wheezing in his chest. Down the hallway, across to the stairs, more by muscle memory than by his blurred vision. It’s alarming, the world swimming around him in a mass of vague shapes and colours, his stomach roiling in sync. Bloody hands grab at anything solid to keep himself steady.
Fingerprints. His father will be furious.
His legs tremble under his weight, knees suddenly buckling— He pitches forwards, crumpling, panicked, desperate— Arms grabbing at the banister, wrenching himself to a stop before he hits the floor. A cry slipping from his mouth before he can stop it.
He freezes. Listens for movement over the thundering in his ears. One… two… three… four… five…
A slow breath out. He’s safe.
Slowly, painfully, he drags himself upright, knuckles white on the handrail. Aching feet catch on the risers as he forces himself up the stairs, clinging to the banister so he won’t get even a speck of blood on the wall. Damaging the patterned wallpaper, he knows, is a crime his father won’t forgive.
He’s only halfway up the staircase when his legs begin to fail again. His foot slips, floor disappearing from under him, panic lurching through his stomach. Grip slipping from the handrail, frantically grabbing at the spindles to stop himself falling any further.
Keep going, he silently urges himself. Father can’t see this, keep going, don’t let him see…
But he can’t get up, can’t even drag himself to his feet this time. Battered face alight with shame, he crawls up the next step, then the next. The weight on his right wrist shoots a shock of intense pain through his nerves, a sure sign it’s broken. Bitter bile fills his mouth, vision fading out for a few alarming seconds as he retches and wheezes, lungs burning in his chest.
He has to keep going. If nothing else, the steady dripping of blood onto the stairs is sure to incense his father if it continues, and it’ll only give his mother more work to do when she’s inevitably ordered to clear up the mess.
Up one step, then another… every movement agony, every exertion bringing him closer to passing out… until finally, finally, he reaches the landing.
He allows himself time to rest, now. Lies on his back on the hard wooden floor, chest heaving, black spots dancing at the edge of his hazy vision. Lets himself recover just a little, to prepare for the next leg of his journey.
He’s got work tomorrow. No doubt his father will force him in, despite his mother’s protests — a routine they’ve been through so many times before. Sullivan has worked with a concussion, with bruised ribs, even with a broken arm one time when he’d really pushed his father too far. But this… No, it’s too much. He can’t do it, won’t be able to, even though he has to, because taking time off isn't an option. It’s unbecoming of a Sullivan; an admission of failure that he doesn’t dare make.
The distant scraping of chairs against the floor drifts up the stairs. Sullivan’s laboured breaths catch in his throat. If his father comes upstairs, sees him lying here…
With a marked effort and gritted teeth, he forces himself to his feet once more. Stumbles forward, down the corridor. His hand trails along the wood-panelled wall, touching each doorknob as he passes: his bedroom, his father’s study, his parents’ bedroom… the bathroom.
He grabs the handle and shoves the door open. Shuts it behind him — carefully, quietly, because his father can’t know he’s here, can’t find out he’s flouting the direct order to go to his room. He staggers blindly to the cabinet in the corner, pulls it open, reaches up to the top shelf where the first aid kit lives…
White-hot pain shoots through him. He lurches backwards, slamming into the wall, head barely missing the sink as he crashes to the floor. Sparks fly across his vision as the first aid kit clatters down by his side.
His heart thunders in his head. Bones ache, nerves burn, like he’s been pressed against a lit stove. He takes a gasping breath, struggling to draw in enough air.
He feels pathetic. Lying on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, staring at the vague haze that he thinks is the ceiling. Blood dripping, smearing, red streaks against stark white.
He can’t stay here. But he can’t leave without cleaning up; his father will see the blood, will know he was being disobedient. And then there’ll be sharp words and shouting and punishment, and he can’t deal with that, not now, not on top of everything else—
Frantically, desperately, Sullivan grasps for his towel. Swallows down more bitter bile as he stretches, bloody hands finally closing around the coarse fabric. The frayed edges tell him he’s got the right one; his parents’ had been replaced recently, but he’s still saving to get a new one for himself.
His vision begins to close in at the edges as he swipes at the floor with the towel. Hurried, frantic movements over the vague red streaks, unsure what he’s doing, unsure if he’s making things better or worse. He just knows he has to hide it. Hide himself.
Hide himself. Yes, he should, no, needs to leave. Go to his room, like he’d been told.
He inches forward on trembling hands and knees, forcing himself through the surging pain and nausea. His father’s voice echoes in his head, repeating harsh words Sullivan has heard so many times before — pathetic, useless, weak.
Time seems to warp around him as he crawls, almost drags himself away from the bathroom. He’s hardly aware of how he’d got through the door, or how he’s halfway down the hallway already. It’s all fuzzy, his head is fuzzy, it doesn’t make sense.
His fingers scrape against the hardwood floors. A little dip, a creaky floorboard; he’s almost to his room, now. Almost away from his father’s anger, almost safe. Or as safe as he can be in this house, anyway.
A sudden sound makes his blood turn to ice. Footsteps. Slow and steady, up the stairs.
His father.
Panic spears through him, adrenaline flooding his aching body. He practically throws himself at his door, hand scrabbling at the handle until it finally turns, the door swinging open, letting him into his safe haven.
Sullivan collapses onto the threadbare rug, coughing and wheezing. Ragged breaths turn to awful retches that tear through his throat, lungs burning from the exertion of it all. A twitch of his leg knocks the door shut.
His bed is so, so close. So tantalisingly near to his crumpled body, almost within reach of his outstretched fingers. Sullivan longs, aches to crawl into it, to wrap himself in the soft blankets and drift off to sleep. Comfortable, peaceful, like coming home to a warm fire after a day out in the cold London streets.
His hand twitches. It’s all he can manage, now. The hard rug scratches against his pale skin, pressing painfully into the mottled bruises littering his body. His eyes prickle with tears he knows he’s not allowed to shed.
Pathetic.
The pain crescendoes, a symphony of injuries, of agony, that crashes over him with every laboured breath. His already blurry vision stutters and fades. Darkness takes hold of him, dragging him under.
In his last lucid moments, Sullivan finds himself crying out for his mum.