Chapter Text
Frisk could not stand long sleeves. The way they made their whole arms feel touched and the way they'd sweat and the fabric would stick to them. Not in summer, not in spring, and barely even in the middle of winter. Usually, they didn't have to wear them. Usually, Mama didn't make them, but on right now, they had to any time they left the dirt road.
When they could, they'd just stay home. No grocery store, no milkshakes- it wasn't worth the long sleeves. But on Sundays, they had to sit through the hot, humid service without any fans or air conditioning, as still as they could despite how uncomfortable and sweaty they were. Then, after service, they had to drag themselves along behind Mama, Granny and Uncle Rick, who stopped to talk to everybody on the way to the car.
Then, finally at home, they'd run up the stairs to their room, and lock the door. After checking that the door was shut properly, and that the lock was sturdy and wouldn't budge too easy, they would strip the awful dress topper off, the almost-as-awful dress, and then lay in their bed, waiting for the little bedside fan to dry their sweat and cool their skin.
Once they felt sufficiently cooled and dried, they'd stand up, and put the dress away, careful to brush off any dust that might give away that it had been on the floor. After that, they stood in front of their long mirror attached to the closet door, and examined the bruises on their upper arms. They only had to wear sleeves for as long as they still showed, and though they couldn't be sure, they had watched as the bruises went from reddish to purpleish, to greenish-yellowish and they were fairly sure that meant they would go all the way away soon.
And then no more sleeves! Which meant no more dress that they hate! When they'd had to choose what to wear to church each week under the new criteria, they only options they had in their closet was that awful dress with a thin, long-sleeved topper, or a heavy sweater from a Christmas recital the last year they went to school... and at least with the dress, they didn't have to wear pants in the heat of late spring, and early summer.
They hoped that by next week, they'd be healed up enough to go back to pants and that short-sleeved button up Aunt Raina had given them on Frisk's last birthday.
After examining the bruises on both arms, they got dressed again in shorts and a t-shirt, and on the days where nobody was paying any mind to stop them- like today- Frisk would go quietly out the back door and climb the metal fence, escaping until dinner time to explore in the woods behind the house.
"You're getting to be a big girl," and "It's time to start growing up." had become more and more frequent ever since they had "run off" during the camping trip. Mama had gotten fed up, had decided to get more strict since Frisk "thought it was a good idea to worry us all to death!" and finding time to do nice things or go see Aunt Raina was getting more and more difficult. All anybody wanted them to do now was practice sewing or other boring stuff, and-
-and if Frisk was being honest, and not trying to stop thinking sinful thoughts, they did not really think that they should have to listen to everybody anymore. Not Mama or Granny, who did not listen to the truth, and not Uncle Rick, who lied. And who also did other things that Frisk would not think about! Not Pastor John, who said mean and awful things about monsters when Frisk knew they were not true; what else did he say that he was wrong about?
It had been years since Frisk had really run off, despite everybody who thought otherwise all because of Uncle Rick. But sometimes, times like right then in those very woods, they wanted to run again. To take off running into the trees. Maybe they could run and run, until all their skin came off and they were just bones and they could become a monster, and live near the mountain like Sans. Maybe they could be neighbors and best friends, and he wouldn't take them back to Aunt Raina and they would never have to go home or see this town or their Mama or their Granny or Uncle or Pastor John, or that ugly dress ever-ever-ever again!
They turned, casting a long look through the trees back to the house. The house where Uncle Rick lived. Where he'd come into their room if they forgot to lock the door at night. Where Mama wouldn't listen when Frisk tried to tell her. Where the dress hung neat and tidy in their room, threatening them with next Sunday. And where Frisk was kept when they couldn't sneak out, all because of everybody but it was everybody but Frisk that was wrong! Not Frisk, even though Frisk got the belt and new rules and that stupid ugly dress!
Frisk looked behind them, at the long stretch of woods that, eventually, would lead to the mountain. Could they find their way there? Maybe. But even living in the woods alone sounded better than going to church even one more time. Even if they couldn't find Sans, maybe they could build a cabin of their own, or just set up a tent and live inside. They would need a tent. And a flashlight, and matches to make a fire once it started to get cold...
