antichrist ✞ geetrick

Chapter one: It Starts With A "D" And Ends With A "K"

Trigger warning: abuse

...

Game over.

"Crap! Again?"

Gerard looked over with an eyebrow cocked in utter confusion. No one else was in the arcade.

Just some kid named Patrick.

Not just any kid. Patrick was the most ethereal being Gerard knew; his wide eyes were the color of all his hopes and dreams.

"It isn't that hard," Gerard mumbled, a smug look upon his face. Patrick crossed his arms.

"Isn't that hard? You try it, then."

The older boy shrugged, walking over. He slid a quarter into the machine and began playing.

K.O..

"What the heck?"

Patrick pushed Gerard out of the way, trying again.

And again.

And again.

He grumbled something under his breath and kicked the machine, his face flushed red from anger.

"Calm down, bud. If you break that, you're paying for it."

Patrick scowled and slung his backpack over his shoulder. "I'll break your mom." He then abandoned the arcade, leaving Gerard standing there with a smile spread across his face. Fuck, that kid was adorable.

...

As Patrick was walking home, he noticed a familiar red truck.

It belonged to his dad.

Had it been sitting outside of the arcade the entire time?

He ran the rest of the way, attempting to beat the vehicle there, but not out of fun and games. Out of terror.

The Stumph family was certainly good at keeping secrets. They may have seemed perfect, but they were something so much more.

Patrick attended church with his father and sister three days out of the week. They were devout Christians, and for the past seventeen years of his life, Patrick had been sheltered from everything. He barely got to leave the house, which was why he was so apprehensive as he walked through the door. His father would certainly be mad.

He crept past the living room and up the stairs, breathing heavily as he reached for the doorknob of his bedroom with a shaky hand.

"Patrick."

He froze. The voice was familiar, and sent chills down his spine.

He knew what was coming.

Patrick turned around to see his father sitting in the arm chair that was at the end of the hallway. He swallowed, nervous.

"Y-yes, sir?"

His father rose from his seat. "We have rules. Don't we, Patrick? Rules aren't meant to be broken."

As he got closer, Patrick cowered in fear, the inevitable looming over him.

"Yes, sir."

There was a sudden sharp pain on his cheek as his father struck him, causing him to drop his bag and back away.

"Get back here, boy. Did I say you could speak?"

Patrick shook his head, only to be struck again.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you."

"N-no, sir." Patrick hugged himself. Tears were pricking his eyes, and his cheek was blood red from being slapped.

He was suddenly lifted off the ground by his shirt. "Remember the most important rule, Patrick? To never leave the house unless with me?"

Patrick nodded, wincing at the smell of the alcohol in his father's breath.

"And what did you do, Patrick?"

"I-I broke the rule, sir," Patrick replied weakly. He was trembling.

"That's right. And what happens when we break the rules?"

"We get the belt, s-sir."

Patrick's father chuckled dryly and dropped him, leaving him on the floor. "That's right. I taught you well."

He was far too afraid to even dare move, so he just sat on his knees, wrists out as he waited for what was to come.

This is temporary.
This is temporary.
This is temporary.