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Mark prayed internally as the bus came to a loud screech. He pulled himself up and out of the grey, stained bus seat and slowly walked behind a few others as they all got off the bus one by one. Mark looked around at the frigid, dark street. It was the middle of fall, and the weather was not being forgiving. His hair flipped all to one side as he walked to one of the nearby buildings; the weather was more annoying to him than anything.
god, I need a smoke.
He felt his back against the coarse brick wall of some diner that still had its lights on. After a few minutes of taking in the city and watching his back the whole time, he flicked the cigarette away and took off into the sky. Taking that bus ride has really put a crick in his neck, but he allowed himself to let go of whatever frustrations he had about it, knowing it wasn't worth his time, and only aggravating his neck further would make it ache more.
After a moment in the air, he finally flew down, a backpack slung over his shoulder, staring at the two-story house he grew up in. A pit began to form in his stomach, an achy feeling he really didn't want to think too much about. He kept telling himself it was okay in his head, but the reality was that he knew what he was in for, and it would not end as well as he had planned.
Mark closed his eyes and took in the breeze before reaching down and grabbing his phone out of his pocket and staring down at the numbers on his phone.
8:06
Mark sighed, knowing his father would be awake. He slowly lifted one foot after another and made his way up the steps, his house already smelling from just outside the front door —a slight scent that reminded him of endless lectures and disappointed looks. That feeling, resulting in the pit in his stomach, festering into a deep awareness, actually fully realizing what he would be up against. Feeling like he was at the highest point of a rollercoaster, he fully controlled when to go down the curve.
His hands were clammy, his heart was slowly speeding up, but in a display to himself only to show he had courage, he opened up the front door and walked in, softly closing it behind him without turning, letting his hand fall behind to close it as he scanned the front of the house. The sense was that he had stepped into a trap with his own knowledge of what it was. He had to make this quick.
Before Mark could even take another step into the home, his father spoke from the kitchen, “Not even going to greet your father?” His dad spoke coldly, not looking over his shoulder as Mark gradually took a few steps in, his father perched at one of the barstools on his computer, a glass of red wine next to him
figures.
Mark didn't want to respond, but he was honestly expecting worse. “I haven't been around.. Just came to get a few things from my room.” His legs started to make their way upstairs, one foot after another, his dad glancing over as he walked up them, not saying a word, casually going to grab his glass of wine as he contemplated the words his son had spoken.
Mark shut his door and took a deep breath. His eyes caught on a picture on his corkboard, the picture encouraging him to look around the room at all his old has-beens. It all felt like junk at this point in his life, dumb CDs he would never give attention to again, clothes he had grown out of. It felt like he had just been here, yet the memory seemed so distant.
After a few seconds of taking in his surroundings, he made his way over to his bedside table and pulled it away from the wall. He moved his gaze slightly down to ensure it was still there, and it was.
It was a plastic bag, but inside were more plastic bags around whatever he had, making it unidentifiable from the outside. He slung his backpack over and leaned down, grabbing the medium-sized ziploc bag that would barely close. He stuffed it in his backpack.
He stood back up, zipping up his bag, but before he could really leave, his eyes caught sight of the photo, with the smiles displayed proudly. He stared at it blankly and then reached up, grabbing the inked paper and putting it in his pants pocket before walking to his bed. He wanted to sleep, but knew he couldn't.
Mark sighed and lay back on his bed, his bag next to him and still around his arm. Staring up at the same ceiling, the same fan on his ceiling that stopped working when he was a kid, of course, his dad wouldn't move a single thing. Go figures.
After minutes of relaxing on his bed, trying to comfort the pain in his neck, he eventually gained enough energy to hoist himself up, rubbing his eyes a bit and fixing his hair in the back, hating when it flattened down like that. Finally, he made it to the door and found himself taking his steps closer to the stairs lazily, aware that his relaxed demeanor had given way to a defensive one.
Sadly, as he stood at the top of the stairs and started going down, he could see his father had now closed his laptop and was pouring more wine in the kitchen. He closed his eyes and took a breath before hearing his voice again cut off Mark's thoughts as he walked down the staircase.
“And where are you going, finally finding a job?” Nolan spoke up, his expression a little calmer than before, but it was probably the alcohol that had just begun kicking in. But his voice was just as sharp as ever.
Makr knew that he had to respond, even if he wanted to ignore his father; Nolan had used his powers against him before. “You don't know what I do..” He said even more coldly, standing at the bottom of the steps, he didn’t mean for it to sound so harsh, but his guarded attitude filtered it that way.
“There you go, no respect,” Nolan spoke, taking another sip of his wine, closing his eyes. Mark didn't respond for a moment, which gave Nolan time to speak up Mark knew he just had to take it. “So I haven't seen you in four months, show up with even more metal on your face and expect not to be questioned or to even talk to your own father?” His question was slurred, and he spoke with venom in his tone, almost as if he wanted to cause conflict.