This time, Frisk went home. Up to their room, where they dropped to their knees at the foot of the bed and reached behind the solid, wooden backing until they felt plush, soft fur and pulled Ears from the hiding spot. With light, pale pink fur and glass eyes, a switched up nose and long, floppy ears, Ears had become Frisk's last stuffed friend after Granny made them pack up all their toys away into a box, to put in the attic.
At first, they felt back, both for lying and for only choosing Ears instead of any of their other toys. But Frisk thought that they might understand. Ears had been around for as long as Frisk had, at least, so it made sense to choose him- plus, Ears had no mouth, so he couldn't talk just like Frisk. Now, older, Frisk knew Ears could not talk because he was stuffed, and they knew they didn't need to feel bad for toys and dolls, too, but... they gave him a hug, even if he was just stuffed. A silent apology for even thinking of abandoning him, of running away without coming to get him first.
What Frisk needed was a plan; a list of things to pack, and a way to carry it all. Their old backpack from school wouldn't be big enough, but Uncle Rick had a camping one that had straps for a rolled-up sleeping bag on the top. After checking that the door was shut, and the lock wouldn't budge, Frisk sat Ears on their desk, leaning him against their pencil-case so he could sit up as a proper participant. Then, the pair set to work, making their plan.
Day one consisted, mostly, of digging through the pantry to find things like crackers, and the little packets of peanut butter and syrups that came from restaurants and ended up tossed someplace in the pantry or in a drawer. And, although they couldn't find a water bottle, they did find an old thermos that they were pretty sure didn't leak. It wasn't much, but they couldn't carry too much anyway, so they also found an old packet of carrot seeds in a pile of garden supplies. Long-abandoned and rusting supplies, so they wouldn't bring a shovel. They could just use their hands to dig in the dirt and bury some seeds. Then they could grow their own food, for when the crackers ran out!
After sneaky poking around, all that was left for day 1 was finding a place to hide it all. After spending a long time looking, Frisk decided on the back of their closet. In a plastic box where their winter clothes were kept, carefully layered underneath a couple of heavy coats and a pair of swishy snow pants.
Day two was trickier, but only because Saturday was laundry day, and it was only Tuesday! That meant three days of clothes were dirty so far, with however many more until they could find a chance to sneak into Uncle Rick's room for his backpack.
It felt mean, and sinful, but also justified to steal his camping things when the camping trip he forced Frisk to go on was the whole entire reason they wanted to leave in the first place. Frisk was not a thief. They did not even steal extra candy on Halloween from the bowls that said Take One! on a little sign. Not even when there was nobody around to see, or when Mama said to grab a handful despite the sign.
No, Frisk was not a thief, but that wouldn't stop them this time and their anger and their hurt, tears and sniffly nights alone in their room with only Ears to comfort them, was enough motivation to keep their plan in tact. Stealing and all.
In the end, they settled on two t-shirts and a pair of shorts. A couple of undies and socks, and they'd wear an outfit going out and skip pajamas. They also found, in a kitchen drawer filled with junk, a box of matches and a rusty pocket knife that with a little effort, folded closed. They hid those in the plastic box, with their chosen clothes on top.
The last of the packing up came two days later. At supper that night, Frisk found themselves poking their food around on their plate. Spinach from a can, dry biscuits and sweet corn. And chicken breast. They ate the corn, but they knew the chicken came from that farm down the road, which meant that Frisk knew that chicken. Had probably pet it through the fence while it ate the cracker crumbs Frisk stashed for them in their pocket.
They wouldn't eat it. Couldn't it. Add on top of that, Uncle Rick had joined them for dinner since he was leaving for a football game, and had to ask Granny to borrow the truck. Normally, he'd in in his room, but having him there at the table, sitting right across from Frisk made them nauseous. Too nauseous to stomach slimy spinach and dry biscuit that stuck in their mouth. Too sick to wash it down with Granny's sweet tea that she made with fake sugar, so it left a bad taste on Frisk's teeth. Once the corn was gone, they tried to be subtle, cutting up the biscuit with their fork and poking in bits of spinach.
