Chapter Text
Barty’s father wasn’t always angry, as far as Barty remembers. He was happy to have a son. If Barty really tries to remember, he thinks of his father pulling his blanket up to his shoulders, kissing him on the forehead and saying good night. Barty remembers nights of playing board games, and sometimes his father would yell— But everyone gets upset playing games. That’s normal. He remembers his father giving him his coat whenever he got too cold. He remembers a mug of hot cocoa being placed in front of him, and they would watch a movie together on Christmas eve; snacking on a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies that his mother made.
But the bad memories seem to stick out more. The days when a sharp worded argument would make Barty’s hands start trembling, and breathing became a little more difficult. He would go into the kitchen, seeing his mother baking again. That’s all she did: Bake, bake, bake. She would look over with a worried expression and abandon her work. She’d help him lie down, bring his arms over head to make his lungs open up and reassure him with her gentle words. This would happen multiple times, until he stopped going to her— Because he was too old for that. He didn’t need reassurance over being scared because of a stupid argument.
Barty remembers when he started getting taller and gaining muscle, his father decided he would be a hockey player. A good hockey player. He would follow his father’s footsteps. So he did. He went to the rink almost every day. He started hockey at 10, with his father as his coach. He enjoyed being on the ice, it felt like an escape, it felt fun.
Barty is now 13.
He’s on the bench again. It’s been a long day, one of a lot of yelling (that he’s still not used to, surprisingly. At least not on the ice. But maybe that’s because it’s gotten worse recently.) And he’s still trying to be the best. The greatest hockey player he can be.
Barty doesn’t get why his father doesn’t understand that he can’t focus if he’s being yelled at. It’s hard to get things right sometimes when someone is screaming at you, correcting things that you barely had time to clock. It makes him feel humiliated, small— and far from the best. There’s a burning at the back of his eyes, and he doesn’t know why that’s happening either.
He should be long desensitized to the treatment he gets, and he doesn’t know why it makes him want to cry today. He just feels over it. The air claws down his throat when he breathes in, chilling his lungs. He hears footsteps coming toward him, quick strides. He tenses up, and he doesn’t get it— His father hasn’t hit him since… It’s been a long time. But the fear lingers, the voice of what if digging its nails into his shoulders, causing his posture to go rigid.
“Barty,” His father’s words sound something similar to a hiss of a snake, venom dripping from its tongue.
He makes himself meet his fathers’s gaze.
“You do realize you aren’t on a team, don’t you? You either prove to me you can be a good player on your own, or I’ll get you in some fucking low level team if I— No, if you could even convince them that your weight is worth carrying. Make your choice.”
A team? Now? After all this? Barty’s not sure he can meet anyone’s standards. But he still finds himself responding: “Yes sir. I’ll have it decided by tonight.”
Somehow, he gets a nod. “Get on the ice. We aren’t finished here.”
He nods, even though there’s a pounding in his skull, and his chest hurts, and his legs are tingling. But he has to keep going. He won’t can’t stop until he’s perfect. He cannot be on a team until he’s perfect. He won’t be worthy until then.
When practice is over, he’s weakly trudging to the car, bag thrown over his shoulder. It’s days like this, where his legs are weak and his eyelids are heavy that he wishes he had safe arms to fall into. But he doesn’t have that, and he’s not sure if he ever will. He can’t fight the sleepy feeling that hits him when he sinks into the front seat. So he fades into a dreamless sleep.
Barty wakes up to a shove to his shoulder. “C’mon, we’re home.” His father says, and Barty nods, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door.
He follows his father slowly, his legs weak. The sun hits his back, the warmth seeping into his coat and in result making him even more tired. He follows his father inside the house, watching as the man goes into the kitchen. Immediately he hears his father and mother bickering about something, but he ignores it; kicking his shoes off and quietly going up the stairs.
He goes into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and practically falling into bed. Barty tosses and turns most of the night, but eventually he drifts into a dreamless sleep. Barty watches as a colorful sunrise peaks through the blinds. The yellow sun burns into his eyes, making an array of colors flash over his vision. He blinks a few times, and rolls over onto his side, now looking at his door. The blankets feel warm and soft over his shoulders, and exhaustion weighs him down. But he knows he has to get up. He has to get to the rink. So he pushes himself up out of bed, tugging the blanket off of himself. He gets dressed and heads downstairs, glancing over to the coffee pot.
He’s tempted. Maybe that will give him the boost of energy he needs. His mom is at the stove, making pancakes. His favorite, or used to be. But his appetite has been gone for a while, and eating just seems too hard.
She notices him. “Good morning, honey.” She says, her voice soft. He nods, “Morning mom.” “Do you want some pancakes?” She asks, and he shakes his head, going over to the cabinet and grabbing a mug. He goes over to the coffee pot, pouring a good amount into the mug.
He takes a sip. Bitter. Definitely not… the best, but if it gets him through practice, he’ll drink it until he’s energized enough as if he’s had a full night of sleep. He grabs a thermos from the cabinet and pours the dark drink in, tightening the lid on. His mom hands him a ziplock baggie with a turkey and cheese sandwich on the inside. He nods as a thanks, but knows he probably won’t be able to get to it until way after practice, when all his nausea has worn off.
“Have a good practice, love.” His mother says, kissing him on the forehead. “I, uh. I will. Thanks, mom.” He rushes out, then begins down the hall. “No problem, hun.”
When Barty gets outside, the orange sun is bright in his vision, and his fingertips feel numb; probably from the cold air, he thinks. He gets to the car, getting in and leaning back against the seat. The air feels thinner in here, and it’s hit him.
He’s tired of this sport.