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Language:
English
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Published:
2025-10-16
Updated:
2025-10-23
Words:
794
Chapters:
2/?
Comments:
6
Kudos:
16
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Beneath a Fractured Sky

Summary:

AU- what if jim’s mom died when he was 9? what if he was left in custody of his father who walked out the door 5 years ago and left them with nothing? Jim Lake Jr, a teenager who tries to hide his home life from the world, is struggling more than a 15 year old should be. but how can he escape James Lake Sr.? Will he ever be able to?

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

I have not posted this story yet, but i am wondering if anyone would actually be interested in a story like this? please leave a comment if you would! :)

Chapter 2: Beneath a Fractured Sky- Tester (this scene will fit into the story eventually)

Notes:

Okay…
So this is like a little tester sort of chapter? this is not the beginning of the story, but this scene will fit into the actual story eventually. this is basically like a one-shot for now :)

Chapter Text

The room was silent, except for the sound of heavy breathing.
James gripped Jim by the shoulders and yanked him forward until the boy was kneeling on the cold wooden floor.
“Don’t you ever—” his voice cracked like thunder, “ever—say anything like that about me again.”
The words hit harder than his hands ever could.
Jim’s breath caught in his throat. His face flushed red under the weight of his father’s glare.
“Do you understand me?”
Jim stayed quiet. His hands trembled against his thighs. Six years of fear sat behind his eyes, and it was still nowhere near enough to protect him.
“Do you understand me?!” James’s voice rose to a roar, spit flying, his face twisted with fury. “Say it! Say you understand!”
“I—I understand, Father!” The words spilled out in a rush. Jim’s eyes were glassy, swollen, holding back a flood that would only make it worse.
James took a long, steady breath. The tension in his shoulders eased a little. He stepped back, straightening his shirt as though that small act restored control.
“Get up.”
Jim obeyed instantly, his movements jerky, mechanical. He didn’t dare make a sound.
James’s eyes locked onto his again—cold, grey, and empty of anything human. Jim shivered.
Then James turned away.
Jim exhaled shakily, the air leaving his lungs in a fragile sigh. For a moment, there was quiet. The kind of quiet that fools you into believing it’s over.
Then James spun around.
The slap came fast—sharp, merciless. The sound cracked through the house like a gunshot. Jim’s head snapped to the side, his skin stinging, the warmth of his blood rising beneath it.
Tears welled before he could stop them. They ran hot down his cheek, cutting through the grime and bruises. He made the mistake of looking up.
James’s fist met his temple in an instant. The world tilted. The floor rushed up to meet him.
Jim’s vision blurred, a metallic taste flooding his mouth. His fingers trembled as they reached for his forehead. They came away wet and red. Blood dripped into his eye, turning everything into a haze of crimson and blur.
James stood above him, breathing heavily.
“Now,” he said, his tone frighteningly calm, “go get yourself cleaned up. I don’t want a single imperfection showing when you come back downstairs. You have ten minutes. Don’t make me come up there.”
Jim didn’t move. Couldn’t.
“Go!” James barked, his face twisting into something that almost looked like a smile. “You’re a disgrace to this family.”
“Y-y-yes, Father,” Jim whispered, his voice barely holding together.
He pushed himself to his feet, the room tilting around him. His knees wobbled, his vision pulsed in and out of focus.
One foot in front of the other. Come on, Jim. You can fall apart later.
He started up the stairs. Each step creaked beneath his weight, echoing through the empty house like a countdown. By the time he reached the top, his breath came in short, ragged bursts.
The bathroom light flickered on with a dull buzz.
He shut the door behind him and turned the lock, the soft click sounding louder than thunder.
In the mirror, a stranger stared back. His cheek was purple and swollen. His skin—pale, smeared with dirt and blood—looked almost translucent. A thin cut above his eyebrow still bled, a slow, steady trickle that slid into his hairline and stung his eye.
He turned on the tap, the cold water biting at his fingers. The wet cloth hissed against his skin as he dabbed at the wound, wiping away the blood until it hurt more to keep going than to stop.
When it was finally clean—or clean enough—he reached for the towel, dried his face, and left the bathroom.
In his bedroom, the air was heavy, still. He knelt beside an old dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. Beneath a pile of worn clothes sat a small box—his mother’s. Inside lay the remnants of her old makeup: cracked powders, faded brushes, a half-used tube of concealer.
He took it gently, as if it were sacred.
Back in the bathroom, he unscrewed the cap and began to blend the beige liquid over the bruises, the cuts, the swollen skin. His fingers trembled with every touch.
Layer by layer, the damage disappeared.
When he finished, he looked into the mirror again. The boy staring back looked whole—almost perfect.
He smiled faintly, the kind that never reached the eyes.
Perfect.
Now no one will ever know what happens almost every night.