Unseen, Unheard, Undone. (SF AU)

1

TRIGGER WARNINGS: CUSSING, THEMES OF DEATH, VIOLENCE, SUBSTANCE ABVSE AND SUGGESTED NEGLECT

Since Sal was young, he'd been taught to value and enjoy life. He was loved by his mother and father, even had a couple friends. But it was all ripped away from him. Harshly. The memory was a haze to him, all screaming and red. He hadnt had a clue what had happened at the time. When he woke up his father explained. "Your mother was ripped from this Earth. A man took her away." He had sobbed. Little Sal looked at him confused. "What man? Where's mommy now?" The boy sat up in his hospital bed, tufts of bright blue hair escaping the bandages wrapped tightly around his head. "A bad man. Mommy isn't coming back because of him." Henry hugged his still confused son, sobbing into his shoulder.

Months later, Sal would come to realize that his mother was dead. A bullet shot through her lungs and heart, mangling her son's face upon exiting her chest. This feeling of loss consumed Sal. He never wanted to leave his bed. He went to the doctor's appointments for his face. Learned how to open his mouth and speak properly without damaging the stitches. Despite being able to speak, Sal was silent throughout those years in New Jersey. He stayed home, he skipped school, and he barely ate. He felt as though he was in a constant state of numbness. He hardly felt regret, and never felt empathy. The only emotion he felt besides this neutrality was anger. Hot, seething, shredding anger.
He'd hopped schools many times. And every place was the same. "Whos that?" "Why's he got a mask?" "Sally Face! Sally face!"
Sally Face!
Sally Face.
Sally Face. They taunted him. Teased him. Threw rocks and food at the prosthetic that covered his mangled features. He took it. Remaining in his dormant state. It didnt bother him truly.
"If I were his mom, I wouldve killed myself after seeing him!"
"My mother is dead." He'd said, blankly. The boy who'd commented snickered. "Good, whatever killed her did her a favor!" For some reason...

That had been the last straw.

He didnt remember what happened to the fullest, but like every middle school fight it had been recorded. In the video, Sal turned to the boy sharply, grabbing him by his shirt collar and slamming him into the wall. The boy he'd attacked looked scared. Terrified, even. "Get off of me you freak!" He'd flailed and kicked, but Sal punched him right in the nose, and then the stomach. Before slamming his knee into the other boy's crotch. He hadnt stopped there. After the kid was on the ground, Sal had climbed on top of him, punching and scratching. He still had little scars on his knuckles to this day because he'd beaten a good amount of the kid's teeth out.

That was the first documented instance of his violent anger.

Since then, there'd been many. The first one had been when he was 12. He was now 19, still living with and taking care of his alcoholic bum of a father. The death of Diane Fisher had hit her husband hardest. Sal remembered his stories of "back in the day" with her. They'd been a pair of troublemakers. Inseparable troublemakers. They'd had necklaces- silver hearts on a black chain. On the back they read "Partners in Crime" and then the other's birthday. Sal wore his Mother's, he'd never seen his Father's necklace since they buried his mom. By this time all that truly remained of the incident was Diane's grave and the web of scars that was Sal's face.
"Dad! Get up!" Sal called from the hallway. It took him only a minute to realize his father wasnt moving from his bed. They were supposed to be moving today. It had even been Henry's damn idea! Yet he wasnt up?

Sal groaned and slammed his father's bedroom door open.

"Dad!" He yelled, seeing his father bundled in blankets.

"God damn- what!" The man mumbled from within his bundle.

"We have to put the boxes in the damn van! Cmon." Sal clomped over to the bed and pulled the blanket away.

Henry sat up, blue hair going every direction.

"Okay, Sal. Im coming." He spat.

Sal rolled his eyes and dropped the blanket on the floor, picking up a stack of boxes and walking them out to the moving van. His prosthetic was sticking to his face with sweat, he'd been moving boxes all day. He was perfectly fine with his appearance, but his dad had told him many times that others weren't. So when he left the doorway of their tiny house he wore the prosthetic.

He shoved the boxes in the van- it was one of the last stacks. Sal had done most of it on his own, they'd be ready to leave soon. Henry hadn't told his son where or why they were moving, and honestly Sal didn't care. It'd be nice to get a new start, where people didn't immediately go to the other side of the street because they'd heard of his "violent reputation."

Sal stood up sharply, mumbling to himself and smiling softly when the van's driver flinched. People were afraid of him, and while that kept people away enough it also made room for people to talk. He didn't mind the voices but they got irritating quickly. When he was fifteen he'd nailed a kid in the arm with a pencil for talking shit. That had gotten him kicked from that particular school.

Sal had been lost in his thoughts for a while, nearly jumping out of his skin when his father smacked him in the shoulder. "Earth to Sally-Face. We gotta go. Get in the car." Sal gritted his teeth at his father, biting back a smart ass remark of some sort and sliding into the front passenger seat of the car and shutting the door.

"Where are we going?" Sal asked as he unbuckled his mask.

"A small town. Nockfell." Henry responded as he started the engine.

"Oh joy," Sal sighed, leaning on the window. "Why are we moving in the first place?"

"Because we need to." His father said bluntly. "Yeah but why?" Sal pressed.

"Im tracking someone." Henry muttered, barely above a whisper. Sal's eyes widened. "Who? Why didn't you tell me? For how long? Is this why you always got home late-?" He was word-vomiting questions.

"Yes! Yes! It is, shut up, Sal!" Henry whisper-shouted. Sal mumbled an apology. "Who are you tracking?" He whispered.

"The son of a bitch who shot your mother." Henry spat.