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When Tim was eleven, he carried Curly, his bleeding little brother, and ran all the way to the Curtis’s with Angela following.
Their step-dad had been drunk and broke a beer bottle against the wall, all while mom was passed out on the couch. Angela was hiding in her room, peering through the empty doorway with Curly tucked into her side.
It wasn’t the first time they’ve gone at each other's throats (they shouldn’t be going at each other’s throats) over his drinking problems. He drinks and Tim tries to hide the beer. He sees and pushes Tim to the ground, grabbing another drink. Tim shouts and he screams.
Then it all just escalates on its own, really.
His kid siblings usually hide in Angela’s room, being that it didn’t have a door and was easier to run away if the time called for it. Never Curly’s. Hardly Tim’s.
Mom was either out on the couch or smoking weed in the yard when the first sign of yelling started. Sometimes she joined in if one of them pissed her off more, mostly yelling at Angela.
In those rare times, it’s Tim Curly hides with. It’s Tim’s instinct that tells him to protect Angela, but he does know she needs this; to feel heard, to keep that fight. It’s.. it’s bad, normal maybe. But he can’t do anything about it because it’ll make it worse for the both of them. So he stands in the doorway with Curly hiding in a corner behind him.
It’s like some unspoken agreement between him and Angela: to always protect the youngest. Their step-dad seems to hate him for no reason if the marks on his arms and locks on his bedroom door are anything to go by.
Tim still makes that effort to protect Angela, of course. She’s his younger sister, barely any older than Curly. But, she hates someone fighting her own fights. Always have, always will.
He’d take the blunt of the knife if it meant they’d get out unscathed.
Tim’s eleven and fighting with his step-dad over beer. Angela’s six and wishing for mom to stop drinking till passing out. Curly’s five and still hasn’t said more than a sentence.
(In two years time, Tim will have his first cigarette, Angela will realize what it’s like to be viewed as a girl, and Curly will finally be known as the youngest brother to others)
(In a year, Curly will gain a face beyond recognition, Angela will hide behind Curly’s locked door when alone in the house with their step-dad, and Tim will have used the knife against his mother)
His step-dad bashes the glass bottle against the wall, making it shatter. Tim steps back a bit to avoid getting hit, and just keeps yelling. Mom doesn’t wake, his siblings hide.
(Tim wants to cry)
Tim wants to fight.
He doesn’t flinch to the sound or the broken glass- he’s used to it. They all are. Hell, Angela has a scar on her shoulder from being pushed onto broken glass.
[Curly picks it up most of the time; Tim still hung on the fight, Angela trying to move mom from the couch, and dad- step-dad drinking in the yard. He doesn’t make a fuss about it, doesn’t say a word.
He makes sure he’s not seen; not heard]
It sends him into an adrenaline rush, if anything. The sound of glass breaking. He hates it, he does, but it lets him know the fights actually started and he can’t back down. Not for him, not for his siblings, and certainly never for his p- his guardians or whatever.
(They’re not his parents. They won’t ever be his parents. He doesn’t have parents)
(He wants his mom)
(He misses his dad)
Tim’s lucky that his step-dad’s back towards his siblings. Both so that Tim can watch them and it makes them easier to send them away if he feels bloodshed will happen.
Curly is clutching Angela’s nightgown, wearing one of Tim’s old shirts- so baggy on him despite being five. He’s looking between them and the glass like a scared dog.
His step-dad shouts, and Tim bares his teeth.
Curly whines, and Angela shushes him and tries to divert his attention. His mom barely stirs.
Tim’s like a dog, in that way: baring his teeth when threatened, trying to protect his siblings from the man with the leash in his hand. He fights and bites to keep them safe. They need to be safe- need to be alive.
A guard dog, really, is what he feels like. There’s one chained against a tree in front of a house near the lot. Barking at everyone and scared of everything. Angela throws it food from time to time, as a distraction to get her and Curly to school three times a week. Sometimes two.
It flinches at everything near and never shuts up. It’s a fighter, and that Tim can admire.
(Tim’s eleven and shouldn’t have to be guarding his siblings from the people meant to protect them)
His step-dad yells something about his little- he wasn’t known as Curly to him, wasn’t known as a boy, as his little brother to anyone yet- about Curly, placing some stupid blame on him that has nothing to do with the actual argument. And Tim bites back, like a dog.
(Sometimes, Tim has to remind himself that Curly used to go by a different name to others. Angela and him have always just called him Curly because of his hair, hardly ever his old name. Either that of ‘kid sibling’ because he gets the same face to being called sister as he does when he’s about to be locked in his room)
Tim has the habit of taking the bait he knows he shouldn’t.
Often, he wonders if it’s the need to fight that outweighs the need to protect when the bait is thrown to him without a care. Wonders if he’s doing it for his siblings or himself. And selfishly, he wishes he could know.
He takes a step back when his step-dad takes one forward, backing close into a corner. He’s still swinging the broken bottle and it’s easy to keep his eyes on that rather than his face.
It’s easier to take a face away from the voice he wishes wasn’t yelling.
He can’t cry even if he wants to. Because that is weak and pathetic and he can’t be that.
(He’s terrified, he doesn’t want to get hurt)
He can’t remember how the fight started, but he knows how it ended.
