Chapter Text
Gregory's always been a simple boy. He's not one to really want much in his life. Just two loving parents and enough toys to keep him entertained for the day is all he needs to have a happy life. He's always been more on the independent side. It's always been difficult for him to make friends at school, choosing to hang around the teachers instead of the other children his age.
He's always been extremely close with his parents. Kindergarten had been really hard on him. He had to be forced to sit in class all day, without his parents there with him. He had hated the first few weeks. He had refused to do anything in class, opting to simply sit at his table and watch from the sidelines. It took a lot of work on the teacher's part to get him to finally warm up.
It isn't really a problem now that he's older-just having turned twelve. He's grown out of his clinginess, but he still enjoys spending time with his parents.
But lately, it seems that most of their family time has been taken up by his parents arguing with one another. Often times this leaves Gregory sitting on the sidelines, either to watch them argue or to try and keep himself busy. He doesn't like either option.
He hates hearing his parents argue. Most of the time it's over little things, like who forgot to get what at the store or someone said something wrong or how messy the house is, yada yada yada. Honestly, Gregory couldn't care less what the arguments are about. He just wants to spend time with his parents.
Currently, Gregory sits in the living room on the large family couch situated in front of the flat-screen TV. He can hear the muffled shouts of his parents as they argue in the kitchen about something stupid. He struggles to focus on the TV. It's some kind of weird cartoon about a blue cat and a goldfish. He really hadn't been paying much attention to anything.
With a heavy sigh, Gregory turns to look over the back of the couch. He can see the back of his father as he leans over the kitchen counter. His entire body is tense and his hair is tangled and messy. He can't see his mother, but he's sure she looks as unkempt as his father does.
It feels like they have no time for anything else except for arguing.
He feels his stomach growl uncomfortably, alerting him to the time. It's noon, almost one, and he still hasn't had lunch yet. His breakfast had been small, simply a couple of pieces of dry toast with a slice of butter smeared on each one. His mother really hasn't been cooking much since the fighting started. Sometimes Gregory has to find what's laying around in the kitchen to feed himself since his parents are too worked up to feed him themselves.
But since they're currently in the kitchen, he doesn't know if he should go in and interrupt them or wait until they're done. Their arguments can sometimes last for hours though, so he doesn't really want to wait. He's never gone very long without eating, so the feeling of hunger is a foreign feeling to him.
Slowly, he slides off the couch and quietly makes his way to the doorframe that leads into the kitchen. He stands in the doorway, fiddling with his fingers. He can see his mother now, standing on the other side of the island. She takes no notice of him as she points a slender finger at his father, her voice sharp and accusing. Her other hand is on her hip and she's leaning into it, her light brown hair tied up into a messy bun.
There's a pause between the two. His mother takes a breath after her long rant, her cheeks a rosy pink with anger. She still hasn't noticed Gregory standing there, her attention focused solely on her husband.
He takes this as his chance to make himself known. "Hey, mom?"
The woman jumps, her eyes immediately snapping over to Gregory's face. She immediately relaxes her stance, her hazel eyes softening as a tense smile grows on her thin lips. His father turns to face Gregory, his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest. He looks less enthused about seeing Gregory there.
"We didn't see you there, sweetheart," his mother chirps, her voice feigning happiness. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah," Gregory nods, letting his eyes roam the empty kitchen counters. "I was just wondering when lunch is."
"Oh! That's right, lunch..." She trails off, looking somewhat sheepish. "How about you take your father out to the living room while I make everyone some sandwiches?"
Gregory watches as his father shoots his mother an angry look. She gives him one of her own looks before she turns her back and opens the pantry behind her, pulling out a full loaf of bread.
"Come on, bud," his father says as he lets out a heavy sigh. He moves forwards, ruffling Gregory's hair as he passes by. Gregory looks back at his mother one last time, involuntarily flinching as she slams the mayonnaise container down onto the counter. He then turns and follows his father back into the living room.
The man is already sitting on the couch, leaning forwards with his arms resting on his legs. He looks up from the watch around his wrist as Gregory passes by him, climbing up onto the couch beside him. Gregory sits on the edge of the couch, his feet still against the carpeted floor. His leg bounces nervously and he pretends to watch the tv to distract himself from the weird look on his father's face.
They sit in silence for the majority of the time. Gregory can't really think of anything to say and his father doesn't seem to be in a talking mood. He hates when his father is in a bad mood. He always does stupid things to get rid of his emotions, such as turn to the bottle, throw things around the house, or yell at everything. Even if it isn't living.
