Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Location: Sarasota Springs, Florida
Date: Saturday, May 3rd, 2007
Time: 5:04 PM

The attic was quiet—so quiet that Bob could hear the soft hum of cicadas through the slanted, dust-flecked windows. The Florida sun cast golden streaks across the attic floorboards, catching on long-forgotten corners and half-filled shelves stacked with old board games, shoeboxes, and sun-warped CD cases. A boxy TV sat in the corner, screen dark but surrounded by VHS tapes with hand-written labels. It smelled like warm dust, wood, but to Bob, it was peaceful. 

It was the only place in the house that felt like it belonged to him . His parents never came up here. No yelling, no slammed doors. Just stillness.

He was curled up on the smaller of the two lumpy couches, knees drawn to his chest. In his hands sat a Rubik’s Cube, the soft, methodical clicking of shifting tiles filling the air like a heartbeat. Bob liked puzzles. They gave his hands something to do, kept his brain moving so he wouldn’t have to sit too long in the dark places of his mind. The Rubik’s Cube had been a birthday present from his mother. He had just turned ten the week before.

He hadn’t expected anything. His mom forgot things—especially birthdays. Especially his. The drugs made her brain slippery, like sand running through your fingers. And even if she remembered, his father would usually make sure no money was spent on anything "stupid." But the cube had shown up one day in a little wrinkled paper bag, and she'd looked almost proud handing it to him, her eyes glassy but hopeful. It was the first thing she’d given him in over a year.

The cube slipped between his fingers as he turned it again, orange aligning with orange, green to green.

Then—a crash.

Bob flinched.

It echoed through the floorboards beneath him, the sudden thump of wood against tile followed by the low, sharp growl of his father’s voice. Bob crawled to the edge of the attic space and peered down through the narrow slats between the boards. The Kitchen swam into view at broken angles.

His father stood towering above his mother, the old kitchen chair on its side beside them. Bob couldn’t make out the words, but the tone told him everything. It wasn’t rage—it was something colder, more dangerous. Something steady and controlled.

Then it happened. His father’s hand came up and struck her across the face.

Bob gasped. The Rubik’s Cube slipped from his hands and bounced softly onto the floor.

His father had never hit her before. Grabbed her? Yes. Pulled, shoved, yelled—yes. But never this. That was saved for Bob.

His breath caught in his chest, adrenaline flooding. For a moment he stayed frozen. Then he stood slowly, shakily and crept to the attic door. He eased it open, the wood groaning under the movement, and slipped down the stairs. Each step felt like glass beneath his bare feet.

He rounded the corner to the living room doorway, heart hammering.

He didn’t know it yet, but this was the day everything started to get worse.

Bob could feel his own breath hitching. His hands started to shake.

Then his father raised his hand again.

Bob didn’t think. His voice came out before he knew he’d spoken.

"Dad?"

His father’s head snapped around like a whip. His eyes narrowed.

"What?"

Bob’s voice cracked. "L-Leave Mom alone."

The room went still.

His father’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed into slits. "What did you just say to me, Robert?"

Bob swallowed hard. His voice dropped to a mumble, eyes flickering between the floor and the fury etched across his father’s face.

"I said... leave her alone."

His father took a step forward. Bob forced himself not to back away.

"Speak up, boy."

Suddenly his father lunged, grabbing Bob by the arm and yanking him forward. Bob gasped, pain lancing up his arm.

His father's grip was iron-tight.

"Too scared now, huh? Think you're some kind of man? Standing up for your mommy now, huh?"

Bob looked to his mother. She sat frozen, her face expressionless, only the tight furrow of her brows betraying anything beneath.

"You think you're the man of this house? HUH?"

Bob didn’t answer fast enough.

The grip tightened to an unbearable point. Bob winced, eyes welling with tears.

"What, you gonna cry now? That it? Answer me, Robert!"

Bob tried to nod, his throat too dry, too locked up with fear to speak.

His father's hand came fast. A sharp backhand cracked across Bob’s cheek, the sound echoing through the house.

He stumbled back, eyes blurry with tears and stars. His cheek burned. His lip stung. Blood.

"ANSWER ME!" his father roared.

"Y-Yes!" Bob shouted, the word tumbling out, ragged and panicked.

"I CAN’T HEAR YOU!"

"I SAID YES!" Bob screamed.

Silence followed. His mother flinched. His father looked briefly stunned.

Then the anger returned fast.

"Watch your damn tone with me, boy."

And then, somehow—Bob stood his ground. His knees shook. His jaw trembled. But his voice, this time, came clearer.

"Leave Mom alone."

His father's fist curled. Bob barely had time to see it before the punch connected with his face.

He hit the floor hard, the world tilting sideways. A copper tang filled his mouth. His lip split, blood dripping down his chin. His head throbbed from the impact, vision swimming.

He tried to lift his head—tried to say something, anything—but a boot caught him in the ribs. Bob wheezed, the air leaving his lungs. Lightheadedness washed over him.

From somewhere above, he heard his mother shout, "Enough! Stop it, stop it, you're going to kill him!"

Bob tried to reach for her voice.

"Mom..."

Another crash. Her scream. His father’s growl.

Then—

Darkness.

 ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁· · ─ ·⚡︎· ─ · · ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Bob awoke slowly, still on the kitchen floor. Every inch of his body protested as he sat up. Dried blood cracked on his lips. His cheek throbbed with a deep, pulsing pain, and his ribs ached where his father's boot had pressed down with cruel precision. Moonlight spilled in from the window, casting long, pale shadows across the room.