If they could make it look like they ate enough, maybe they'd get away with it. Frisk wished badly for a dog at times like this, to sit under the table and eat the food that they couldn't, like on television. And to sleep in their room at night, keeping a watchful eye on the door so that they wouldn't have to keep getting up to check the lock.
Maybe it would've worked this time, like it sometimes did, if not for the chicken, which they could not bring themself to even touch. Not even to hide it. Of course, Granny noticed first, and then came the "You don't like the dinner I cooked?" and "You ought to count your blessings that there's food on the table!" as if Frisk was not grateful enough for their dead chicken friend.
Then came Mama, with her usual gripes of "I just don't know what to do with her!" and "Felicia-Ann, if you don't mind your Granny right now!" and "You are too damn old to be acting like this over a meal you just ate last week!
The room felt oppressive. Outside, the sun had set lower than the trees, so the awful overhead light that buzzed so loud when it was on was the only light in the room. Surrounded by sharp and angry voices, tall and bulky furniture and imposing walls on all sides but one where the table was tucked into a nook, Frisk thought that they might puke. Right there on the table, feeling smaller and smaller, and angrier than they ever had before.
If that had been all, Frisk thought they might've given in. Just to make it all stop. But what pushed them over the edge was Uncle Rick. Standing up, leaning over the table, catching their face in his gross awful fingers and forcing their head back until they looked at him.
"You look at somebody when they're talkin' to you, especially me, your mama and your granny!" The way he said it, like Frisk was so disrespectful, like they did these things on purpose, like feel too sick to eat or too overwhelmed to look at someone in the eyes who was yelling at them. His tone so sharp and warning, his eyes a muddy green that looked like acid in their room at night. Looking down at them that way, looking down on them like they were something bad.
Frisk could feel that anger grow. The Devil on their shoulder telling them to do something awful, to do something that would show everybody just how they made Frisk feel. Why did everybody else get to be wrong? To lie, to punish and force and call them names they hate and make them wear skirts they hate and sleeves they hate and all because he, a stupid, awful liar tried to hold Frisk down so hard it bruised their arms? The memory of that day played, suddenly, in their mind's eye for the first time since it happened.
For the first time, they remembered, and they let it play.
His buddy going off to go fishing, leaving them alone on the campsite. Him getting too close to them. Trying to talk them into getting in the tent, and they ignored him, staring off into the woods and pretending he wasn't there until he started petting their hair. Rick getting so mad when they swatted his hand away, Rick dragging them across the ground by their top and their arm and their hair while they tried to push him away from them.
Rick dragging them into the tent, holding them down so hard because they started to thrash, started to scream, and kick and fight. Not knowing what, but knowing that whatever was about to happen was going to be worse than anything that happened the other times he touched them. And then they were running.
Free, somehow, and running-really running for the first time in years. "Absconding", the doctor had called it. Absconding, Mama called it with an unfamiliar tongue. Absconding from Uncle Rick, maybe for good, maybe to never see him ever again except that now he was here. With his awful, nasty fingers touching their face, hurting their skin again.
Something in Frisk shifted. Something that had been holding them back was gone. Sinner or not, kind or unkind, Frisk could not care. They knew the consequences would be worse than they'd ever been, and they still did not care. They stood. They picked up their plate- Granny's good dinner plates, with flowers on the edges- and pushed it hard enough against his face that it broke into pieces. Food and china fell down his chest, onto the table and onto the floor and he staggered back.
Silence fell over the room just for a moment. Stunned, shocked silence, and Frisk stood tall. Shoulders squared and hands in fists by their sides. Knowing and ready for what came next.
It did come. Frisk's mama left the room, while their granny worried and fussed that he didn't need to, that it was too hard, too much, that Frisk just didn't understand like other kids did, and he looked Frisk in the eyes, with spinach stuck to his cheek that made them have to bite their cheek to hide a smile, and said, "She understands plenty." and Frisk thought that he was right- they did understand some things, more now than they thought they had understood before.