Honestly, Mark had heard enough. He stared off and away from his father; his dad was honestly going easy on him. He hadn't expected him to be exactly nice. “I have to leave, da-”
“Mark Grayson, I am talking to you, answer me.” his voice was a lot louder than before, staring Mark down as Mark also jerked his head to look at his father. The pit in Mark’s stomach had now faded into a numbness and nostalgia throughout his entire body; his expression was devoid of emotion. There was so much space between them, but the tension was so thick. But Mark still didn’t answer
“Silence? You fucking brat,” Nolan complains, gritting his teeth, his voice growing with frustration, finishing the small amount in his glass before going to pour another glass. “Your mother would be disappointed-”
“Don’t talk about mom.” Mark cut off, his voice piercing the tension.
Mark's expression was now irate, and his voice sounded more guarded than before. Mark's defensiveness really made Nolan chuckle. He slowly set down the glass in his hand, beginning to hover, and swiftly flew to the front of his son, passing over him, his expression darker, almost malicious.
“I will speak of my wife whenever I please,” Nolan said. All of a sudden, his voice sounded cruel. He pulled his hand up rapidly, grabbing Mark's hair and pulling his head back, forcing Mark to look at him. “Ungrateful child, she would be sickened at what you've become. Death was the reward she never knew she would need, not to be the mother of a son so unsatisfactory.” Nolan gritted his teeth, almost like he was trying to hold back from saying even more. Then he jerked his head back and pushed Mark back against the stairs hard, now putting some more unnecessary pain directly onto his body, his lower back this time—the face and voice he had used, inhumane, like he was actually speaking to an animal.
Mark stared down, not glimpsing at his father, not wanting to give him the satisfaction after the fact, he shoved himself up off the stairs as Nolan looked down at him, and Mark started walking towards the door, his feet heavy and emotional.
“I'll come see you in a few days...” Mark managed to let the words pour out of his throat, his voice trying not to sound sad, but it definitely did a little. Owing his father more respect than merited.
And with that, Mark left, striding out of his childhood house and shutting the door as he walked back out into the cool air. It honestly felt refreshing.
He closed his eyes and took in a full breath, trying to tell himself again that it was all okay, a habit he had grown accustomed to at this point, being his own support system.
He knew his father would be watching, and to uphold his father's ideal, he walked down the path and then down the street, the breeze comforting him like a cool rag while he had a fever.
Soon after minutes of walking, he looked back down the dark street and shot up into the air, looking around. He hadn't decided what to do next, but he had to run an errand. He slowly went down to drop off the package he had grabbed from his family home, then shot back up into the air, gradually still typing on his phone. He sighed and slipped the phone in his pocket, his brain going a little numb again.
He slowly lowered himself after a few minutes of flying onto a roof. He laid his bag next to him and looked out across the yellow lighting of the campus, where some people walked past, but none would see him.
Mark pulled out a small metal container from the front pocket of his black bag that had been covered with pins and rips. He limply opened up the small metal box and took out a joint, putting it to his lips and grabbing the lighter from the same box.
After lighting up, he leaned back on the slanted, scalloped roof and stared at the clouds, focusing on his breathing. He was feeling a lot more grateful to be able to breathe recently.
He coughed a little, then called himself a pussy for it before dragging another longer hit, letting the smoke fill his lungs without a second to think.
Mark, after a while of smoking and just taking in the calm breeze, it is becoming chillier by the day. He put his phone in his bag and slumped down, looking down at his hands for a moment. He couldn’t decipher how he felt, but knew it would be easier once he fulfilled his second arrend. Clarity.
He slowly snatched his bag and let himself slide down the roof a small bit and free-fell onto the sidewalk of the campus. He turned and started pressing digits into the door keypad, entering the entry right behind where he had fallen. Even if someone saw, they probably felt like they were seeing something.
He looked down at his hand as he walked through the halls, having a number and letters written on his hand directing him to his next goal. He looked at his scrappy handwriting and up to the signs.
34A-44A
He hummed and walked towards the sign, then went down the hall, looking over the various posters and items that the girls had up. None of it exactly interested him, but it was a nice change of pace, something normal.
Finally, after the short walk down the hall, he turned and looked at the dry-erase board, which featured a little doodle of two girls, one of whom looked familiar, while the other he assumed was a roommate.
39A
He bit the inside of his cheek and looked down at the number on his hand, almost trying to extend the duration before he had to knock on the door.
But he reached his hand up and knocked, clearing his. He didn't want to, but he did. He heard voices through the door, and then it clicked open. A red-haired woman looked at him with a confused face.
The woman stared at him with a questioning face, almost like she was asking him what he was there for without saying it.
“y/n here?” He asked, his voice huffing but sounding a little friendly in tone.
She looked him up and down before pulling away. He could hear her announce that you had a guest waiting, a few seconds, and then. You.
He stared at you, it felt like it was all in slow motion, the way she looked at his chest at first, then found her way up to his eyes, every feeling of guilt, fear, or anger was now gone and replaced-
“What the hell, Mark?”