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Brown Recluse

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Somewhere in history, the world unanimously decided to make Monday the worst day in existence for every inhabitant on Earth. Which wouldn't be a problem if it didn't affect him as a person, but it did. Immensely.
"What do you mean you're leaving again?" he asked (and it wasn't a whine, absolutely not). Troy stood in nothing but his boxers, hand gripping loosely to a glass full of water, as he stared at his parents. Suitcases lined half of the hallway, and they were already trussed up in fur overcoats. His mother's face, always so pinched with stress, relaxed in pity. Troy didn't need anyone's, though, much less her's.
"Honey, we talked about this yesterday. We're going to London to organise a business deal, remember?" She knew damn well he didn't remember. Troy had been so drunk of his ass he'd been surprised he'd managed to make it up to his bedroom last night.

"Right," He gritted out nevertheless. He really wanted to punch something—preferably the wall. That wouldn't end well, he knew, from past experiences, however. Instead, Troy settled for angry huffs and turning to stomp back up the stairs. Ever since he'd become old enough to legally stay at home alone, they'd used that to their full advantage in every way possible. They'd only return for a day or so then fly off to Bum Ass Nowhere, and come back with apologies and souvenirs from their escapades.

The cycle continued day after day.

Sometimes Troy was convinced he was stuck in a time loop. If not for the changing dates, he would need no further proof of anything different. "Right. When are you leaving?" he asked mid-stomp up the second stair. There was only a few seconds of silence from his mother; it was an answer on all its own. Troy frowned and ran a hand down down his face. "Of course you are. Wait until the last minute to tell me so that I can't prevent you from going, that's very smart." he didn't turn around from where he was still facing the wall. Instead, Troy focused on documenting the small sounds that echoed through their house.

It was a big one; almost as large as a mansion, but with the foundation made out of wood, it was inevitable that rodents or bugs would be crawling in the walls. If Troy strained his ears, he could always hear the faint pitter-patter of tiny feet scurrying around. It made for a fun game, when he was up to it. "Troy-" his mother tried. "Just go. I'll be fine, I'm a mature adult. Not a baby anymore, remember?" he sighed.
Even though it was only seven thirty in the morning, Troy could sense a pounding headache that would most likely consume him.

At that point, he'd have to lay in the safe darkness of his room and wait for it to pass. Another beat of silence containing nothing but their breaths, then his mother turned and, lugging her bag behind her, exited out the way that Troy assumed she'd entered in to say goodbye.

He didn't bother calling after her about the amount of cases she and his father had left behind; if only for the fact that one of their butlers would load it on for them. Troy hauled himself back up the polished marble stairs, trailing his hand on the granite railing and cracking his neck as he retreated to his own room. He made sure to slam the door particularly hard to enunciate his point and took great pleasure in hearing the vicious smack it produced when it shut.
Unable to prevent a smirk from slithering onto his lips, Troy let himself fall backward onto his bed, then threw an arm over his eyes. There was another pause downstairs, then the faint sounds of shoes walking across tile, and a muffled shout of goodbye. Troy rolled over and ignored it, even when the car's engine purred smoothly and gravel crunched under its tires. Instead, he just stared blankly at the white wall opposite of him, and viciously pushed his tears back when they threatened to fall.

Alone again, alone again, he thought miserably, rolling his lip between his teeth. There were only so many things to do on summer vacation when he was alone, especially when the majority of his friends were out of the country for a change. Right when he needed their company the most, too. Perfect. With a heave and a sigh, Troy levered himself up onto his elbows, dropping his chin to his chest in thought. Other teens (normal teens) would be celebrating this occasion, right? At least Troy thought so, but he couldn't be all that sure.

Either way, he was going to try that vodka he'd been trying to get to for the majority of the year. Now that the only others in his house were maids and butlers, that wouldn't be such a hardship to accomplish. Feeling lighter on his feet, Troy hopped off his bed and padded over to the door, tiptoeing through the mess that consisted mainly of his discarded clothes. He'd have to pick those up one day soon; maids had stopped visiting his floor after he turned fourteen, unfortunately.

Troy slipped out silently, socked feet sliding across the wood without a sound as he moved back toward the staircase. Fourth step to the last is the one that creaks, Troy remembered with a start. While he wouldn't get in trouble with being caught, he would be severely punished for both stealing his father's liquor and taking something that wasn't his in general. Like always, his argument would be that everything in the house was owned by the entire family. Like always, he would be sent to his room with a final 'because I said so'. Or maybe it was different, now. Maybe Troy's father didn't care about what he drank or if he ended up choking on his own vomit when he passed out from swallowing too much alcohol. For something that should have been simply, Troy struggled to grasp the concept of his dad displaying any form of affection to him before his deathbed. It made two of them, he supposed.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he pressed himself flush against the wall just in case someone had been passing by. When no one did, he peered around the corner, and moved swiftly in the direction of his father's office. It was where he kept all the whiskey, of course, so more often than not the man would be stumbling around drunk or buzzed. There wasn't ever a day where Troy couldn't hear him shouting about something to someone.
Paintings adorned the walls that he passed through. Troy couldn't even name all (or any) of them, but he was pretty sure that some of them were actually the originals from when the artists were still alive. Which wouldn't explain why they were in plain sight, but when had his family ever been reasonable or patient about something? Troy snorted at himself, then when he reached another intersection, took the left. At the end he could see a large, imposing oak door that had seemed far more intimidating when he was smaller and worshipped his father like a god.