One second, a bottle is being waved in front of his face about to slash down on his dirty skin, and the next Angela is shouting for Curly and Tim is forced to watch as Curly is shoved into the broken glass on the floor that’s slowly being painted red.
And Curly-
Curly cries.
It’s loud, and ugly, and- and it hurts so much.
And Tim just- he stands there. Staring, and all he can see is the blood.
It feels quiet. Curly is screaming, pleading for help, and it feels quiet.
(And, oh god, Tim wants to cry. It hurts, and Tim wants to-)
(What does he want?)
If you were to ask him years later what he did in that moment, and if he decided to be honest, he would say that he doesn’t know. That he can’t remember anything besides the cold that stabbed through him, the blood and screams loud, and suddenly he was running.
He was running with Curly, bleeding, limp and light in his arms with Angela right behind.
Everything is screaming at him to move faster and it burns.
(Oh, god)
They put him down on an old park bench, Tim ripping off a part of his shirt to wrap around the sharp cracks in Curly’s thigh.
He doesn’t wake, but he does flinch and moan in pain.
It’s more that Tim could’ve hoped for.
Angela is muttering and sobbing under her breath, trying to figure out a place to go. They don’t have many friends between the three of them.
They can’t go to the hospital.
He would know where they are.
(They can’t go to a hospital)
(Curly’s going to die)
(Oh, god-)
Curly whines, low and loud, pitiful.
“Hey,” Tim says fast, tapping him on the face to try and wake him up. “Hey- heyheyheyhey- stay awake- Curly, c’mon, open those eyes-“ it’s a rushed and jumbled mess. Tim keeps putting pressure, soaking his ripped shirt and painting it in blood.
Angela (worried, petrified Angela-) chokes on her sobs, racking a hand through her hair, eyes darting everywhere. She can’t stop muttering under her breath.
He manages to catch the words ‘maybe’, ‘can we-‘, and ‘far’ but he’s trying to keep Curly from dipping again even if it hurts.
He’s whining and trying to shove Tim off, but his grip is weak and he can hardly move his arms. And even though Tim’s never been one for God and The Church, he mixes in some prays with his pleads for Curly to just keep his fucking eyes open-
Hastily, gingerly, he wraps the shirt around, making it soak up more blood-
(Oh god, he wants to vomit. This is his kid siblings blood and it’s everywhere-)
-making a shitshow job of a bandage. Small glass shards making parts lift up. But- but it is all he can do until.
Until.. what? You don’t have anywhere to go besides back.
He keeps the pressure and steady stream of taps on Curly’s hollow cheek. He’s losing color and Tim’s vaguely aware of himself panting through the adrenaline rush. But everything’s ringing and blurry besides Curly looking limp and Angela’s frantic voice.
And-
God!
“What!?” He shouts, whipping around to look at her (he keeps the steady taps and pressure-). “What, the fuck are you doing standing there!? Curly-“
“You don’t think I know!?” She shouts back, eyes bloodshot and Tim almost feels guilty.
(And even, almost feels too much)
“I-I’m trying to figure out if a place is safe, okay!?” She runs a hand through her already ruined hair and breathes a sob. “Okay!? I don’t- I don’t know! I know he’s fucking dying and the only place I can think of to go is another house! I don’t know, Tim! I-“
“Where!?” He shouts. Curly whines and Angela chokes down another sob. Tim’s throat burns. “Just fucking- where, Angela?”
He makes his voice softer, and he keeps his eyes on her despite putting pressure onto Curly’s wound. He wants to yell and shout and scream until she says an address or something. But it won’t fucking work, and he’s the oldest so he has to make something work.
She takes a few fast breathes and looks at Curly’s face. “It’s- uhm- it’s near the- the empty lot,” she says quietly, almost to herself. And then she nods and looks at Tim, repeating herself.
Tim nods back. “Curly- Curly we’re gonna get you somewhere safe, yeah?” He picks Curly up in his arms, wincing at the weak cries it causes. “Just- just stay awake.” He looks back at Angela and gestures down the street as a cue to lead the way.
He doesn’t have time to think of any consequences because it is the best option they have going for them.
It doesn’t take as long as he thought, mainly because they’re running even though they definitely shouldn’t be. But better a tad more injured then dead.
The house is also not as near the lot as Angela thought, so they end up running around a block or two, Tim can’t remember. All he could focus on was the blood seeping into his shirt.
He keeps saying small reassurances because he knows Curly is scared and Tim doesn’t want the last thing Curly to remember being their step-father yelling.
The house looks better than theirs. More lively. Angela does that thing where she counts to four before she knocks on the door.
Curly whines again. It’s not good, but it means Curly’s still alive.
Tim recites prayers and half remembered Bible verses in his head while Angela knocks again just harder. His eyes darting to anything around the house to see if there’s any danger.
Angela knocks again, only this time it’s cut off by a doors creaky open.
“Angela-“ a boy starts to say, all excited and everything before he realizes what a mess she is- what a mess they are. “Wh- hey what happened.”
Angela holds it together for half a second before breaking down.
The boy calls out for his mom, but footsteps were already making their way towards them. The door opens a little more and the boys (god, Tim really needs his fucking name) mom is standing there.
If Tim looks past her, he can see three other boys (what the fuck?) sitting on the couch. She takes one good look at him and before she can say or ask anything, Tim says-
“Please help.”