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Crimson eyes snapping open, pupils shrunken and dilated as if he’s been stabbed in the gut.
A gasp catching in his throat; a scream stifled just in time, as if he subconsciously knows that attracting attention is a bad idea. Roaring right outside his room, shattering and slamming that he swears gets closer and closer every time.
And then comes the paralyzing fear, the hot tears that stream down his cheeks; the sobs and whimpers he tries desperately to suppress with a shaking paw. The silent praying that Pops will stop and calm down, that they can both go back to sleep and everything will be fine, that the door won’t slam open, that Pops won’t break anything else, that Pops won’t, won’t come after him next-
That’s the nightmare Lucas has woken up to for as long as he can remember.
The Riolu isn’t even surprised this time when he jolts awake into a sitting position, his alarm clock reading 3:19 AM. The bright green numbers flicker for a moment as a thud rattles the entire house, making his racing heart leap—and in the silence that follows, the eye in the raging storm, Lucas lets his head fall back onto the pillow with an exhausted sigh.
Had the signs been there this time around? He’s not really sure. Maybe he should’ve expected this when he’d come home, a grin on his face and a spring in his step from the awesome cave spelunking adventure he’d just come back from—only to get no response as he’d chirped a breezy “I’m home” to his Pops. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention when Pops had rumbled, “What the hell were you doing out so late, child?”, never once taking his stormy eyes off of his work. He’d thought Pops was mad ‘cause Lucas let his dinner get cold, not because Pops had been…had been…
All he can think to do is roll onto his side, curling into a ball as he squeezes the Teddiursa bear in his arms as tightly as he can. One of his earplugs has fallen out, but he doesn’t dare get out of bed to find it—pressing his one free ear into the mattress is his next best option. Besides, gazing out the window is way less anxiety-inducing than staring up at the blank ceiling—than staring at the thin, flimsy door and the nightmare just behind it.
Listlessly, he lifts a paw to draw smiley faces on the fogged glass. He gazes straight ahead, unfocused, unblinking. He doesn’t feel like crying this time. He doesn’t feel furious at Pops this time. He doesn’t feel…anything, really. He just wants to go back to sleep.
He’d like to say it’s gotten easier to deal with this. To ignore Pops when he gets this way. He’d like to say that he’s gotten used to it by now, that it doesn’t bother him anymore. Yes, maybe he only breaks down into tears about a third of the time now after years of dealing with this. Maybe he only misses the first few periods of the school day now instead of all six. But that does not, does not, mean he would ever wish this on anyone else. Especially another kid.
Kids shouldn’t have to listen to their Pops screaming and roaring until he collapses on the couch. Kids shouldn’t have to curl into a ball, not knowing what to do, not knowing why this is happening, only to have to clean up their Pops’ mess come morning.
Kids shouldn’t have to listen to their Pops, the strongest Pokemon they know, weep and throw up on the floor.
“Fucking ARCEUS!”
Lucas flinches at the cry, and again when he hears another slam. Yup. It’s…it’s happening again tonight. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
When Lucas was smaller, he would think that sounds like those—of his Pops yelling and screaming—were evil spirits wailing their song into the night. He would think it was ghosts from the Forbidden Hollow trashing their house, throwing around those big bottles. It just…it just made sense—it couldn’t have been his Pops doing all that. It couldn’t!
The voice that always spoke to him so softly couldn’t be the same voice shrieking and screaming so loudly Lucas’ ears would ring. The fins that would pet him behind the ears as he told Lucas goodnight couldn’t be the same fins throwing things and breaking the furniture. How could it be Pops when Pops must’ve been sleeping? When Pops was always buying toys and sweets for him, when Pops was so gentle to him, so stern and caring and gentle?
He’d continue telling himself that lie, even when Pops finally did hit him after Lucas had failed a class for the first time. Even when Pops did it again, so much harder, after Lucas had begged him to please, please take a break from the work he was screaming at and tried to take the bottle from his hand. All of it couldn’t have been Pops, even when Lucas figured out why the bottles he’d see him bring home in paper bags would always be the ones left in shards by morning. Why the liquid he would see Pops swallowing down would be the same color as the splatters all over the walls and the vomit on the carpet.
Even when he’d known the truth, it would always be spirits, the evil spirits he never learned how to stop being terrified of. Not his Pops. Never his Pops.
Well…in a way…it had been “spirits” causing all this, hadn’t it?