Every snap of the belt on their thighs, behind or back made them flinch, especially when their shirt rode up their back and he was hitting bare skin. The edge of the table digging into their stomach, and his hand pressing down between their shoulder-blades felt more painful with each whip. But they bit their teeth together hard, and they looked right back up at him from the table, even when their spilled tea pooled around their face. They did not allow even one, single sound to escape their lips. Not one. Willing their stare to tell him that this will be the very last time he lays his hands on them, like this, or at all.
After he was done, he left. Taking the truck to see the game with his buddy, like nothing even happened. Frisk hoped he'd forgotten to pick the spinach and bits of chicken off his face. He'd left the mess, both the one Frisk had made, and the one he made by slamming them down on the table.
They stood up, wincing, letting out a sharp gasp from it all- it was the worst it'd ever been, just like they knew it would be even before they did what they did. The pain didn't stop them from intervening when Granny moved to start cleaning up, trembling as she reached across the table.
Frisk, with stinging, fiery-hot welts forming on their back and legs, and cold tea soaking on their front, cleaned up dinner and the mess, ignoring Granny's protests. Ignoring her completely because in between her worries, in between her insisting that Frisk didn't need to clean up, she would say her usual lines. "He didn't mean to be so harsh." and "You just got him worked up, honey."
Instead, they cleaned up, put away the leftovers that hadn't been ruined, and washed the pieces of the plate they'd broken carefully. When it was all said and done, Frisk set the pieces gently on the table, and gave their granny a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and then they left for their room.
They didn't hear Mama in her room, but Frisk didn't care. Nobody was going to stop them, no matter what. They changed first, into shorts, and sneakers, and a tank-top and a jacket for the chilly night ahead of them. Then they dragged the box out from the closet, and dug through it, laying everything out on their bed alongside Ears. Then, as if they were simply allowed to, Frisk walked into Uncle Rick's room and turned on the light. They found his backpack easily enough, tossed in the corner of the room. Not even fully unpacked from the camping trip.
After lugging it to their room, they carefully emptied every pocket onto the floor of their room that they would never see again. They carefully repacked it with all their chosen supplies, and re-attached the sleeping bag to the straps at the top. Putting the backpack on was difficult- the whole thing felt twice as big as they remembered it being, but once they managed to get it on their shoulders they took the thermos to the bathroom down the hall, and filled it with tap water from the sink.
Despite what they thought, Frisk did not have reservations when it finally came time to go. Ears in hand, Thermos tucked into the pocket on the side of the backpack along with their toothbrush and toothpaste and hairbrush, there was nothing left to do but go.
They left right out the front door without looking back, and as they made their way down the dirt road towards the street, they gasped, startled as something tickled their ankle.
Looking down, illuminated just barely by the singular streetlamp just past Aunt Raina's, Frisk found a cat. Mostly white, with a couple of spots and a couple of patches of muddy fur, was a cat! Rubbing up against their leg and purring, only to spin around and rub against them again!
Frisk knelt down, slow for the sake of not scaring the kitty, to not lose their balance to the heavy backpack, and to mitigate the pain of the backpack rubbing against the places where the belt had hit them. And they pet the cat, who rubbed its face on their palm and wrist. This must be the kind of cat that Sans meant when he asked if they were being one, and Frisk giggled thinking about it. The cat- who Frisk decided was called Monster, for being so warm and so sweet- let out a tiny squeak of a meow. After a final nuzzle, it turned and slunk away, back underneath the house where other cats had begun to call out to it.
Standing back up straight, Frisk felt their determination strengthen; this was what they wanted. They stood face-to-face with Uncle Rick. They got to pet one of the porch kitties. And they never had to go home again.
Frisk wasn't stupid. They knew that finding Sans again was unlikely. They didn't know where he lived. Couldn't remember how far from the campsite that they'd run. They knew the way to the campsite, but it was dark, and a long walk... a long walk with bears, and mountain lions and who knows what else. Frisk knew that even if they did know the way, the exact best route to that cabin- which they did not- there was a chance that they wouldn't make it there. They knew that wandering off down the street, and into the woods, and to the trail that led to the camping spot could be the very last thing that they ever did.
But even that was better than one more day at home.