Newsies One Shots

Sticks and Stones

Prompt - Into the Unknown
Au- None
Triggers - Abuse/violence, injury/blood detail, swearing, alcohol absuse
Setting - 3~4 years pre canon timeline

•••

Spot lay on his back, staring at the cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling but not really seeing them. His head was swirling again and his wrist ached with bruises and the cuts on his arms stung and bit when he shifted slightly on the broken mattress. Words drifted across his mind constantly. Nothing pleasant, but then nothing new to the boy either.

Idiot.

Useless.

Waste of space.

At this point, the insults landed on deaf ears. He knew they shouldn't, he knew no one should be so used to hearing how awful they were and how much of a mistake they are that they came to expect it. It wasn't that it didn't hurt, but the words hurt a hell of a lot less than the blows. They made a lot less impact than kicks and punches and belt buckles.

'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words cannot hurt me,'

Spot chuckled wryly at the thought, flexing his hand a little to feel the fresh bruising on his knuckles protest. Deep down, somewhere buried, he wished that were true. It was't, but he could pretend. He could build a barricade around himself and sneer and throw back just as many insults and curse words and punches and pretend it didn't still sting.

He pretended, even though there was no one to pretend to. It was just him and his father alone in a tiny apartment with damp running down the walls and chills creeping in through broken windows and floorboards. No one to care, to believe him when he said it didn't bother him, the words or the violence. No, it was just them and the countless empty bottles strewn across the floor.

He was drunk again, Spot's father. He was always drunk, always reeking of alcohol. The sour smell was everywhere in the one room they had, as well as the lingering scent of cigarettes that seemed to be a permanent part of Spot's clothes. The smell was foul but there wasn't a lot to be done about it; the single window was broken and boarded over so opening it wasn't an option.

As Spot drew in a breath of the stale air he tried to ignore his fathers voice from the far side of the room. From the corner of his eye he could see the bottle in his hand and the way his expression was angry again, his words slurred and nonsensical. Spot's best bet was to ignore him and try sleep some, though periodic hunger pangs made that hard. Maybe he could go find something decent to eat, if the man would let him.

And by let him, he meant not notice him slipping out amid his ranting. He was talking to himself again, or maybe Spot; he couldn't tell. Spot caught words here and there, swearing mainly, and insults. Probably cursing his family or 'friends' or his kid. Spot didn't really care, so long as he stuck to words, thought it might be fun to poke at him a little. Maybe. Sitting up carefully, he winced and rolled his neck as it cramped awkwardly.

He sat still for a beat, rubbing his neck and debating before he decided it wasn't worth it, no matter how hungry he was. He still ached and drawing attention to himself by leaving wouldn't end well. So Spot just sat on his thin bed and stared straight ahead and tried not to think. It didn't last long.

"Ain't that right Sean?"

Spot tensed and bristled when his father suddenly addressed him. He didn't like that name, not by a long shot. Then again, Spot wasn't a whole lot better; it was what his mother had called him once, before she'd upped and disappeared and left Spot alone. He'd been four then, when she'd gone and he still hated her for it. For leaving Spot with his father to save her own skin. He did remember the name with some semblance of what might have been affection though, so he used it.