Or maybe it’s the piles and piles of papers he brings home every night? The taxes and bills and other adult things he has to take care of? ‘Cause even on the nights when Pops isn’t angry, Lucas can hear him flipping through papers, clacking away on his keyboard. Letting out long sighs, sipping noisily from his mug of coffee. He works even harder, even later than…than anyone! They have enough money, right? If Pops just didn’t stay up so late, didn’t spend so long working, maybe then he wouldn’t get so angry all the time.
But…well…it’s not like Lucas is helping much with his anger, either. It can’t be easy to have a son who can’t sit still or pay attention in class and ends up getting B’s and C’s or worse. Who can’t stop talking and fidgeting during reading time but whose mind goes blank when he’s called on to answer a question. Who…who gets hit and screamed at by Mr. Watchog, too, and won’t tell his Pops so he won’t disturb the dad who deals with so much already. Lucas isn’t trying to be a screw-up; he isn’t trying to disappoint his Pops! And yet…he can’t, for the life of him, seem to do anything else.
Something’s causing this. And it’s not just Pops who’s at fault—Pops still loves him, loves him too much to be doing this on purpose. Lucas knows that deep in his heart. And whatever’s bothering him, Lucas wants to know! He wants to help! He’s a Riolu, isn’t he? He’s supposed to be good with emotions, isn’t he? So why, why can’t he figure out what’s making Pops do this? Why can’t he…’sense’ anything, or whatever? Why can’t he do something about it?!
It’s just not enough anymore to hear Pops mumble out an apology for the hundredth time, never even looking Lucas in the eye! Leaving an expensive new stuffed toy on his bed for him to find like that fixes anything! It’s not enough to hear Pops promise that he didn’t mean to get so angry, that this won’t happen again, only to watch him come home a few days later with a twitch in his eye and those stupid bottles in his arms! He hates that he has to walk home from school dreading the possibility of Pops blowing up again that night; he hates that he’s…he’s learned to flinch when Pops reaches out to just pet his head!
And the realization that flashes in Pops’ wide slate eyes when Lucas cringes away from him, the trembling, horrified realization—Lucas hates seeing that most of all. Especially since it doesn’t stop Pops from doing it again in the end.
That’s what’s so frustrating about all this—no matter what Lucas does, no matter what Pops says, things never seem to change. He just wants things to change, to get better. He just wants Pops to be happy again, genuinely happy; he’d give anything to just…just have him back!
Because whoever’s out there—whoever’s screaming and breaking things and terrifying him—it is not his Pops.
And Lucas will find a way to bring him back. To help him however he can. Even if he has to put off playing or homework to cook (at least, try to cook) dinner for Pops before he comes home. Even if, by staying out of his way, he loses the fewer and fewer hours per day he gets to spend with the Pops he knows. The hours when he can rest his head in his Pops’ lap as they watch a movie together—when he can laugh at Pops’ amazing puns as they bake cookies together. Those few blissful hours when Pops isn’t working or tired or angry or…or…
When he’s not…hurting him…
…
Is that…is that why he’s always so reluctant to go outside? He’s afraid that Pops will hurt him?
Is that why he can’t do anything these nights but tune out the world and cry? Is that why he tries to tell himself every time to just get up and leave his bed, but he never does? He should be out there right now, comforting Pops or taking the bottle away from him—so why isn’t he? Why is he just lying here instead of doing something about it?
Does he really think Pops will smash the bottle over his head like he did the first time Lucas tried to yank the bottle from his hand?
He still remembers crumpling to the floor, a warm wetness spreading all over his head. All over the carpet. His vision swimming in and out of darkness, his entire body limp and heavy like lead. Pops shouting his name, muffled like he’s listening to it from underwater; Pops mumbling that he’s sorry again and again; Pops scooping him in his arms and rushing him to Nurse Audino to get stitches.
He still remembers Nurse Audino staring him dead in the eyes after Pops had gone home, her face twisted into a grimace. He remembers being asked in a dark, scarily serious tone if he’d really hurt his head swinging from the monkey bars like Pops had said. Being asked to tell the truth, the real truth.
He remembers his heart breaking into pieces as he’d held back a sob and nodded yes.
He…he was just trying to help…
And he’s still sure that’s what he wants to do—he still wants so badly to help him. But how can he, when he’s so afraid? When his throat is clenching and his chest is heaving, just thinking about what Pops did to him?
Is he really so afraid that he’s never even tried to leave his room after that night? He’s said he wants to do all he can for his Pops; he really, really is all Pops has left—but is he so afraid that he’ll only emerge to pick up the pieces instead of throwing out his paws to stop the fall? Is he so afraid that he’ll only glue his home, his own father back together long after the tumult has passed? Only when it suits him?
