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02 June 2013 @ 07:25 am
Fanfic: Ruin (2/3)  

Title: Ruin
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Rating: Whatever (Meaning, I'm not entirely sure yet)
Warnings: Implications of child abuse, eventual graphic depiction of violence. The creation of a sociopath.
Summary: On and on it goes, an eternal battle where they lay the blame on each other, but mostly their son. Oma hears them across the hall, his only ally, and even then only sometimes. And he curls up in bed, knowing that somehow, this is his fault.

Notes: I settled on a length for this; I don't think I could drag Schuldig's realization of "self" out any further if I really wanted to.

No one says anything when he shows up to school with his face bruised. For most of the adults, he just blends into a mass of children from poor families. They think what troubled times they live in, although he's not sure what that means, and shake their heads.

His teacher feels pity when she sees him. She feels bad for the little boy, having his condition, and he knows that it's the same thing as being what Papa calls 'weak in the head.' Worst, she feels bad for his parents, having a son with a condition, as if it justifies that Papa hit him last night. She talks to him with a voice like molasses, all too sweet, and slow to make him understand.

Another little boy loudly asks, “What happened to your face?”

“I fell,” is the rehearsed answer, the one that Papa always tells him to give. The boy looks doubtful for a moment, but then his face develops a grin, and he he starts to laugh, even though it doesn't seem like it should be funny.

He may not be able to hit Papa back, but he can certainly hit this boy. His schoolmate is bigger than him, one of the biggest in his class, but he lands on the boy with all his weight and starts landing blows wherever he can. The room is full of yelling, the mental noise is so loud he can barely think, can barely even see. It doesn't make a difference, though, he's in autopilot.

A pair of adults finally manage to pull them apart and drag them to the office. The other boy is full of explanations, and so gets to leave. Not him. He sits there, focusing on a stain on the wall, trying to quiet the noise in his head. It's so loud, and he's starting to slip away from himself, and he needs to anchor himself.

There is a sharp tapping on his face, and he turns to look at the schoolmaster.

“What's wrong with him?” the schoolmaster asks his teacher.

“I'm pretty sure he has a condition,” the teacher says.”He's a strange child. Quiet, not always there. I'm sure his parents haven't told the authorities because they don't want the family split. From what I can tell, they're trying to get along the best they can.”

The schoolmaster nods in understanding and says, “I don't think a schoolyard brawl is something to trouble them with further. Still, he is at fault. There should be some consequence.”

“I can have him stay after,” the teacher says.

He's sent back to the classroom.

~ ~ ~

The Russian is becoming a constant presence in his mind, but it still takes nearly a month for him to ask who the Russian is.

Isador Maslovsky.

Where are you from, Herr Maslovsky.

St. Petersburg. The most beautiful city in the world. And you may call me Isador, Child.

He tries to imagine what the most beautiful city in the world would look like. Where he lives is grey and stark, but sometimes he can catch memories of bright places with tall buildings, covered in shiny windows. He once saw one of a busy square covered in lights.

That is New York, Isador says. It can be Hell for people like us to be in a city like that, with so many minds all the time.

That catches his attention. Can you hear people's thoughts, too?

I can. And I can block them out, too.


I've been taught how.

~ ~ ~

“Be careful of that man,” Oma says. “He is dangerous.”

“What man?” he asks.

“The man next door. The Russian.”

“He's not Gestapo.” He doesn't know why he's bothering to say that. Oma calls anyone she doesn't like Gestapo, whether she thinks they are or not.

“I fear he's worse.”

He stops packing his bag for school and looks at her curiously. He doesn't know most days whether what she says is real. But she's always made it clear that she thinks of the Gestapo as the purest form of evil. And what could be worse than that?

“He's like me,” he says, finally.

“Seen through a glass darkly.” She leans close and whispers, “He wants you. He looks at you, and thinks, 'when that boy grows up, he'll be beautiful.' He wants to possess that, in the most vile way. But listen...don't make any promises to him. And if you have to, break them. Break every one.”

His heart is pounding, and for the first time in many years he feels fear at Oma's words. He doesn't know exactly what she means about wanting him in the most vile way, and he's not sure he wants to know.

Only after he's left for school does he realize what his Oma had been implying about herself.

~ ~ ~

Papa finds out that he's been fighting at school. The other parents see his bruises, and they don't want to talk to Papa. They hear that he picks fights, and they don't want their children associated with him. When he won't tell Papa why he's been getting into fights, Papa yanks his arm around until tears form in his eyes, but he still won't say what happened.

“This is your fault, boy,” Papa says. "You brought this on yourself.”

The other boy may be bigger than he is, may have been targeting him daily since that first fight, but it's still his own fault. It's been made clear to him that it's always his fault.

Finally, Papa gives a frustrated growl and gives him a clout across the face. He'll be going to school with another bruise, and his teacher will look at him with pitying eyes and talk to him with her sickly sweet voice. But she won't do anything about it, because she knows that his parents have enough on their hands, their son having a condition.

As he walks to his room and sits down on his little bed, facing the hiccup in the wall, he can hear his father cursing his luck, having a son that's weak in the head.

The voices aren't as loud today; they've been muffled by the pain in his arm and on his face. He's learned that pain reminds him who he is, and which body is his own. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel it, and the voices fade further.

He wonders what it would be like, to have complete silence the way Papa does.

~ ~ ~

Your grandmother is quite powerful, Isador tells him.

Oma's crazy. He refuses to give up Oma's secret, even if someone else already knows.

Untrained minds tend to crack under pressure. Even ones as powerful as your “Oma's.”

He decides to change the subject. Why haven't I ever seen your face?

Because it's not time yet, Isador replies.

When will it be time? He doesn't know whether he ever wants it to be time, but it would be nice to at least have a warning. Oma may be crazy, but something about her words struck him.

Do you know who you are, yet?

He doesn't know what that means. He's still not entirely sure of his name, but he's sure Isador knows what it is. If Isador can hear things the same way he can, he must.

Finally, he replies, No.

Then it isn't time. There is a few moments pause, and then Isador asks, Why don't you hit your father back?

Because it's wrong. It seems like such an obvious answer to him.


You're not supposed to hit your parents, he replies after some thought.

That rule was invented by someone to keep control of their children. You should strike back, Child.

I can't.

Why? Is Isador's question.

Because, he replies. I'm too weak.

Child, you have no idea how strong you are.