#I AM SOBBINF THAT WAS SO BAD. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

constel-langst-ions · 7 years ago

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Hide, Hide, Hide P.1

Guess who decided to join the abused/orphan Lance train?? (Part 2 will be added soon cause tumblr is a bitch)

Yeah, me.

(I AM using other fics I have read as a reference. This story will contain sexual, verbal and physical abuse, HOWEVER, the sexual abuse will NOT be detailed. It will be implied. Please tread lightly while reading!)

@langst-is-fine Here’s your bday fic, my friend. I love you and your writing, and I hope you had an awesome birthday. Thank you!

—

Lance sat in a small closet. He breathed heavily, his breaths coming in short, shaky bursts. He was panicking.

He was only four years old. He already knew the way he felt wasn’t normal.

Yet, he didn’t speak up. Only listened to his dad yell at his mom.

Lance flinched when he heard glass break, followed by a pained scream.

He put his hands over his ears and sobbed. His mom didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve this.

And yet, it still happened.

He rocked himself back in forth, trying to block out the sounds of rage-filled yelling, words slurring because his dad drank too much that day. He could only imagine it.

His dad, in boxers and an unbuttoned button-up, alcohol staining his shirt. A greasy, unshaven face, with shaggy hair.

His mom, wearing her work outfit of a black skirt and black polo shirt, having just come home from her job as a waitress.

Her head, bleeding, from where Lance’s dad had hit her with the empty bottle, it breaking into millions of tiny pieces, cutting both himself and causing his mom to scream out.

For Lance to melt into a panic attack, loudly sobbinf and begging for his dad to stop, pleading although he was across the house.

Lance didn’t know when he had gotten up, or gone to the living room. When he picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1, the number his mother taught him if his dad was being particularly bad that day.

He didn’t know what the operator said, only that he begged for her to send cops to their house. For them to stop dad from hitting mom. For the yelling to stop.

He shakily hung up, not having the willpower to continue the talk.

He went back to the closet and sat down on the dusty floor, coats brushing the top of his head.

He fell asleep before the police arrested his dad and rushed his mom to the hospital.

—

She died.

Lance was four, and his mom was dead.

Dad had cracked open her skull with the bottle, the force enough to do damage.

They didn’t have the money, Lance’s family, to keep her alive.

So, they didn’t.

His mom was dead and his dad was in jail.

His aunts and uncles didn’t want another kid to care for, another mouth to feed. Didn’t want to waste money on a good-for-nothing, anxiety ridden child.

He was put into the foster care system, instead.

—

Lance’s first foster family was great, in Lance’s opinion.

Thankfully, he was the only child within that household.

His foster mom was an accountant, and she had her own office within the house, where she took clients in sometimes.

His foster dad was a salesman, selling property to others. He was good at debating, and Lance loved sitting with him for hours on end, listening to him talk to potential buyers over the phone.

Lance loved his foster mom’s, Lissandra’s, hugs. They were big, and warm, and safe.

His foster dad, Ron, liked to take Lance out star-gazing on the big field behind their house.

They also had a dog, named Ace. It was a mangly little thing, fur wild and unkempt.

Lance loved that dog.

But as we know it, all good things come to an end.

When Lance was eight, his dad lost his job and his mom lost clients, they had to put him back in the system.

It was hard for them, too. They whispered good luck’s in his ear, and goodbye hugs.

Lance’s next home was his last, and most horrible one. He wished he got out of it sooner than he had.

—

Now, Lance’s second home didn’t start out terrible. It was good, actually.

But, as they say, put a frog in boiling water and it will jump out; put a frog in warm water and turn the heat up to boiling, it will stay until it dies.

The frog was Lance.

Lance’s home was great, actually. He had 3 siblings, two oldee sisters an an older brother.

His brother was named Elias, and he was 14.

His youngest sister was 13, and her name was Valeria.

His oldest sister, and sibling, was Lynn. She was at the ripe old age of 16.

None of them were related, and came from different homes and situations, but all were adopted by their foster mom, Nora, and foster dad, Bryson.

Lance came from an abusive household.

Elias came from a family of drug addicts.

Valeria came from a home with just her mother, who overdosed.

Lynn’s parents died when she was 12. She had been in their current home since then.

The home turned sour when Lance turned 9, just several months after going there.

—

The abuse started out minor. No food for dinner, locked in a closet. At least, Lance considered it minor.

His siblings recieved worse treatment.

Sometimes, Bryson dissapeared into a room with Lynn while Nora was away at work, and she would come out shaken, cheeks tained with tears.

When asked by Lance, Valeria and Elias, she simply told them not to ask again.

So they didn’t.

Valeria and Elias seemed to understand. They rubbed her back and whispered soothing words.

Lance, being young, didn’t know what was going on until it happened to him a few weeks later.

He remembered the first time clear as day; Lynn had screamed and begged Bryson when he had grabbed Lance by the wrist and drag him into a room.

She pleaded that he don’t do it to Lance, to take her instead.

Bryson had slapped her, the sound echoing through the empty house.

She fell.

Valeria and Elias picked her up and ran somewhere else, Bryson pushing Lance into the bedroom.

Lance listened to the sound of the door clicking.

“Now, Lance..” Bryson had slurred, an empty vodka bottle on the nightstand. “You’re gonna be a good boy for Daddy, yes?”

Lance shook. A part of Lance told him to go along so he wouldn’t get hurt.

So he meekly nodded. “Y-yes.”

“Good.” Bryson purred, picking Lance up by his arms and setting him on the bed.

“We’re going to start by you undressing for daddy.”

—

Lance lefted the room briefly after, shaking and scratching his skin. He didn’t like how he felt.

He went and found his siblings in their room, and they engulfed him in a hug, Lynn sobbing and apologizing profusely.

Lynn was left alone after them, no matter how much she yelled and begged Bryson to leave Lance alone.

He liked Lance better.

So, Lance got used to it, and overtime, he hated being touched.

By the time he was 13, he couldn’t be touched at all. Bryson had stopped bringing him into rooms when he was 12, resorting to hitting and slapping hin instead.

He reacted negatively to any touch, even his sibling’s.

They only cooed to him after he nearly had an anxiety attack when Elias had touched his arm.

He learned to do makeup when he was 14, after Bryson started leaving noticable bruises on him and the others.

He learned how to put on primer and concealer, and how much to cover the bruises up.

He and his siblings learned how to easily lie, or change the subject. It was second nature.

When his friends from school pretended to lash out at him, he flinched hard.

He told them it was nothing when he asked.

He lived like that for the next 3 years of his life.

—

His siblings had left the house long before.

Lynn, when she was 19.

Elias and Valeria left as soon as they were old enough to. Now Lance was 17, applying to the Garrison. He had one shot to get it, or he would never succeed.

He cried when he got his acceptance letter, being accepted on a full ride scholarship that covered all his expense, even the plane ride to Arizona.

That night, he packed up his belongings and left for the Garrison. It would be his first calm day in years.

#no homo bro #langst #my writing

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