#child harm tw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

outofmylab · 6 months

Text

@manebloom

It was a rare treat for Dexter to be allowed the entire day inside of his laboratory. Even more so with the guarantee that his sister wouldn’t arrive to interrupt him— a lucky break, it seemed to have been, that she’d had ballet practice during the weekend. With that, he’d been left in the care of his babysitter, who was the only other person with knowledge of his laboratory that wouldn’t put that knowledge to dubious (or irritating) use. Today had been a series of fortunate events, and Dexter would prefer to keep it that way.

The temptations that came with such a special opportunity was notably not firmly established within the realm of safety. Specifically, he has plans to experiment with various nitric compounds, which possess a reputation for being highly reactive and explosive. Anyone beyond himself would likely lecture him about the fact that he was but a fledgeling— a child who should no doubt be kept miles away from such dangerous things. That is precisely why Dexter must keep it a secret, even from his babysitter, who had already earned a remarkable level of his trust.

He's made his way to a far-off corner of his laboratory, green-tinted goggles shielding his eyes and ginger hair pulled up into a short ponytail. He is using a rag to clean the surface of a particularly large device, one that was unmistakably some form of ranged weaponry. The boy pauses after a few more good-measure wipes, sighing contentedly at his creation. He was going to have fun today.

A blast, Dexter mouths to himself silently, which elicits a short burst of stifled giggling. He grins as he pulls back a small piece of the device's casing, unveiling a glass container set within. He opens it, then squats down to peruse a lower level of his workbench. He grabs a sizable bottle of colorless liquid, stands back up, and places it on the table while he unscrews its cap.

His glove, still holding the cap, rests back at his side. A drop of the fluid, condensated on the cap's underside, falls and strikes the floor. It combusts, emitting a sharp sound and a miniature flash, and Dexter jolts, whipping around as he instinctively attempts to locate the source. He grips the edge of the workbench, his hands trembling somewhat as he stares at the imprint of soot on the ground. He has little time to process it before something else catches his attention: the bottle on the table is teetering as a result of his abrupt motion. Already panicked, he overcorrects his attempt to stabilize it. His fingers hit the bottle, causing it to fall altogether.

Dexter feels his stomach drop. He sees the tip of the bottle touch the floor for only an instant before his senses become numb and overloaded all at once.

Time lapses. Suddenly, he's on the ground, staring at the mortar between two tiles as his vision fades in from white. His ears ring, and he closes his eyes, unable to move or breathe. He feels immeasurably heavy, and the sensation of feeling trapped fills him with a wave of terror. Everything is too much, and it feels like eons that he lies there, waiting for it all to subside.

Dexter opens his eyes. He stares at the floor, listening to little pieces of metal falling onto it somewhere nearby. Fire crackles, distantly. He wheezes, forcing out a cough, and tries to pull himself up. Almost immediately, pain sears throughout his body, and he crumples back down. Nothing is on top of him, but he can't move, and it hurts too much, and he can't move because it hurts too much, and it hurts too much to move—

He cries out. He yells into the floor with as much energy as he can muster. Someone will hear him. He doesn't care who. Someone has to hear him, because he doesn't know what happened and he's confused and scared and hurting.

#ic #manebloom #i warned you about that nitroglycerin bro!! Bro!!!!#tw child harm #child harm tw #tw injury #injury tw #nothing described specifically but injuries. they happening

7 notes · View notes

ollieofthebeholder · 8 months

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 46: February 1997

Logically, Jon knows it isn’t possible to curl himself into a ball so small that it cancels out and he disappears, but he’s giving it his best attempt anyway. He should disappear, he deserves to be gone, to not exist anymore, but he does still exist and it hurts. For right now, he just hunches over his knees and tucks himself into the cupboard portion of his bedside table, where he is absolutely not supposed to be but where he won’t be noticed as long as his grandmother doesn’t look too hard if she comes into his room, and tries to will himself away.

