A Hatchetfield Oneshot Collection

Slapped

A/N

Part 1 of @Latte_Hottay 's birthday oneshots!!!

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From the moment his mark appeared, Paul was afraid, although that didn't mean much. Fear was his most constant emotion, drilling a splitting beat in his head that became as reliable as his heartbeat. But there was something about a small black handprint blazed in ebony contempt across his cheek that was most terrifying. The thought that his soulmate's first time touching him would be an open-palmed slap across the face brought with it a certain amount of anxiety that plagued him each year without a stinging cheek and answers.

Why would they slap him? What did he do to make them mad? Was he a bad person when he grew up? Was his soulmate a bad person? How could he end up with someone who hit first and thought second when he was such a careful, meticulous person? Who? What? When? Where? Why?

Over and over he asked question after question, for years, until it faded into the background and Paul learned to live with the horrible anticipation, if it could even be called that. It was more like dread, a terrible feeling pooling in his stomach, eating away, becoming more bearable though he still flinched when hands came near his face.

All through his years in school and the workplace, with his mark came the blank, open stares. The snickers. The whispers that he heard in his head, though he knew weren't there, just anxiety murmuring its own fears back at him in the dark of his bedroom. And so, to calm the voices a bit, the voices telling him that he was a freak that he was weird that his mark was ugly, he learned to use concealer to cover the mark. For a while, he just used the cream, but with tips from his friends, Charlotte and Melissa, he learned to use setting powder so it stayed covered and the voices calmed.

He settled into a boring life, surrounded by soulmates with happy, but mostly not so happy endings. Charlotte, who's soulmate and husband, Sam, who sexed up anything under thirty five with a vagina, and hit her whenever he was home and drunk enough to care, a rare combination but a deadly one all the same. Bill, who's soulmate divorced him and took their kid across the lake to Clivesdale where her new life and new husband were waiting. Ted, who as far as Paul could tell lived alone, his only comfort a bottle of whiskey, his soulmate either never found or tragically lost. Only Melissa, with her long term girlfriend, and Mr. Davidson, with his wife, had a semblance of happiness in their match.

Then again, many people had found love outside of soulmarks and fated love. His father had died when he was young, and his mother had found love in another man, the man who became Paul's dad, the man who did not share a destiny with the woman he chose.

Maybe not everything rode on his mark. Maybe he wouldn't end up sleeping next to a brash, aggressive person for the rest of his life, trapped in unhappiness through a connection decided by the universe.

Every day was the same, which came with a certain solace. Wake up, head to work, get coffee on his break, get off at five, go home, eat dinner, go to sleep, repeat. He almost forgot about the black handprint, except for when he covered it each morning and revealed it each night. Life was normal, life was steady, life was predictable, and he told himself that was how he liked it.

One Monday morning, Paul woke up late, his alarm having run out of batteries in the night. He shot up in bed, panic brewing in his veins. He readied himself hurriedly, not bothering to set the concealer or tie his tie before rushing out the door to face the day. He could already tell this wasn't going to be a good one. Anxiety already held him in its clutches.

And so, he assumed that the tingle in his fingers was nothing new, that the beating of his heart was exactly the same, that the warmth in his stomach and the restlessness in his soul were not knew developments, nor the hotness of his cheek, almost burning to the touch, anything out of the ordinary. He'd given up on soulmates a long time ago. There was seemingly nothing about that day which would be any different.