One time Gregory remembers hearing his father start screaming at the dishwasher for not cleaning dishes properly.
There had been a lot of broken dishes that day.
"Gregory, stop that." His father suddenly snaps, gesturing towards Gregory's bouncing leg.
Gregory jumps at the coldness of his voice, though he obeys anyway. He forces his leg to stop bouncing, pulling it up under him as an extra precaution. He doesn't want to set his father off on one of his tantrums.
Ever since the arguing started between his parents, he's had to walk on eggshells around his father. His mother has stayed relatively the same, always putting on a mask of fake happiness to try and keep the mirage of a happy wife. Gregory can easily see through it though. He isn't stupid. He's always been smart for his age.
But his father hadn't tried pretending at all. He's been spending less and less time at the house with his family, opting to do his own thing. He's started treating Gregory more like a pest than his child. And just like his mother, Gregory has learned to hide his true feelings behind a mask.
It's one of the only ways he really knows how to deal with these extreme emotions. Anger and sadness and fear, he's learned to bury them all deep inside and lock them away. Just like his mother. It's better in his mind than outwardly showing them, in the way his father does. If there are other ways, he isn't aware of them.
"Lunch is ready!" His mother calls from the kitchen. Gregory immediately hops up from the couch, eager to get away from his father's bad mood.
"Gregory, don't run in the house. How many times do I have to tell you?" His father barks out as he follows after his son, his steps heavy like he's stomping.
Gregory slows his pace, keeping his eyes downcast as he walks through the doorway into the kitchen. There are two plates on the counter island, identical sandwiches sitting on each one. Gregory pulls himself up on one of the stools and reaches forwards, pulling one of the plates close to himself.
He watches his father out of the corner of his eye as he begins eating. His father remains standing where he had been earlier. He pulls the plate towards himself much slower than Gregory had. He doesn't look interested in eating, but he lifts the sandwich anyways and takes a bite.
There's silence for a bit. Gregory keeps his eyes focused on his food as he eats, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His mother watches both of them, hands clasped in front of her.
Slowly, his father lowers the sandwich back onto the plate, his facial expression unreadable. His voice starts out quiet but gradually grows in volume with every word spoken until he's outright yelling. "What have I told you about the amount of mustard you put on my sandwich!?"
Gregory flinches as his father beats the counter with a curled fist, his eyes bloodshot with anger. "Goddamn it woman, don't you ever fucking listen to me!?"
"Do not yell at me in front of our child, Don!" Gregory's mother shouts back, gesturing towards Gregory who remains quiet. He's learned that in these situations, it's best to make himself as small as possible in hopes that they move the subject off of him.
He doesn't like when they argue about him. It makes him feel bad. Guilty.
"Well, maybe I wouldn't have to Laura, if you would just fucking listen to me!" Don grabs the edge of the plate and sends it flying into the wall where it shatters. The glass pieces fall to the linoleum floor, leaving a smear of mustard and mayo as the sandwich falls on top, a smashed mess.
Laura looks beyond pissed now. Her cheeks are red once more and she clenches her hands into shaking fists that ball into the dirty white apron around her waist. "Get the hell out of my kitchen! I don't need to deal with your bullshit today! Go run off to the bar like you have every night this week! Maybe someone there can handle you!"
Without another word, Gregory's father spins on his heel and storms out of the kitchen, punching the wall as he goes. He leaves a fairly large dent beside the doorframe. He then turns the corner. Gregory can hear the familiar jingle of keys and the clicking of shoes. He can hear the front door being yanked open before it's quickly slammed so hard he can hear picture frames rattle on the walls.
A tense silence falls over the remaining two family members. Gregory keeps his eyes down as he takes another small bite of his sandwich. He can see out of the corner of his eye his mother is standing extremely still, almost like she's a statue. She's hanging onto the edge of the counter, her face downcast.
There's a quiet sound, almost like a cough. Gregory looks up to see his mother leaning over the counter, her shoulders shaking as she struggles to hold her emotions at bay. He still can't see her face, and she doesn't give him a chance before she's turning around and walking out of the kitchen. But this time, instead of turning right to go to the front door, she turns to the left and makes her way down the hallway to the master bedroom. He can hear the squeak of the hinges as she opens the door, followed by a quiet click as she closes it behind her.
Gregory still sits at the counter. He's staring at the dent left in the wall by his father's angry fist, his food completely forgotten on his plate.
He isn't so hungry anymore.