Chapter Text
Russell was a little boy.
He was a hurt little boy, so hurt that the bruises he wore sunk deep into his skin, down his bloodstream, up to his head. His mind bruised too. It turned shades of black, purple and blue, darkening and darkening under each blow his father dealt him. Each emptied bottle made Russell feel emptier.
The distance between him and his mother widened with every attempt to reach her. His heart cracked because she pulled back before they could touch, his heart shrivelled because she ignored his outstretched arms, his heart ached because she would hold any man at all but never her own son. It became a cold brittle little thing at the center of his chest.
To survive in the Seager household, a child needed to never complain, or cry, or care; so Russell became unable to feel anything just as it was necessary to do. He knew that he could only survive if he remained this way. He was aware how essential it was that he got rid of anything and anyone that threatened to change the perfectly impervious child he'd turned into.
The possibility to cause a death was never a big discovery for this particular little boy, nor was it something he thought was out of bounds. The fact that he could kill was a fundamental knowledge, just like breathing and walking were. Living beings were generally fragile, easily breakable, quickly forgettable, and they always eventually disappeared so they were ultimately meaningless. The skin would bleed red, the warm body would go cold, and no one would really hold onto the memory.
It was simple and easy.
A simple and easy way to survive.