…Is he really so afraid of his own Pops…?
He…he really doesn’t want to think about that right now.
…
…
Hey…what’s that outside the window?
Lucas tilts his head. He’s suddenly aware of the stinging wetness in his eyes, the wetness on his cheeks, and he blinks and rubs it away with a groan. His vision comes into focus for the first time in what feels like minutes. Pops has started up his yelling again, but that’s not what’s grabbed hold of his attention.
There’s…light coming from the house right across from his, the house he’s been blankly staring at this entire time. And from that light, from the window of that house, there’s motion. It almost looks like…someone staring right back at him…?
He lifts his head off of his pillow, eyebrows furrowing. He squints his eyes. And he gasps.
“...Lumine?”
Almost in response, the snowy white-furred Vulpix raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as if to ask Lucas what he’s doing awake. That’s right—Lumine does live right next to him, doesn’t he? Mr. Nuzleaf’s house is Lumine’s house, too—that means he and Lumine are next door neighbors!
Without a second thought, he scrambles to his knees, pressing his face against the window. His tail swishes to and fro; he waves; he writes on the glass; he mouths, “HELLO” as enthusiastically as he can without making noise. He and the Vulpix have already been through a ton together! Touring the village (sorta)…making it through an entire day of boring classes together…venturing through the Drilbur mines…winning in an all-out-battle against Gabite and even earning a peak at his neat jewels…
Sure, he hadn’t been able to show Lumine his favorite spot on the hill like he’d promised ‘cause he’d really needed to get home after their adventure. A-And, sure, Lucas had forgotten to tone down his energy once or twice like he’d meant to do. But…there’s no way Lumine would ignore him after all the bonding they’ve done! No one else in the village seems to trust Lumine yet ‘cause he’s so quiet and has that pretty, fluffy (but apparently unusual) white fur—just like they don’t trust Lucas ‘cause of his…being a screw-up! Not even Lucas could make someone as alone as him (no offense, Lumine) hate him so quickly!
…Right?
At first, it’s hard to tell, from the way Lumine just stares at him like he’s forgotten how to blink—but it isn’t long before he softens. The Riolu feels his heart swelling with hope as the solemn look that’s always been on Lumine’s face fades a little, a hint of a smile taking its place. He rolls his eyes playfully, mouthing back hello with a silent chuckle, and the sheer gratification, the sheer relief that courses through Lucas is so intense, so electrifying, that he feels like he could cry. He feels like he could scream. He hadn’t messed up—for once, he finally, finally hadn’t messed up!
The next thing he knows, he’s frantically scribbling one word after another into the window with his paw. Whatever he can think of, he writes. Even if it doesn’t make sense, he writes. “It’s so late! Why are you awake? Did you have a bad dream? Could you hear him? You couldn’t, right? Sorry if you could. Could you-“
But he stops in his tracks when Lumine’s smile fades away. When Lumine starts squinting, leaning forward, an eyebrow raised. Lucas freezes up, excited breath hitching in his throat, as the Vulpix rolls his eyes once again, longer this time—like all the other kids do when they’ve grown tired of him—and backs away.
With what looks like a silent scowl from Lumine, the curtain slides shut. The silhouette behind the fabric shifts, turns around, then shrinks. And then it’s gone.
…Oh.
He…he blew it.
He’s alone again. Just like that, he’s completely, utterly alone.
Slowly, he lowers his paw from the glass, letting his arms fall to his sides. Has he ever felt so tired so quickly? All he can think to do is lower himself from the windowsill, eyes still fixed in a trance on Lumine’s window. A lump forces its way down his throat as his shaking paws wrap around himself. Pops is still yelling and breaking things, and Lucas doesn’t think he’s ever felt so cold before. So…hollow.
Movement grabs his attention once again—Lumine’s curtain slides back. The Vulpix is at the window, holding up a whiteboard that reads, “You were writing backwards to me. And really small. But, no, I couldn’t ‘hear him.’ Why are YOU awake?"
And Lucas can only stare at the Vulpix peeking out behind the board. At the words he’s neatly written just for him.
He hardly notices the hot tears that start to roll down his cheeks, nor the poorly stifled hiccups and sobs flowing from his grinning mouth, as he ducks down to find his own whiteboard and markers in the clutter around his bed. And as he scribbles in huge, shaky (and still backwards) letters, “Just a bad dream, but I’m better now :)” and holds the board up, he thinks he finally understands.
He finally understands how good it feels to have a friend.