Christ, he'd thought the guy could carry the sun and moon in one palm and the Earth in the other. He'd been blinded by childhood as a whole. The door didn't make a sound as he pushed on the silver knob, opening with nothing more than a soft gust of wind. That was anticlimactic, Troy thought, and eyed the hinges carefully. How ironic it would be if Grant King oiled his furniture and cherished it more than his own living, breathing family? The man loved his paperwork just a little too much. Troy stepped in and closed the entrance gently behind him, taking a cursory look around.

Sunlight streamed in from partially closed blinds, illuminating the piles of books stacked neatly on the cerulean carpet and pressed to the wall. A birch desk decorated with golden lining and intricate carvings sat on the far side with files and contracts spread across it. Ink splatters long faded were there, too, despite the cleaner's best efforts. Troy thought it was rather symbolic. Mistakes that his father could never erase no matter what he did. Funny, that.
Behind the desk, though, was what he'd been searching for. A glass case shined to the point of almost blinding, frost designs on the very edges, and the very best the alcohol industry had to offer one of the richest men in the world. *Bingo.* Troy hurried over to the locked case, took the key from under a particularly thick set of papers, and unlocked it. The scent of whiskey burned his sinuses, but it replenished Troy's lungs from where they'd become dry, thinking so much about his family history.

He took one of the shot glasses off the highest shelf, only needing to go on his tiptoes, and reached for the closest bottle. Ice clinked as he poured; it was like wind chimes clinking together on a particularly dreary day to Troy's deprived ears and parched mouth. He raised his glass to an invisible patron, then threw his head back with the liquid shortly following. It danced across his tongue like a calm ocean wave, and then lit a blowtorch in the back (traitor), but all the same if gave his gut a warm sensation and eased the suspicious knot that refused to loosen in his throat. It bordered on uncomfortable, teetering between easily ignored and unpleasant, as Troy took another deep swig. His head had already begun to cloud blissfully, his gut warmed from the alcohol, and he sighed. That's the stuff. He could already feel the buzz echoing in the back of his head, a definite sign that the drink he'd snatched may have been stronger than what he'd anticipated. No matter. His point was to get as drunk as possible, anyway. Troy filled another glass and threw his head back again, ignoring the dizzy spell it gave him. Soon enough, his vision began to waver and his mind became clouded. Full, rational thoughts were no longer apart of Troy's vocabulary. And he loved it, the sensation of all his worries draining away to the back of his mind.

Troy leaned back to support himself on the desk behind him, resting the majority of his weight on the wood as he set the glass down harder than necessary. He exhaled slowly, let his limbs turn into liquid; it was exhilarating to know that he could be caught at any time and be sent to rehab, and yet understand that not a single person would care enough to do so.
The phone rang. Troy jumped and nearly fell flat on his face at the jolt to the chair, arms pinwheeling to keep his balance even as he twisted his neck to look over at the landline. "Whos'it?" He slurred to himself, standing on unstable legs and taking a wobbly step forward. It took, perhaps, a few more seconds for him to actually reach his destination, but as he supported himself with a hand against the wall and the other reaching for the phone, that was he least of his worries. Troy picked it up without a second thought.

There was the telltale click and whir of machines working in the background on the other end of the line. Nothing else Troy himself could actually decipher, but he was pretty sure there was heavy breathing on the other end. "Yes?" He extended the 's' to an outrageous length because he liked the way it felt on his tongue, in his mouth. A throat cleared. "Troy? Is that you? Where's your father?" He sat up a little further at the distinct and sharp-toned feminine voice, sobering almost immediately. "Whitney! My dear, how are you?" He purred into the speaker.

There was the sound of a fond, but exasperated, sigh, and the shuffling of papers that were probably boring files that needed filling out. "Don't give me that crap, mister. Has your father already left with his wife?" His sour mood, previously lightened by his friend's voice, returned with a vengeance. He slumped further into the plaster wall. "Yeah." That was all he offered. Whitney huffed. "That man...I have to hang up now, ring up your father, but you're welcome to come over to mine later, if you like? I'm hosting a party tomorrow to congratulate surviving the last year of high school." Her voice gentled near the end, and Troy smiled softly. He loved Whitney; gorgeous to boot, and with a personality snappy enough to match his, they were a perfect pair of friends to be feared.

"I'll consider it. Bye, Whit." He responded, rubbing the bridge of his nose at the impending headache. "And drink some water before you go to bed," Whitney added dryly, as if she could hear him trying to massage away the incoming hangover a mile away. Knowing her, she probably could, when Troy thought about it. "Yeah, yeah. I will." Looking out the window revealed the sun was nowhere close to setting, but he figured that it was better to get more rest than not getting any. Whitney hung up with a resounding 'click' that seemed to echo in his ear for a moment, before Troy stumbled toward the door and back up the stairs. He didn't bother covering his tracks. Knowing the staff, they'd clean up with no questions asked.

Dragging his body back to his bedroom was far harder than people made it sound. It felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and as he flopped into his bed, face down, he was inclined to agree with that fact. He felt like he was being held down by the world and all of the responsibilities that came with being the heir of a multi-billion dollar company. Closing his eyes and willing his problems away, Troy sunk into oblivion and slept.