From the other room, he hears a snippet of the local news program emanating from the radio, which his grandmother always has running while she prepares supper. “—search is underway for Thomas Warner, age eighteen, who was last seen yesterday afternoon at the corner of—“

Jon begins rocking slightly. He resists the urge to cover his ears with his hands and simply wills his grandmother to turn the radio off already, to declare that she’s tired of hearing about this, to listen to music or something instead. Anything but the reminder of yesterday.

It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. He’s the last person who saw Thomas alive—probably—and of course nobody will believe him. He stumbled home, panicked and crying, and tried to tell his grandmother what happened, and she only scolded him for wandering again and made him go to his room without supper. He tried to protest, tried to tell her they had to call someone to help, but she merely sent him to bed at once, no arguments, no discussion. She emphasized that he was not to stay up late reading, either, but was to get straightaway into bed.

She needn’t have worried. Jon’s afraid to go near the books she brought home from the most recent trip to a charity shop.

Some small part of him hurts over that. Books are the one thing he has, his one escape from his strange, lonely existence. Books never judge him, never mock him, never condescend to him. Books don’t trip him in the halls or pelt him with balls and stones or take his things. Books don’t pretend to be his friend and then turn on him when he least expects it…at least, they never have before. If he can’t trust books, if he’s afraid to ever open one again, what is there left for him? What will he do?

Stupid! Selfish! Jon digs his fingernails into his shins for a moment and bites his lip hard. Here he is mourning the possibility that he might not be able to read books when a person is missing, probably dead, and it’s all his fault. How can he be so heartless as to think his worries are more important than that? It’s, it’s, it’s not right, he doesn’t deserve to have books if he can’t even hold onto them, if he can’t stop someone from…Thomas died, probably died, and it should have been Jon, and how can he act so, so spoiled as to think that a fear of books isn’t exactly what he deserves after that?

No. No, this isn’t—he can’t think straight, he needs to calm down. It’s not, it is a problem if he can’t read, he’s going to have trouble in school, his grandmother won’t understand, she’ll force him to read books and what if one tries to hurt him again? Maybe if he wanders off now, if he runs far enough, she won’t be able to catch him and neither will the police and he can get away and won’t be a bother anymore, won’t be a burden, won’t have anyone else get hurt in place of him. Nobody here will miss him if he does, anyway. But he needs, he needs, he needs to focus and think.

Jon hugs his knees closer to his chest and tries to conjure up a dream-friend.

They’re not imaginary friends exactly; Jon doesn’t really believe they’re there with him, and he doesn’t try talking to them out loud anymore, not after Pierce got the whole class laughing at him for it. But whenever he gets particularly lonesome or upset, he finds somewhere quiet to curl up and tries to picture the kind of person who would want to be friends with him. It’s not a simple matter like wondering what book characters he would get along with, or if his life would be better if he was the best friend character in a television program—he tries to be as realistic as possible. Actual people who might actually exist. And it’s not necessarily people that he wants to be friends with, although he supposes that all he really wants in a friend is someone who likes him for who he is. He doesn’t want to be the kind of person that the kids in his town would like, but who would choose to spend time with someone like him?

He’s come up with a few, and sometimes he pulls them up in his mind in situations where he needs them. A round-faced girl with no fears and no care for the opinion of others when he gets called up to work a problem on the blackboard or turns up late for lunch and has to walk the gauntlet. A pair of dark-haired boys, identical save that one is older and one younger than he is, who know how to be liked and play a lot of sport when he needs to talk to people or do something challenging in gym class. A girl much his height and build and with the same tastes and sense of curiosity but much more confidence when he wants to investigate something or go on a private adventure—she’s probably his favorite, he imagines her quite a lot, although she’s the one who gets him in trouble with his grandmother most often because he pictures himself running off with her. A taller girl, smart and quick-witted, when he’s having trouble with his homework or wants a challenge. Even an older boy who wears all black and has tattoos and smokes and maybe even rides a motorbike when he’s being taunted by his schoolmates and wishes he had someone to rescue him, like a cool older brother who would make all the other kids jealous, or at least afraid to torment him.

