My American Idiot ~ Septiplier

17

Mark P.O.V

It was too much to take in.

Jack was being beaten at home? Mark thought that shit only happened in TV shows or in those countries where it was seen as normality to do such things. He shivered at the thought, he could never imagine his father even raising a hand his way and the image of a father striking his son in anger made him feel like vomiting.

What the fuck kind of messed up person would do such a thing? It was disgusting.

Mark's head was spinning as the door to his temporary cell swung open and he saw his mother standing on the other side, tight lipped and expressionless. His stomach immediately dropped, expecting a bout of shouting but she didn't say a word to him as she lead him out of the police station nor did she even so much as look him in the eyes the entire drive home.

Mark's every muscle was tensed up, almost as if he were expecting his mother to just turn around and punch him right on the nose. Honestly, in this mood, she might actually do just that. The thought made Mark fidget nervously, guilt making his stomach twist painfully in knots. He'd never really been in trouble like this before.

Ellen Fischbach was in no way a violent person, but she had always been a proud person who cared greatly about her image and the way her family and herself were perceived by other people. It was one of the things Mark never understood about his mother, frankly he didn't care much about what other people thought of him, a trait he apparently inherited from his dad. unless that person was Ashley in which case-

Ashley's harsh words rang through his head, the ones she bit out right before she turned to Jack and kissed him. She made him feel like shit just because he wouldn't take any of her fucking drink, how is that fair? And why did he feel so betrayed anyway? It wasn't like she was his girlfriend or anything.

Good god he was hopeless.   

When his mom finally did speak they had arrived home. Ellen walked inside and set her car keys down on the table before turning to face her son with a stony expression.

"Kitchen. Now." She ordered shortly.

Mark nodded, having the decency to guiltily cast his gaze to the ground as he walked past her and down the hall towards the kitchen where he knew his dad and would be waiting patiently for them to come home.

Sure enough when he entered their large and modern kitchen it was to find his dad leaning on the counter, wearing his oldest pajamas and a grim look on his normally smiling face. Mark had never seen his father look so sombre.  

When he realized that he was no longer alone Allan straightened up, looking his son dead in the eye. "You ok, Mark?"

Mark nodded silently, unable to keep the eye contact going and instead focusing on the tiled floor. He could hear his mother coming up behind him and circling around to stand beside her husband. He waited. Waited for the yelling to begin. He waited for his mom to let out all of the rage that he knew she'd been holding in up until this point. He waited.

But nothing happened.

"Mark, explain to me what happened tonight." Allan said calmly, looking down at his son with a tighter, harder version of his normal relaxed expression.

And so Mark began to talk, words spilling out of his mouth like water from a tap, but soon enough he began to realize just how much of the story he was cutting out. All of a sudden he had selective amnesia, remembering going to a party but unable to recall the host. He knew he was lead around the back of a big house but he couldn't remember who took him there or where this house was. He met a group of bad people there but all the faces were blurry and the names were jumbled. He hadn't touched a drop of drink all night but he still couldn't remember 90% of it. His entire story had more holes in it than a knitted jumper and he knew it.