Chapter Text
The lights swung back and forth in the kitchen, keeping in time like a metronome of consequence watching overhead, a shaking finger of some archangel ruling judgement in a dingy golden hue against linoleum tiles and brown shag carpeting. The pooling, they both watched as the carpet simply drank it in, the spindly and dingy shag turning just a darker color, as if to hide the crimson from innocent eyes. It was different from that time Stan spilled juice on the carpet, it just darkened and looked damp, thankfully He never noticed and Stan didn’t get beaten that time. He would have noticed this one though, it was thick and weighed down the fibers, a small lake being formed in their childhood living room; filling up and branching out like rivers in the amazon. The rivers they dreamed about running away to.
“F-F-Ford…”, Stan stuttered, shakily holding his throat gingerly, his voice cracked trying to crawl out through the bruising flesh. Stan was shaking, sitting where he fell on the carpet, looking up at his brother. They both locked eyes, wide and glossy, re-playing to each other through their expressions what had happened. They then slowly turned their attention down to where He was.
His face was down in the carpet, His hat knocked off into the corner, showing the hairs on his head moving slightly from the living room fan above. He laid unnaturally, like a doll that was thrown to the side: limp, flat, and askew. The wrinkles in His suit would have driven him to levels of rage only seen once before, the day mom wore darker eyeshadow and tinted glasses. ‘For fashion’ she said.
They knew. But they couldn’t. Why did it take until today?
Ford stood there, his breathing rattling inside his chest, his skinny limbs shaking, legs looking like they could give out at any moment. His hands finally lost their vice grip and the trophy fell in the newly forming pond of darkness yawning into the carpet. The heat in his face began to die, leaving only cold droplets of sweat, a sickness spread over his body, his mind, he could feel it trying to escape through his skin. He swallowed hard and pushed his glasses back up, yet they fell again due to the sweat forming on his face.
“F-Ford?”, Stan asked again, watching his brother stand there, pallor and blank.
“W-we need to take care of this…before Ma wakes up..” Ford did his best to be composed, but the fear was still there in his belly trying to escape. He could fight the fear, he hadn’t been broken like his brother. Stan, though his hunkling frame was built to withstand every punch, every choke, every kick and toss, had become cracked inside like dried eggshells by the man on the floor. Stan had his arms wrapped around his legs, breathing quiet shallow breaths, staring at the mass on the carpet, expecting it to move and lunge for him. Ford walked around to his brother and grabbed his shoulder, bringing him back to the reality of what was really happening. Stan looked up to his brother, Ford’s eyes now looked dark and hollow, as if he wasn’t fully there.
“I need help getting rid of Pa, come on…” Ford said, his voice unwavering this time.
—
Stan didn’t know he broke it, Ford’s project, he thought everything would be fine. Ford was angry, of course, but he’d make it up to him. They’d solve it together, they always did, just the two of them. However, he didn’t expect Pa to be in the next room. The rage, the hate that man had for his ungifted son; it only took a moment and Stan was dangling in the air, being screamed at inches from his face, the stink of cigars and brandy clogging what little he could breathe. He tried to explain, tried to muster out some defence, but the tightening of his shirt collar and his Pa’s second hand grabbing under his chin made every sound die as it hit his lips. His Pa’s hand was thick and big enough to wrap itself around even Stan’s neck, gripping close his windpipe, each breath was becoming thinner as he wrestled against the arm that suspended him.
Stan could feel the pressure rise in his face, he struggled and kicked his feet as if trying to swim up for air. Everything was beginning to turn into pinpoints, but slowly the pain started to fade and a cooling numbness began to crawl up from inside, filling his throat, his arms, his legs…
“You cost this family MILLIONS, DO YOU UNDERSTA-”
Suddenly Stan was crashing into the ground, his back thumping onto the carpet, jump-starting his lung’s muscle memory to breathe again. The sharp inhale stung his throat and caused him to cough, small specks of red landing on his white shirt sleeve. He quickly gathered himself, grabbing at his own legs and pulling himself tightly in, trying to get as small as he could in case he reached for him again.
Then he saw him, laying there, his tinted glasses smashed, showing wide and glossy eyes, the sclera slowly showing pools of crimson stretching across. His Pa’s mouth gaped open, a long, low breath ghosting out, then nothing. He laid there, suit wrinkled, eyes locked forward. Stan looked up to see his brother standing there, one of his trophies in his hand, smashed in half. His eyes locked wide open, staring at the lifeless form beneath him.
“F-F-Ford…”
—-
He watched his brother flail in the air, their father wasn’t much taller than them, but he was stronger, much stronger. He held Stan in the air, one hand in a tight grip around his shirt collar, pulling the cloth tightly into his neck, the other hand gripping around under Stan’s chin. Ford watched as his brother's eyes rolled back, his face was losing color, tongue nearly lolling out.
He was dying.
Cerebral hypoxia was setting in, Ford thought. He didn’t know what to do, he wondered if this would just end soon, as it usually did. His father would drop him to the ground, Stan would scamper up, curse at them both and run out the door for the night, only to return the next day, stinking of cigarettes and sweat.
That’s what always happened. He’d let him go. He’d drop him.
Except he wasn’t going to. Ford knew. Last time his Ma and Pa got in a fight, he heard her scream. He heard the crack of contact. He heard her whimper and cry out. She tried to smile for weeks after that, but her eyes welled up when she tried to look at her sons.
Stan’s legs had started to slow in their kicks.
On the far right shelf, the adornments of Ford's accomplishments stood there, everything his father praised him for. Revelry for his gifted son and beat down everything and everyone else that got in the way of his little retirement plan; Ford was his little cash cow, his prized show pig.
Pa wasn’t letting go. Ford had to make him. Ford had to make it stop.
He walked around the couch, eyes locked on his father and his brother. He reached for one of the trophies, a long cylindrical one, adorned at the top with the symbol for atomic energy. He would just knock him out slightly, make him drop Stan. That’s all, just make it stop, make him drop his brother. Just make him let go. He was sure he could aim it just right.
Stan let out a gurgle. His legs stopped swinging, arms ceased their clawing for release.
Heat rose in Ford's face, he stared wide-eyed at the back of his fathers head. The trophy swung back further in his hand than he originally intended to. All he saw was white.
“You cost this family MILLIONS, DO YOU UNDERSTA-”
The trophy snapped in half on contact. Blood splattered from the side of his fathers head and sprayed onto the paneling and dirty green wallpaper of the living room. There was direct contact with the temple all the way to the back of the skull. The initial grip under his brother’s throat was released and Stan’s limp body went tumbling to the ground, the contact pushing air back into his body. He heard his brother gasp for life once again and Ford felt the heat in his face begin to dwindle.
He looked down at the crumpled form of his father, the wetting of his fathers blood into the carpet spreading like clusters of roots until they gathered in a thick basin. It looked almost geological, the mountain of his fathers head creating ravines through the forests of the threads of the shag. It was poetry, like the birth of Athena from her own father’s head; a metaphorical death bestowing new life. The imagery captured in his steel trap of a mind to savor for all time.
“F-Ford?” Stan called to his brother again, Ford not having heard him the first time.