So, yeah. I'm a horrible, mean, selfish person who only seems to be nice when she updates.

It's a bit harder than that, lovelies.

But here's a oneshot, a lot darker than my usual stuff. I'm in a dark place, and I'm discovering other kinds of writing and fandoms, as well as trying to figure what I'm going to do with my life, other than grow old on a battered red sofa writing stories.

Personally, I think it sounds pretty good, but apparently not to my parents (or more specifically, my mother) who is shoving 'How to get into Oxbridge' leaflets under my nose. Cheers Mum.

WARNING: Mentions and pretty much the whole thing revolving around child abuse and rape of a minor, as well as some Language.

Enjoy.

...

"I'm the adult!"

How many times had Blane heard that excuse?

I'm the adult (so that makes it all better, your eyes slide over the fire place poker. You smile, pretend, your lips aren't sullied by bad words spoken. Do a twirl, say "Whoopee!" because Dad you're the adult and you're as responsible and immaculate and respected as can be.)

I work all day (sitting around is so hard, betting with your mates, putting my future in the hand of a pack of half price playing cards), I make sure you get your food (so inspired were you by Harry Potter, put a flap at the bottom of my bedroom door, and give me that, no less, no more), I'm bigger than you (I know you are, if you weren't I'd be gone, away from your big clever words and big black belts and big hands and I wouldn't feel so small).

At the end of the day, that's what it came down to, the fact that you can say "I'm the adult" and the pain goes away, guess what Dad? Suddenly it's all magically okay.

You think I don't see the beer and the drugs, replacing the films and hugs and how this place stopped being a home and became a house, how love was replaced by your desire to fuck.

You'd be disgusted, if you could see yourself now, back then. Blane knows (I know) that the sentence makes no sense.

If you could see yourself (General Whittaker, a young man with a gun in his hand, ordering men what to do, how to get home, out of that godforsaken land), whip, cane, tazer in your hand, waiting for your son (who's a minor, by the way) to come home from school, which you didn't give him permission (I don't need your permission) to go to.

I used to look up to you, and ask what each and every one of your medals meant (Courage, Bravery, look Blane, that one says that I saved a thousand men's lives), Mum smiling proudly by your side.

I miss Mum.

When she died you went a little bit, teensy bit mad, Dad. I can't help I look like her Dad. You can't punish me for her leaving, because I'll just leave you like she did. The difference? I would do it on purpose.

You figured that out (not as stupid as your exterior suggests). So you hide the cuts and bruises that come from innocent family cruises and sports competitions, tell me you can make it so that I never ever fit in.

What is it now, Dad?

I didn't score straight A's? It's kind of hard Dad - it's hard enough dealing with the pain (what do I have left to lose? What do you have left to gain?), I'm not worried about C's or B's or D's, I'm scared enough trying to remember how to be me.

I don't want to be in the army, the young man with the gun in his hand.

I want to be writer, and become a better man. I don't want to fear holding my head up high, because I'm scared that one day Dad, maybe you'll come back to life.

Your joints will click and freeze and ache, and you'll surface to the world, with a confused expression on your once handsome face. And the years are going and gone so fast, and Dad you're a fool.

You thought that me being scared of you would last, having to constantly use the excuse "I'm the adult" to hide your doubts of what has been said and done in the past.