Chapter Text
The morning is quiet. Fuzzy sunlight filters through the blinds, casting warm lines across his bedclothes. Something is almost off about how good it feels, still. This is day three of not waking up to a faker in his home. He curls into his blankets, cherishing the warmth, though he can't quite shake the pang in his chest.
He's almost used to the numbness in his arm at this point. The doctors told him it'd never be the same again—"weak," they said. Oswald guesses he'll have to get used to it. He keeps trying to tell himself that damaged nerves is better than no arm at all. Even if he has to relearn how to write and draw a bit, that'll be okay.
He has a plan to write in his journal everyday to see if he can fix his handwriting. As for his off-hand, he's already found that holding the pencil feels weird; the letters are weird and flipped and he keeps writing them backwards. His arm doesn't really hurt, at least, because they also have him on some kind of medicine he doesn't know how to pronounce. He doesn't know how to describe how his arm feels, really. He can feel it a bit but there's a partial prickly feeling. Sometimes it feels like he's being zapped.
He's mad at that thing for hurting him.
His brows furrow. There's no time to be bitter.
He finally sits up, rubbing his eyes. The smell of bacon from the kitchen squirms under the crack in his door. He isn't sure he's very hungry. Oswald knows that Mom's just making it because she's trying to make him feel better. He heard them talking about him in the kitchen yesterday night when they thought he was asleep.
Blinking the gooey feeling from his eyes, he stands. He looks down at his arm. The bandage is wrapped tight, but even looking at it makes him shudder. He remembers bleeding. Stumbling down an empty street, holding onto Dad's arm. He had to go to the ER.
Oswald stretches, yawning. Maybe he shouldn't think about his injury so much and just go on with his day. He isn't going to school, he knows, so why did he even wake up this early? Oh! Probably because Dad's taking him somewhere today. His nerves always make him wake up way earlier than he has to. He doesn't know where he's going but it's supposed to be fun—in fact, he isn't supposed to know he's going anywhere at all because he got the information from eavesdropping, then wondered all night long. He can't help but listen. He doesn't even really wanna go anywhere.
He glances at himself in the mirror, stretching his shirt-collar to look at a splotchy bruise on his chest. He doesn't remember how he got it, but he knows that rabbit probably had something to do with it. A shiver crawls across his shoulders. He remembers how those hands felt so vividly. Cold. Metal.
His hand falls to his side. Oswald breathes, clenching his teeth.
The table is awkward this morning. Oswald squirms. Am I made of glass or something?
He picks at his food, breaking a strip of bacon into itty bitty pieces with his fork. Mom looks at him.
"I'm eating it." He says before a concerned question can even come from her mouth. "Sorry."
He takes a sip of orange juice. The bitter tang coats his tongue. He crinkles his nose.
"Well, that's good, hon . . ." She says carefully, like he's fragile. Oswald bites the inside of his cheek.
Suppressing a sigh, he nibbles at a piece of egg-white. Dad sniffles loudly.
"Hey, I was thinking," Dad speaks, silence heavy in the air. "We should go out and do something, y'know? Instead of just staying home all the time and sulking." He nudges Oswald with an elbow he can tell was meant to be friendly.
Knew it.
"What is there to do?" Oswald asks, his finger tapping at the table.
He watches as Dad glances at Mom; clearly, he doesn't know what to say or hasn't decided.
"I'd rather stay home anyway." Oswald tries not to make them look bad for thinking they could make him feel better.
"Oz—"
"I just, know the money's tight." He smiles. "We could watch TV or something." There are tons of old reruns on the channels, then there's the DVR. He doesn't have want to go anywhere feeling how he does. They can still spend time together at home, Oswald thinks, so why not just save the trouble?
"What do you want to watch?" Dad asks, gentle voiced.
"I don't know." Oswald stabs an egg, the fork making little marks like teeth. He just wants to stay home. Which is crazy, because a week ago, he'd be begging to go somewhere. He bites his cheek. "I just, don't wanna go anywhere after having to go to Jeff's all that time, so . . ."
Dad freezes. Mom clenches her jaw. They shoot a look at each other, Oswald grinding his teeth. Did he strike a nerve? "What?"
"It's nothing, sweetie." Mom's voice is suddenly kind. Almost like she doesn't want him to know something. Did they talk about something?
Oswald bounces his knee. He doesn't think he can finish his plate. He hates when people hide stuff from him. Maybe he's being too suspicious. But no? Because Dad looks nervous, too.
"Are you sure?" He instigates.
Oswald's eyes are glued to the boxy TV screen.
"Local business owner found dead in pizzeria," the headline reads. The reporter solemnly details what they know, about how the investigation is ongoing; about how they haven't ruled out homicide.
His hands shake. Jeff is dead, he thinks.
The cruel image flashes in his mind. No, that can't be possible . . .
Homicide. That means violence.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
That can't be possible.
The door squeaks, Dad stepping in.
"Is this what you were hiding from me?" Oswald murmurs.