Chapter Text
Your parents once loved each other, but it sure doesn't seem like that now.
Your name is Rose Strider, and you're eight years old. Only a few months ago your family was happy. Your mother had gotten a good job, and you'd all moved into a nicer apartment— big enough that you didn't have to share a room with your twin brother Dave. You started attending a nicer school, where the walls weren't covered with graffiti and the sixth graders didn't offer you cigarettes. Everything had been looking better, had been exciting and new and happy.
It seems hard to remember that now, when all you can hear is your parents fighting in the other room.
It'd started slow. Off-hand comments at the dinner table, disapproving looks in public, discussions in the living room filled with exasperated sighing. Then it turned to louder discussions, and then yelling.
They try to act like everything is fine. Try to pretend that they're happy. Try to hide that they're having problems. Especially from their kids. But you and your brother aren't stupid— eight, yes, but not blind to what's going on right in front of you. It's hard not to notice when you can hear them shouting at one in the morning.
You could try to bury your head in your pillow and ignore it, but instead you hop out of bed and tip-toe to your door. You open it just a crack— not enough to see what's happening down the hall and around the corner, but enough to hear loud and clear what your parents are saying.
"— and the electric bill didn't get paid this month —"
"How is that my fault? I gave you the bill to mail, and where the fuck did it even go?"
"That's a good question, isn't it?" There's a shuffling of papers, likely all the junk your dad has piled on the coffee table. "Well, holy shit, what's this? It's right goddamn here, you never gave it to me to mail."
"Halle-fucking-lujah, there it is. Better go mail it now, mailman'll be by in twelve hours."
You can just picture your mom tossing the envelope in your dad's lap as he lays on the couch, feet up on coffee table, still wearing his "cool" pointy shades.
"How about you get off your lazy ass and mail it, hmm? Not like you have any shit to do, hmm, ever."
"Don't have any shit to do? I am up to my goddamn ears in shit, Rox, what the fuck do you think I do all day?"
"I think you sit on your ass all day while I work my ass off—"
"Oh, here we fucking go. It's always back to fucking this shit, isn't it? 'Why don't you have a job, Dirk?' Is it ever fucking anything else, fuck no."
Your mom lets out a frustrated sigh, and you can just see her rolling her eyes like she always does, hands on her hips. "Well, maybe if you had a j—"
"I did have a job!" This is a shout, and dad's probably standing up now, pointing his finger. "Until you had to move our asses out of the fucking city into this fucking backwoods—"
"They're the fucking suburbs, and they're far better than that cramped ass shithole bachelor pad of yours."
"You used to love that shithole bachelor pad of mine." You think you hear hurt in your dad's voice, and cringe.
"Yeah, then I grew up."
Oh, no. This is going to be one of those fights. Usually when one of your parents starts getting that strained voice, the other will apologize— say they're just frustrated, is all. But when they bite back instead, those are the fights that make you worry.
"Are you saying I'm not grown up?" Dad laughs, but it's hollow and cold. "That's fucking rich, coming from the alcoholic."
"Functional alcoholic."
"Functional? Functional? Bullshit, I just—" In the crack of the door, you see your dad at the end of the hall hands in the air. His hat is off and his hair is sticking up at an absurd angle. He almost looks like he's about to walk out the front door, but he disappears back into the living room. "Who left Rose waiting for three fucking hours at her ballet class last week?"
Oh, God, no. You wince, and lean your head against the edge of the door. You hoped that wouldn't come up. It hadn't even been that big a deal, you'd just sat and read the whole time until your ballet teacher realized you were still waiting and called your dad to pick you up. It'd been nothing. Peaceful, even.
"That wasn't because I was drunk, you ass. The car broke down because, oh, guess who forgot to take it down to the mechanic like he promised?"
He walks into view again, looking like he's pulling on his jacket.
"Where are you going?"
"Wherever the fuck I want, that's goddamn where." The front door slams shut with a bang that you're sure the neighbors heard.
"Oh—" An object flies from the living room and glass shatters against the door. A martini glass. "Fuck." You hear a choked noise, and you can tell your mom's crying.
You're tempted to go out and talk to her, but you know she'll just tell you that everything is fine and shoosh you back into bed. You wait until she's sniffled herself back into the kitchen, likely to get another drink, then slip out of your room.
You hurry across the hall, half throwing yourself at your brother's door. You open it as quietly as you can, and slip inside. Something squeaks under your foot, and you wonder what kind of stupid shit he's left lying around. You pray he's at least put away his legos as you dash across his room, hopping atop his bed.
He's buried his head under his pillow, and you shake him awake. "Dave, I know you're not really asleep. Get up."
"No," comes his muffled voice from beneath the pillow. "Go away."
"Did you hear the fight mom and dad just had?"
Dave pulls his head out from under the pillow, his blonde hair ruffled and his red-irised eyes blurry. It's always strange seeing him without glasses, even though he's your brother. "All I heard was the serene hooting of owls and cooing of doves. Ain't nothing but peace in this house."
You roll your eyes. "I'm serious, Dave. I think we should be concerned about this."
Dave sighs, and sits up. "It was probably nothing, Rose. Parents fight. It'd be weird if they didn't."
"I'm pretty sure they aren't actually supposed to. Just because the ghetto families in the city had frequent domestic disputes doesn't make it normal."
Dave shrugs groggily. "What do you want to do about it?"
You consider that. A lightbulb goes off in your head. "How about we recommend couples therapy?"
Dave just stares, unimpressed. "Just take a moment to imagine our parents at couples therapy. Imagine dad at any kind of therapy. Just let it sink in for a moment."
"Be serious Dave, for once."
"We're eight, Rose, all we're suppose to be serious about is apple juice and frosted flakes." He lays back down, yawning and closing his eyes. "I guess we could do that whole Lindsey Lohan movie thing."
"The Parent Trap? One that was a remake, two they're not divorced."
Dave opens one eye. "Yet."
You punch him in the shoulder. "Jerk."
And with that, you shuffle off back to your own bed. It's hard to fall asleep again. When you nearly have, you hear the front door open and shut. There's no more yelling.
Maybe Dave's right— it's just nothing. Maybe your parents are just a bit stressed. It'll pass, everything will work itself out. You go to sleep with that in mind. There's no need to worry. Your parents love each other, and will be together forever.