jason cantley ( werewolf ) . (wildinside) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2015-03-18 17:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | #flashback, #solo, jason |
can't get away from the moment, seems like it's time to begin.
Who: Jason and John Cantley (NPC).
Where: The Cantley household, Harlow, England.
When: Saturday 3rd February 2001. A little after 1am.
When the door slammed it shook the whole house. Outside in the hall a picture frame rattled against the wall. Jason wasn’t asleep anyway and even if he had been that would have woken him long before the loud shout of his name up the stairs, a slurred boom of a voice that filled the whole house and probably bled through the walls to those of the neighbours. For several long seconds Jason sat there, still fully dressed with no intention of changing into anything else any time soon, waiting to hear what John Cantley would say or do next.
A fist hit the wall. Another shout, this one laden with fractured and improvised curses that made little sense but that didn’t detract from the intention behind them. John Cantley was angry, it didn’t even matter why, and he wanted everyone to know about it. He wanted his son to know about it. Wanted his son to come downstairs and face it. Feel it.
All too well Jason remembered sitting in that hospital under the glaring lights, holding his tongue while the nurses and the doctors examined him and gave him knowing looks, powerless to do anything against a man who denied any involvement in his son’s so-called accident. With stark clarity Jason remembered the agony of the fractured jaw, the dislocated shoulder, how he’d tried so hard to keep from sounding any pain when they’d wrenched the joint back into place. He’d bitten his tongue so hard he’d tasted blood but hadn’t said a word otherwise. A combination of fear and resignation had kept him quiet then, he hadn’t wanted to make things worse. As if they could get any worse.
Now he didn’t care. After they’d been sent on their way Jason had decided, seeing the dark smug look in his father’s eyes, that he was done. Never again was John going to do that to him. The other kids at school weren’t allowed to push him around, shove him into walls or toilet stalls and call him names or laugh in his face. Why should John Cantley be any different? This wasn’t the man his mother had married, no one with any shred of decency could love the pathetic waste of space and oxygen that was thumping the walls and overturning the coffee table downstairs even as Jason slid off his bed and moved to his door, opening it with decisive steadiness before heading out to stand at the top of the stairs.
John saw him as he came staggering into view, blinking his bloodshot eyes and pointing a finger up at his son. “You.” That was all he said at first, his voice gravelly and aggressive. “Get down ‘ere right fuckin’ now. Little shit.” When Jason didn’t move right away his father struck the banister hard enough for something to crack. “Look at me like that, fuckin’ little--” That train of thought derailed quickly enough but John wasn’t done yet. “M’gonna bash your fuckin’ teeth in, disrespectin’ me like that. Ungrateful shit, should’a kicked you out years ago, waste of fuckin’ space.”
His father’s tirade went on and on as Jason descended the steps. If John had realised his son was fully dressed gone one o’clock in the morning, boots and all, he said nothing about it. He just went on and on about rudeness and dishonesty and disgrace and embarrassment. Every word reached Jason’s ears and flooded his brain, joining all those that had come before in a potent cocktail that made his blood feel increasingly hot, simmering in his veins like water put on to boil.
“Look at you, think you’re so tough.” John scoffed, staggered a little, and drew himself up to his full height, sneering at his son as Jason reached the bottom step. When he swung it was with surprising speed for a man who reeked of alcohol and the blow connected with enough force to send Jason crashing against the wall at the side of the staircase. His shoulder rebounded off the wall and the shock of the impact awoke something in him that had been stirring for a long time, something that had shown its first signs of life in the hospital that night when John had lied and told the staff his son had fallen down the stairs.
No more.
John swung again but Jason surged forward, pushing himself off the wall with the same ferocity and speed he had shown time and time again in classrooms and hallways and on the field at school, releasing a wild yell as he collided bodily with his father and sent the two of them crashing back into the living room. They took the couch over with them and it jostled the unbalanced coffee table further, knocking the wind out of the older man with a cough. Curses spilled from his tongue and he made a grab for his son but Jason was younger, fitter, completely sober, his veins flooded with adrenaline as his breathing grew heavy and determined.
No more. This ended tonight.
John threw a coffee cup but Jason turned and let it strike him on the shoulder blade before turning back and lashing out with a kick. It knocked the older man back and over. John roared angrily and clawed his way back to his feet, spitting and swearing all the way.
When he charged Jason was ready for him, meeting him with a solid slam of a punch that sent John stumbling back with what might have been shock flashing across his face. It didn’t last long, twisting into a snarl as he came forward again. Jason struck him with a fresh punch, first across the face, wanting so badly to shatter that jaw the way John had almost shattered his, and then in the stomach, doubling him over. With a startlingly strong grip on his father’s shoulders as he coughed and sputtered Jason sent him tripping backwards, falling over his own feet. When he hit the coffee table the wood splintered and cracked into shards and fragments and the sound of it filled Jason’s head, oddly satisfying.
It didn’t stop there. John kept coming and Jason kept hitting him, feeling the sting of the blows and the reverberating tremors of impact up his arms with each fresh punch. John’s nose broke with a crunch, at least one tooth spilled in a bloody rush from his mouth, and his breathing took on a ragged wet quality. Jason didn’t stop. John stumbled towards him in another messy attempt at a tackle and Jason took hold of him easily, swinging him around and down, dropping with him, another one of those furious yells breaking free as he sat up and landed one blow after another. His arms went numb, his heart was hammering so hard he thought something might cave, and he could barely draw breath of his own.
When he finally rocked back and rose, stumbling one step and then another to put a little distance between himself and the battered man on the carpet, Jason’s hands were covered in blood, it had spattered his shirt and skin, he could almost taste it there was so much of it in the air. His knuckles were torn when he lifted one arm to wipe it across his mouth, his eyes fixed on the pathetic bastard on the ground.
Would anyone miss him? If Jason landed just a few more blows, brought his heavy boot down on just the right point, would anyone care that John Cantley had breathed his last? Would there be any tears shed, any mourners at the cheap funeral?
Probably not.
Jason didn’t hit him again, though. It was done, finished, there was no point wasting any more time or energy on the man beneath him and without even speaking a word he turned and moved away from the beaten, bloody, wheezing mess of a man whose face he would never lay eyes on again. Not if he could help it.
Stopping only to take what little money he could find in John’s bedroom and enough clothes to fill a backpack Jason snatched his coat from the rack by the door and stepped out. When he closed the door behind him for the final time he made sure to slam it hard enough to shake the entire house.