Work Text:
The porch lights flickered a bit before shutting off.
Of course that damn bitch didn't pay the electric bill again.
John Bender, 17, grumbled something himself as he stomped out his cigarette and headed towards the garage. There was a battery-powered lamp in there somewhere, enough that he could go to his room without it being pitch black - the sun would set soon, and he didn't count on the power coming back anytime before then.
Of course it's on the top fucking shelf.
Bender sighed again before climbing on top of the lawn mower, giving himself some extra height to reach the lamp that was all the way on the back of the top shelf. He was on his toes now, just barely making it and... yes! He got a grip on the lamp and started pulling it towards himself. He was so eager to get down that he didn't realize how dangerous close his arm was to a slew of other objects placed haphazardly on the garage shelf.
That quickly changed when he heard a loud bang.
He had knocked a can of paint with his elbow, and it quickly slammed onto the ground, white paint leaking onto the dirty concrete. Fuck, fuck, fuck. John jumped off the lawn mower, setting the lamp down on the seat before picking up the can, hoping to stop even more paint from spilling than there already was. Maybe he could clean this up before anyone would notice...
"The hell is going on out here?! You're so damn loud"
Nope. Not this time.
"Dropped somethin'" John muttered as an answer, frantic as he tried to clean up as much as possible. He got paint on his boots and shredded jeans in the process.
"There's paint all over the fuckin' floor!" the man snapped, cigar in hand - Bender hated the smell. There was something about the brand his dad smoked...
"No shit!" he couldn't help himself, throwing his hands up "I'll - I'll clean it up, just lemme figure it out..."
"You wouldn't need ta clean up if you didn't fuck around in the first place! Damn it, John, look at that! You about ruined the fucking ground!"
"'M sorry, I - "
A wicked laugh came from the taller man's mouth.
"Don't fuckin' humor me. You never learn, huh? It's fuck-up after fuck-up, ain't it?"
John was silent.
"Exactly. C'mere, boy"
"Dad, really, I'll fix it alright? There's still at least half the can, it's - "
"I said, c'mere"
But the younger Bender still didn't move. For as much as he was considered a tough guy by the general amount of his peers, his dad terrified him - more than he would ever even admit to himself.
"Fuckin' damn it! Your ears stopped working or something?" his father grabbed onto the boys arm tightly, yanking him back.
"Really, I'll - "
"Shut your damn mouth!"
Bender found himself pinned to the hood of their shitty car as if he was being arrested. The side of his face was pressed into the not-so-shiny red paint that badly needed to be washed, and his hands were stuck on his back. He struggled a bit, which did him no good.
"You wanna go around wasting my paint, fucking up the floors in my garage?"
John had to bite back a comment about how the garage, along with the rest of the house, was already dirty regardless of spilled paint status.
His dad continued to rampage, which he attempted to tune out, but he grew worried when he felt cold air hit his skin. One of his sleeves had been rolled up, exposing his forearm just up to his elbow. He didn't know what to expect, but he knew it wouldn't be good.
"Maybe you need a better reminder, huh? Terminal fuck-up..." he grumbled off before his cigar got dangerously close to his son's skin. His breath reeked of beer.
"Dad, please don't - "
John's words were cut off with a vulnerable, pained cry. The still-burning end of his father's cigar was now pressed into his forearm, just under his elbow. He tried pulling away, but the only way for his arm to move was up, and that just pressed the cigar in further. He struggled but tried to keep himself still, avoiding any more injury than he was already bound to.
It felt like forever to John, though it couldn't have been longer than a minute, but he finally pulled away. The man also hauled John up and shoved him away - he was lucky he didn't trip over anything and fall backwards.
"Clean this up" his father demanded before retreating back inside "And stop crying"
He was crying? Fuck. He was. Bender didn't even realize it, but there were in fact tears streaming down his face, and he quickly felt weak because of them.
Bender wiped his eyes before looking down at the burn, which would scar no doubt. It fucking hurt. He had no idea how to treat it either, and he knew he couldn't afford proper medical care. Typical.
It'd be added to the list of scars, he supposed.
Sighing, he rolled his sleeve back down, ignoring the stinging pain. It'd probably blister up, but he'd deal with that later. For now, he'd worry about getting up to his room without any more yelling.
Fuck you, Dad.