The house was silent now—unnaturally so. As if it had buried the chaos from earlier beneath its floorboards.

Bob staggered to his feet, legs weak beneath him, and made his way down the dark hallway. On the way to his bedroom, he passed the open doorway to his parents’ room. They were asleep. Curled up together under their blanket, their faces calm, untouched by what had happened just hours earlier. It was like nothing had happened at all.

Bob stared at them for a moment. Something twisted in his chest—a sick, heavy feeling that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was betrayal. A terrible, hollow kind of sadness, like something inside him had been knocked loose and was now floating untethered.

He reached his room and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow. The sheets curled around him like arms, warm and familiar, but the comfort was short-lived. That twisting feeling in his gut had moved, creeping up into his lungs. It sat there like smoke, dense and choking, making it hard to breathe. The soft cotton of his blanket began to feel too tight, too hot—like it was pressing down on him instead of holding him.

He kicked the covers off and sat upright, gulping air. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not like this.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

He crept back up to the attic.

The air was cool and stale. Familiar. Safe, in its own way. He pulled down one of the puzzle boxes from the shelf and dumped the pieces onto the floor, the soft rattle of cardboard and plastic a welcome distraction.

Piece by piece, he began sorting them. Edges in one pile. Colors in another. His fingers moved quickly, robotically. He needed them to keep moving. If they stopped, if he gave himself even a second to think, the panic would creep in.

Puzzles made sense. They had rules. Borders. A right answer. They gave his hands purpose and kept his mind from spiraling into places he didn’t want to go. When the world felt too big, too cruel, puzzles shrank it into something manageable—into small, tangible pieces he could hold and control.

But even that wasn’t enough tonight.

His breathing hitched. His throat tightened. He blinked hard, trying to keep the tears back, but they came anyway—silent, steady, falling onto the puzzle pieces below. One slipped from his hand. A sob forced its way up his throat.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but his shoulders shook uncontrollably. The pieces blurred. He couldn’t stop the shaking. Couldn’t find the air.

One—two—three.

Breathe.

It wasn’t working.

He stumbled toward the couch and pulled the throw blanket down, wrapping it tightly around himself. Curled into a ball, he rocked slightly, grounding himself with the feeling of fabric against his skin. The panic began to ease, just a little. His breathing slowed. The tears still came, but quieter now.

Eventually, the exhaustion won.

Sleep took hold of him where he lay, cradled by shadows and the broken edges of a half-finished puzzle.

 ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁· · ─ ·⚡︎· ─ · · ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

When morning came Bob stretched out winching as he pulled at his bruises his footsteps light as he made his way down the steps. He crossed the doorway of his parents bedroom. His father was nowhere to be seen but his mother stood there, half-illuminated by hallway light, the other obscured by shadow.

He tried to say something to her, but before he could form the words, she slowly, silently closed the door in his face.

Bob stood there for a moment, numb. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well. Maybe she just needed sleep. Maybe it was the drugs. He swallowed the thought and turned away.

Over the next few days, Bob didn’t see his mother again. Not really. Sometimes he’d hear movement in her room, the click of the bathroom door, the creak of her bed. But when he knocked, there was no response. When he passed her in the hallway, she looked through him like he wasn’t there. 

Her eyes were vacant—flat, empty, like something behind them had finally burned out for good. Bob would try to say hello. She wouldn’t answer.

Meanwhile, his father’s temper grew shorter and sharper. He snapped at nothing. Sometimes at the television. Sometimes at the walls. Sometimes even at the empty air. The sound of his yelling became part of the fabric of the house.

Bob tried to stay quiet. To stay out of the way. He started doing more chores without being asked. He stopped asking for help with homework. He ate his meals quickly and alone, cleaning up before anyone could notice he’d been there. He didn’t speak unless spoken to.

But none of it mattered. His father would find something anyway. A dish left slightly wet. A towel not folded right. A sigh that sounded too much like disrespect. Any excuse to lash out.

The weight in Bob’s chest became something constant . At first it came and went, sharp and crushing during the fights. But now—it was just there. Always. Like a second heart beating slow and heavy in his ribcage. He stopped noticing the exact moments it would hit. It wasn’t panic anymore. It was a numb sort of dread. A quiet ache that blurred the days together.

And with it came the disconnection.

He no longer cried. Not even during the worst of it. The emotions felt too far away, like watching someone else’s life through frosted glass. Sometimes he imagined himself as a character in a show—just a role to play. If he acted right, stayed in line, maybe the story would end differently.

But it didn’t.

One night, after another long string of screaming and accusations, Bob limped up the attic steps without a word. The house had gone quiet again, save for the faint hiss of the TV downstairs. He was bruised, inside and out, but he didn’t flinch anymore when he looked in the mirror.

He walked to the old TV in the corner and sifted through the VHS tapes, fingers brushing past old cartoons and recordings of forgotten home movies. Then he found one—a black plastic case with a faded label: “Ultra Justice 9: Rise of Solaris.”

No one remembered that movie. It hadn’t even been that good. But Bob had watched it a dozen times.

He pushed the tape in and sat down on the couch, wrapping himself in a blanket. The screen crackled to life, and the grainy, oversaturated opening credits began to roll.

The hero in the film had no powers. Just gadgets. Wits. And the belief that anyone could be saved.

Bob watched as Solaris saved civilians from explosions, fought villains ten times his size, and always got back up. He never stayed down.

Bob’s eyelids grew heavy. The screen flickered in front of him, casting faint blue shadows across the attic walls.

As sleep pulled at him, he whispered the words so faintly they could barely be heard.

"I wish a hero would save me."