If somebody scoffed, the protectee was a girl. The corners of their mouth would turn slightly upwards. If their eyebrows furrowed, only momentarily, it was a boy.
Will shook his head, trying to clear it. Ansel laughed, crossing his arms.
"Ah, how do you know? Please don't bluff, your life's on the line." A smile formed up at his lips slowly as he narrowed his eyes. Will glanced hazily at Oscar, hoping he caught it. Three girls. There were only three girls. They didn't seem nervous at all, so it must not have been the twin they captured. He looked over, at the one with dirty blonde hair, and the one hunched in a corner, buried behind the plants.
It was so obvious.
Will flicked his hand as he finally collapsed, pointing at the brown haired girl hidden in the ferns.
"My love… you've come back to me. I was so sad… so sad. I'm so happy you're back now. Please don't leave again." His mother caressed his cheek with both hands, kissing him on the forehead. He looked away, biting his lip bitterly. It was so uncomfortable. He wanted to push his mother away, to lock himself in his room, but he couldn't. It was his mother's house. He was his mother's.
His mother laughed, pointing at the body on the ground. "Look, there's our son. It's such a shame that we had to kill him, but it was for the best. He was interfering with our relationship… with us."
He closed his eyes, his breath growing heavy. His hands shook as he hugged himself.
"Dear, it's alright." His mother embraced him, patting his head and kissing his cheeks. "It'll be fine. We can bury it in the park nearby, okay? Nobody will find out. I promise." She stroked his hair, wrapping it around her finger, her breath on his lips.
He didn't want her to kiss him. He didn't like it when he touched him. He was fourteen. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't move. Since his mother made him. He was his mother's property.
He pushed her away, taking a breath of fresh air, not looking at her face. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the window, on the plant by the balcony, on the picture of them…
"Ian, where are you going?"
I'm not Ian, he wanted to say. My name is Will. I'm your son. Your husband is on the ground, and you were the one who killed him.
I didn't do it.
I am not your property.
Instead, he said, 'I'm going to have a smoke." His father did that often. In fact, other than drinking and sleeping, he did nothing else. Will rubbed the glass marks on his arm subconsciously, grabbing a cigarette from the tea table and walking out.
"I'm glad you're not mad at me anymore, honey."
Outside, he looked at the scenery. He didn't know how to smoke, so he just held the cigarette in his hand, rolling it around. He didn't want to smoke, either. He didn't want to smell the sick smell of smoke that came with his father every time the lock to the front door clicked open. He looked down.
Eight floors.
If he jumped now, he would die before he could run to the police station.
Instead of thinking harder, Will watched the cigarette fall from his hand. If he was going to live like this… until he was eighteen, then he might as well please his mother.
He turned back, his mother waiting expectantly on the sofa. He smiled, looking at her swollen face, glancing at the pair of scissors in his father's chest.
"Dear, I'm going to quit smoking. I'm… so sorry for everything. I'm sorry I didn't… kill our son earlier."
She laughed, running up to hug him. "Of course, honey. I never loved him in the first place. We never should have placed such a burden on ourselves."
Slowly and faintly, Will felt his tears trickle out of his eyes. His mother pulled back in surprise, but smiled.
"What are you crying about, dear?"
"I'm… just so happy. So happy that our son is finally gone. It's just us now."
He was so happy his mother was finally hugging him like this. No matter how uncomfortable he felt, or how fast the tears were rolling down his eyes, he was happy.
Even if the person his mother loved wasn't him, he was happy.
He was happy.
Will opened his eyes, and he was in his room again. His head hurt like hell, and his eyes weren't adjusting to the dark. He couldn't remember anything that had happened, and the man beside him wasn't helping jog his memory. He sat up, his vision going blank instantly, before his core lost strength and he collapsed again. His throat hurt. His head hurt. His arms and legs ached. He didn't know where he was.
He shook the man beside him awake, watching his face carefully as his eyes opened.
"Will?- Oh." The man sat up, rubbing his eyes. "How's your head?"
Will ignored the question, grabbing him and forcing him back down, jumping on top of him and pressing his knees on the man's hands, grabbing his neck. It would work better if they were on the ground, but Will wasn't thinking of that.
"Answer my questions," he hissed. "Why are you on my bed? How do you know my name?" Then, with a rush of adrenaline, he slapped the man on the face. "Don't touch me! Don't touch my body!"
A sharp pain in his head made him freeze up, losing the strength in his arms and legs, collapsing on top of the man. The man pushed him over to the other side of the bed, sitting up and watching as Will recollected his thoughts. He was tired now, from all the pain. He looked over blearily, his eyelids starting to flutter shut.
"O-Oscar…" he muttered. Oscar put his hand on his forehead, then moved them to shut his eyes. He was too tired to deal with whatever traumatic experience Will had relieved after having two concussions in a row. He had thought about gagging his mouth or stuffing him in the closet when he started sleep-talking, but ultimately almost drifted to sleep before Will rudely shook him awake.
"Don't… kill me… Oscar."