Hello, readers. I come with another chapter. You guys should see my walls, they're covered in papers with story ideas that I want to write. Well, here you go and I hope you enjoy. Please no hatred for the prospect of self harm and/or parental abuse. This is a warning now, if that type of action bothers you please do not read this chapter. If you do, I can't stop you. Detailing isn't too bad, really, but still. It's just a warning. Oh and, how's my writing for a 14 year old? XD
Wally usually isn't one to curse. He likes to think that usually he's the type of guy who can hold it in and just smile, nod his head. Then walk away like nothing happened. Or pretend he was perfectly fine. Granted he pretended that already and almost had his act perfected. Just a few cracks here and there he had to get rid of, and then he'd be fine, he thinks. But Wally knows that cracks are dangerous thinks, he takes architecture in school. Knows that cracks can get bigger and wider until finally they over flow like a dam and everything spills out, crumbles down. Wally doesn't want that to happen to him, but, he's pretty sure that it already has. Probably even a long time ago, too. (He thinks he sounds poetic. There's nothing poetic about his life.)
His entire body hurts, from his head to his toes and, no Artemis, he's not exaggerating. He'd laugh at his own joke if his ribs weren't already screaming in protest. Ribs can't talk though and Wally wonders if maybe sometimes he feels like ribs. Unable to talk or control what they do. And what is he saying, is he delusional? He shakes his head, which he regrets the moments after he does it and, wow. Maybe he's not as smart as he gives himself credit for. Because if he was he would've remembered the pounding in his skull before he proceeded to try and knock his brains out. (He's smart.) His father went over the normal line of beating today and Wally had been the first thing he saw after he got the bad news. Better him than his mom, he thinks.
Blood drips onto his jean covered leg and, oh yeah, now he remembers why he came to the mountain. Severe injuries and blood loss combined with an unstable house hold. Sounds like the usual equation. No ones there and the air is cold, soothing his injuries and coating his bones. He welcomes it. Like a balm, a hug from a best friend, food. (He's hungry, don't judge him.) Wally slowly starts to untense his muscles, it feels like all they know how to do is form knots. He's confident no one is in the mountain at this time. After the team first formed Wally paid close attention the others schedules, and figured out one of his own, so he could come to the cave should he ever need to be alone. Or fix injures without worry of being caught. He may hate the man who raised him but he could never hurt his mother by making him go away. Despite what he did to her, she loved him.
Suppressing a curse again he reaches for the wash rag that's in the sink. He's currently in a crude imitation of the fetal position sitting on the cold hard lid of the toilet. Looking pitiful and he knows it. Paper is shoved up his nose to stop the bleeding from his father's second punch to his face. There's a nasty bruise on his cheek that has already gone from purple and black to the sickly yellow and green color, he's always hated seeing bruises in that state. The color puled at his stomach and made him want to lose his lunch. (Something he couldn't afford to do.) His lip is spit, he knows because when he breathes and air hits it, there's a stinging sensation and a metallic taste fills his mouth. Wally dabs at his lip with the damp cloth and uses his other hand to search for medical tape and gauze. He's no doctor but he's pretty sure a few of his ribs are bruised. Cracked at the most. Not good, even with his adcanced healing it's still going to take a few days to fix something like bone. (He was a super speed charged teenager, not a miracle worker.)
Of course one he got a hold of the medical tape and gauze, it was a matter of the question, how was he going to do this himself? While he wondered about that he didn't notice how he was slowly slipping forward. More importantly, how he was sliding off of the toilet. Until it was too late and he lay on the cold tile floor that did nothing to help his wounds. He couldn't help it, this time it just slipped out.
"Shit!", he yelped as pain shot renewed through his body.
"language, Baby Speedster.", was the almost instant retort to his slip up.
"Yeah, yeah, so sorry about that.", he replied voice full of sarcasm as he worked on sitting himself upright on the floor. Until he froze upon realizing that a voice had answered him when he was absolutely sure he was alone. His head snapped upward to the open door (He should have closed that.) and ignoring the pain in his neck and head he locked eyes with a pair of black ones. Klarion. If only something could be worse than this moment.
Klarion's eyes seemed to flicker over his body, probably taking note of the many injuries Wally guessed.
"Your enemies finally catch up to you?", the witch mocked.
Wally tried not to wince, Klarion was closer then he realized. Or maybe he did-no, there was no way he could possibly know. "Something like that, I guess you could say."
Klarion hummed, his nails drumming against the door jam as his cat meowed at him. Whatever it was seemed to displease the witch boy, because he scowled and sneered at his familiar, "Shut up, Teekl! It's his problem, not mine. And I have no wish to 'bond over problems' as you so helpfully put it!"
Wally watched dumbfounded as the boy argued with him cat. Neither seeming to want to loose or back down. Both completely ignoring the red head still on the floor.
Another meow, it sounding more annoyed. Wally wondered if cats could even be annoyed.
"If I remember correctly, we agreed never to bring that into discussion again."
meow. incredulous meow.
"It's not my fault they tied you up, too. You should have been faster."
And, wait, tied up? What?
"You at least escaped, and with barely any burns."
Meow. and a series of yowls and hisses.
"I was burned alive at the stake, while my mother called me a monster and lit the flames and you complain about not being fed? You stupid cat, you don't even need to eat." Klarion seemed to be glaring daggers at the small feline, trying to light it on fire with his eyes. Wally didn't doubt it was possible for a moment, but that's not what he was focused on.
"You were burned at the stake?", Wally was sure he probably half yelled that, judging by the throbbing in his lungs. That was certainly enough to stop the pair in the door ways bickering. Klarion's eyes widened and his mouth formed a small 'o'. Ever the dramatic witch Wally knew he was, the pale boy threw his arms in the air and let out a small animalistic snarl before launching a blast of red fire at the cat, who slipped off and ran down the hallway. Klarion following not far behind hurling fire and spewing curses, death threats and spells at the orange familiar.
Wally stared at the opposite end of the hall through the door, rewinding the words he'd heard over again in his mind. Klarion had been burned at the stake. By his mother's own hand. And here he was complaining about something his father did every other day. Wally may think to himself it was like experiencing death, but it wasn't a lighted match compared next to Klarion. The witch had actually died. So then, what was Klarion? This explained the scars that crawled up the alabaster skin of Klarion's arms, and if Wally remembered correctly, there were many witch trials and deaths in the early settling years of America. The most memorable and well known being the Salem Witch Trials.
Wally decided he wasn't going to tell anyone, at least not yet. And do some research on the Salem Witches and killings. He finished bandaging his injuries (Most were gone by now. Thank you healing.) and left the bathroom without a word and a new resolve. He'd try to be a little stronger, because his life may be bad, and he may feel like ribs. Trapped with no control, but he could have it far worse. someone did have it far worse. He could be dead, but he wasn't. Wally might have walked a little prouder and held his head a little higher after that. Because he'd made it this far, he might as well make it the rest of the way. Maybe he'd even talk to Klarion, try to learn his story. (Had anyone every even tried before?) Of course, after he had calmed down a bit, and not right away. But eventually.
Just one more thing to the list of things to find out that made up Klarion.