He needs something…different right now, though. He needs a friend who will make him feel…safe. Someone who will take his hands and look at him kindly and let him be scared, understand that he’s scared, and hold him and promise him it’s going to be all right. Someone who will just be there for him without judging him, but who will also stand between him and the world if he needs them to.

Would it be someone older? Jon doesn’t think so. He imagines someone closer to his age, maybe physically bigger but not too much older. Someone soft and round and warm. He pictures a pair of sympathetic green eyes, the same color as his favorite jumper, and curls the color of cinnamon, and a dusting of freckles across the nose. He pictures the boy sitting across from him, knees up against his chest too, but his hands held out and his gaze steady, waiting for Jon to reach out to him, waiting for Jon to tell him what kind of comfort he needs. He can almost hear a voice: I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s okay. Jon finds himself uncurling slightly, reaching out with both hands, wanting to close the gap and get that comfort, to be safe…

“Jonathan!”

Jon starts and bangs his head against the top of the cupboard. It breaks his concentration, and he rubs the top of his head, but he stays where he is. His grandmother sounds annoyed, and he’s not keen to find out what he’s done wrong this time.

“Jonathan, come out here at once.”

Well, there’s no arguing with that, as much as Jon wants to. Reluctantly, he crawls out of the cupboard and dusts off his knees, then stands up and takes a deep breath before heading out of his room, wishing very much that his newest dream-friend was actually real and was following him.

His grandmother stands in the living room with the familiar look of disapproval on her face. With her are two men Jon recognizes instantly—P.C. Smith and P.C. Williams, two of the officers from the local station. P.C. Williams is a huge, beefy, intimidating man with a formidable mustache and a receding hairline; P.C. Smith is slighter, younger, and gives Jon a soft, wry smile when he spots him. Williams has been around forever, while Smith is fairly new in town, but they’ve both brought Jon home from his…explorations before. He’s never seen them together, but he does at least know them both.

“Jonathan, these men want to talk to you.” Jon’s grandmother, somehow, purses her lips a bit more.

“You’re not in trouble,” P.C. Smith says, his voice almost too kind to be trusted. “We just have a few questions is all.”

Jon’s grandmother gives him a steely look, one that says behave as loudly as if she shouted it from the rooftops, then disappears back into the kitchen. Jon grips the door frame for just a moment and stares at the two officers, not sure if he really believes that he’s not actually in trouble.

“Have a seat, then,” Williams says gruffly.

Jon complies, folding his hands into his lap and setting his spine ramrod straight. He’s scared to death, but if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that it’s easier to pretend he isn’t if he hides behind a cold, emotionless face. He’s also learned to wait to be asked questions before he answers them, so he sits silently, even though he wants to immediately start apologizing. And crying.

The silence stretches on for a bit, broken only by the sound of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen. At last, Smith pulls out a pen and notepad. “All right, Jonathan. We just need to ask you some questions about yesterday, okay?”

Jon’s blood runs cold. Somehow, it didn’t occur to him that could actually be what they’re here to ask about. Visions of prison, of life in a penal colony, of being shoved into the belly of a ship and shipped to Australia, swim before his eyes, and even knowing they don’t really do that anymore doesn’t stop him from panicking on the inside. He manages, with superhuman effort, to keep his voice steady. “Okay.”

Smith looks at the top page of his notepad. “Someone told us they saw you with Thomas Warner at the park yesterday. He was talking to you. Is that true?”

“Yes.” Talking isn’t really accurate; taunting might be the better word, but Jon doesn’t volunteer that yet.

“What did he say?” Williams asks. “Tell you where he was going? Offer to take you somewhere?”

“N-no.” Jon licks his lips nervously. “He took my book.”

Smith and Williams look at each other. Smith is the one who asks, “What book?”

“It’s—it was called A Guest for Mr. Spider. Grandmother bought it for me at Parson’s on Saturday.” Jon bunches the cuffs of his jumper up in his hands.

