Calamity

[Master Post – Glass]
Title: Calamity
Fandom: Viridian Legacy: Glass
Characters: Arkady
Rating: M
Warnings: References to violence and rape
Notes: I wasn't sure I'd ever tell this story. Actually, now that I look at it, I'm not wholly sure I have told this story. Arkady's a whole lot more screwed up than even he lets on, and he's a whiny little fuck. This is a tiny slice of why.

Home. Evan kept telling himself he needed to get home. If he got home he could shower. He could wash it all off and put his face back on and go to sleep. In the morning, no one would know. He was painted on, just like he was always painted on, and no one ever saw more than that.

But, if he went home, he'd still have to make it through the door. He'd have to get past his mom, and she'd expect him to say something witty and snide, like he always did, but he just wasn't sure he had it in him today. There was really only one thing he was sure he had in him, and he could've done with a little less of it.

He still hadn't moved, since they'd dropped him, and the tile was starting to warm up under his face. He needed to get home, but that meant he had to get up first. He didn't really want to get up. That was going to hurt. Actually, breathing hurt — he thought that was probably a broken rib. He'd hit the corner of the metal trash bin pretty hard. He knew he was bleeding, and not for the first time, he was extremely glad his clothes were black. Yeah, the blood would stain, but it wouldn't be nearly as noticeable.

That was another good reason to get up, actually. He wasn't sure how bad the bleeding was. Or how many places he was bleeding from. The nose, for sure, although he was pretty sure that wasn't broken. He had a pretty hard head. Maybe the eye, depending on how hard he'd gotten hit. Probably cut his lip on his teeth at least once — he could taste the blood. Definitely sliced his side on the corner of the trash bin. That one worried him more than a little. And that was the last one he was willing to consider. He was pretty sure there was more blood, but he'd rather ignore it. He'd rather just pretend that wasn't blood, and if he could just ignore the broken ribs for long enough to squeeze himself back into his jeans, he'd be able to put it out of his mind. Wouldn't have to look. Wouldn't have to know.

He just needed to get off the floor. Cautiously, he rolled onto his side and grabbed the waistband of his jeans. Normally it took some significant flexing and twisting to get into them, in the morning, and he made a point not to peel them off until he was sure he wouldn't have to see anyone for the rest of the night. At this point, halfway into a day, covered in sweat and god only knew what — actually, Evan was pretty sure he knew, but he very specifically wasn't thinking about that — he wasn't entirely sure he could even get them back on, but he had to try. There was no way he was walking out of this room in less clothing than he'd walked in. No one would ever know.

Out of all the girls, Liz was the only one who'd gotten him to actually strip. The memory of trying to get dressed again, in front of her, brought a faint smile to his face, as he squeezed his eyes shut and writhed back into his jeans. Liz. He'd go see Liz. He'd just tell her he got in another fight — that happened often enough. He'd borrow her shower. She'd ask him who it was, so she could make them regret ever having been born. And maybe he'd tell her, but more likely, he wouldn't. He almost never did. And this time he really couldn't take the chance that one of them would tell her what happened.

He lay on the floor for another few minutes, staring across the tile, trying to avoid the thought of getting up. It didn't work quite like he hoped. He could hear the door slam open on the next room, as the janitor worked her way through the building. He had about five or ten minutes to get out of there. Reaching up, he grabbed the edge of a sink and hauled himself to his feet.

Blue. Everything was blue. He couldn't make sense of it, as the world smeared across his vision — dancing black spots across the rippling blue-tinged reflection in the mirror across the wall behind the sinks. Everything hurt. Everything … He wasn't quite sure. He was dizzy and everything hurt. He was sure he was supposed to be doing something.

He looked up and saw the blood on his face, in the mirror. That, he could understand. That had to be cleaned up. He reached for paper towels and everything swirled back through his mind. Don't scream, he remembered thinking, don't fight, or they'll hurt you worse. It was what Liz always told him. Deep breaths, and just try to stay conscious, she always told him. He couldn't fight worth a shit, but he'd gotten pretty good at staying alive. This, though… He hadn't expected it. Nothing had ever gone this wrong, he reflected, washing the blood into the sink. The very idea had been so foreign that he'd fought back, despite his better judgement. And that had gotten him the broken ribs. Liz was right. Fighting was a horrible idea.

He listened to the sounds of cleaning from the next room. There wasn't really time to put his face back on — not completely. Powder and eyeliner, though. He could manage that. Spotting his bag where it had landed, kicked under a stall door, he bent and stretched to grab it. That didn't go quite as intended, he reflected, curling up in pain as he collapsed back onto the tile. With a faintly irritated snarl, he grabbed his bag and pulled out the compact of nearly-white powder, dusting it over his face without getting up. He'd get up when he was done, and then he'd leave. There'd be no more bending down, no more having to stand up. He'd just have to walk back to Liz's place. He was pretty sure he could do that in worse shape than this. He considered it as he grabbed his eyeliner and started to fix his eyes. In fact, after that one time in the park, he was pretty sure he had done it in worse shape.

Tucking the compact and the pencil back into his bag, he dragged himself to his feet again. He glanced in the mirror, as he limped out of the room. Looked like he had an hour or two before the bruises finished rising. Liz would help him cover it. She always did. It was just another fight.

He heard the door swing shut behind him and fought the urge to look back.

Just some bruises. No worse than this morning.