Haltingly, with substantial prompting from the two officers, Jon tells them everything. He knows they’ll never believe him, not really, but he tells them about the book, about the strange fascination it had for him, and how Thomas took it from him and read it, how he wandered off down the streets, how he put the book in front of the door and knocked. Williams and Smith listen to him talk, and other than encouraging him to go on when he falters, neither says a word.

“And then it took him,” he concludes at last. “I didn’t see it, I—I came home. It was after dark, and…I wanted to get Grandmother, but…” He trails off, not wanting to accuse her of not listening, not wanting to put the blame of Thomas’ disappearance on her or imply that if she’d only listened they might have been able to save him. It’s not her fault. It’s Jon’s fault and no one else’s.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice small and miserable.

Slowly, P.C. Smith flips the cover of his notebook closed and slides his pen back into it. “And there’s nothing else you can tell us?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. Well. You’ve been very helpful.” Smith gives Williams a questioning glance, then stands. “I’ll just go and have a word with your grandmother, and we’ll be on our way. Thank you, Jonathan.”

He leaves the room. Williams doesn’t move, only regards Jon with a serious, almost worried expression. Jon knows how unbelievable his story sounds, and he’s suddenly struck with a new fear—that they’ll tell his grandmother he’s ill, or worse, dangerous, that he’ll be taken away and locked up in a hospital instead of prison.

“It’s the truth,” he says, unable to hide the anxiety in his voice. “I swear it’s the truth.”

“I know.” Williams’ voice is unexpectedly soft and gentle. “I believe you.” He hesitates for a moment, then glances at the kitchen and leans forward close to Jon to look him in the eye. “Listen to me, boyo, and listen well. Do not go looking for that house again, do you hear me? Don’t try to find it. Don’t try to find that book, either. You don’t worry about Thomas, or about the book, or about any of that. Just leave it alone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Jon says automatically. Then he looks more closely into Williams’ eyes, and the tears he’s been holding back brim up. “You do believe me.”

“I do. Every single solitary word,” Williams assures him. He pats Jon on the shoulder. “If you ever see another book with that man’s name in it again, throw it away. They’re dangerous.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “There are more of them?”

“He had a whole library, from what I hear. Not all for children, mind you, but you read above your height, or so I'm told.” Williams straightens up as Smith comes out of the kitchen and adds, in a close approximation of his usual gruffness, “Honestly, the most unbelievable part of your story is that Thomas read your book. I don’t believe that boy can read.”

Jon smiles for the first time since yesterday.

Later that night, when he’s alone in his room, he kneels on his bed and stares out the window. It’s been grey and raining for most of the last few days, so even if it wasn’t after dark it’s not like there would be anything to see, but he looks out anyway.

He thinks about his dream-friends, especially the new one he came up with today. Not for the first time, he wishes they were real, and really there, and that they could help him. He imagines the cool older brother turning up with his motorbike and whisking him away, and meeting the others and having them hold his hands and tell him they’re glad to see him. He imagines his newest dream-friend, the boy with the soft jumper and the kind eyes, hugging him and promising him he’ll never have to be alone again.

It’s a good dream. It’s too bad it will never be real.

Still…Jon has to give his dream-friend a name, so it’s easier to think of him later. Something soft and warm and maybe a little old-fashioned, but brave and kind and true, too. Something to give him strength when he needs it.

Even though he’s trying not to think about books, he does recall one of his favorite books, a story rich in description and adventure, a story he really got himself lost in, the only book he’s actually read more than once and liked both times. He thinks of a character who was never really there, exactly, but who made the main character feel brave and strong, and he knows that’s the perfect name for his dream-friend.

Good night, Martin, he thinks, and then he climbs down from the window and wraps himself in his quilt and hopes he can sleep without nightmares tonight.

*A/N: Statement 9971402, marked “Internal Use Only”, of Police Constable Thad Williams regarding the disappearance of his good-for-nothing nephew, is definitely somewhere in the Archives. Whether or not Martin ever finds it and recognizes that the “bright young lad” who gave Williams his lead is Jon is up to you to decide.

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#jonathan sims #child harm tw #panic tw #minor self-harm #death mention #bullying mention

7 notes · View notes