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Coldness burrows its way into his senses as he presses the ice pack against his face. It's melting in the bag and dripping all over his frosted hand, mixing with the dirt and blood from his scrapes and wounds.
The ride back home is quiet, which is unexpected. He sits in the passenger's seat, awkward and uncomfortable, humiliated beyond belief. Stella won't glance at him, not even once.
He digs the toe of his boot into the dirty ground of the car under the dashboard absentmindedly. The radio's on, turned up halfway, but it's all become senseless background noise. He's itching to turn it up so he doesn't have to deal with the ringing in his ears, but when he raises his hand towards the volume dial and is met with a sharp slap on the wrist, he knows he won't have that luxury today.
Stella has never been a particularly abusive caretaker, he'd say. She may have thrown a sandal near him once or twice from across the living room, but she's never been the type to beat, nor to kill- like his father was. She's just... annoying. That's it.
He finds her insufferable, and hates when she embarrasses him in front of his classmates- hates to see her make a scene at parent-teacher conferences and hates to deal with her bossing him around all the time.
Go get me the popcorn, go get this, go get that. Can you give me a back massage, mijo? Go fetch me my reading glasses. Don't chew with your mouth open. Elbows off the table. Pray before each meal, so you can show the good lord you're grateful.
If he could, he would've run away a long time ago. He can handle his life on his own, he thinks. He's a big boy now- he always has been, he never really had the choice to grow up, but instead was forced to do so as a baby.
He knows how to fight- he just did. He can live off of stuff he buys at the gas station, probably get a job at a grocery store and live out of an abandoned RV. Shit, maybe running away isn't that bad of an idea.
But as he sits and ponders this while he stares out the window with empty eyes he remembers that he isn't ready to leave it all behind, and that this is the only semblance of family he has left.
...They're home.
Sighing and hoisting his backpack up on one shoulder, he says little to his grandmother when he leaves the car, and even less when he walks through the front door of the house.
The Christmas tree in the corner is glimmering with life- an obnoxious mixture of every colour from the rainbow and an overabundance of decoration. Thick, scratchy tinsel. Heavy plastic ornaments. Plastic tiny candy canes and miniature portraits of each family member, and- the list goes on.
The house is small enough as it is, with only one story and a handful of rooms to spare, but the overcompensating set of decor as well as the Catholic memorabilia make for quite the crowded home.
The stockings that are hung up on their sad excuse for a fireplace are each hand-knit, from one of Stella's many Christmas knitting sprees where she'd made a variety of things for the holidays. The world's ugliest Christmas sweaters were also a product of these times, which sat alone and sad in the very depths of William's closet where he'd shoved them in as far as possible.
He takes his boots off at the front door, placing them on the ground. His eyes travel between each cross hoisted up on the back wall of the living room, then to the coffee table in front of the TV, then to his grandfather laying back in his recliner. He's dead asleep, with drool dripping down from his mouth onto his chin, and the dog's laying down by his feet.
The door is slammed behind him once he makes it to his room, and his grandfather stirs gently in his sleep before settling back down.
William throws himself onto his mattress and the springs coil under his weight before squeaking madly. He grumbles under his breath, awkwardly shuffling the bag from underneath him and tossing it into a corner of his room, right by a pile of messy and dirty clothing.
Cooled water drips down his palm and he remembers the ice pack he was holding. It's almost completely melted now, completely useless, and the bruises on his face have grown numb anyways, so he throws it at his gridded trash can and hopes it lands. It's too dark in the room to see if it does or not.
Staring up at the ceiling, he wonders how he'll even show up to school tomorrow. He isn't suspended,- the principal gave up on suspensions with him and deemed it an unfitting punishment- so that means he'll have to haul his own ass to the front of his high school tomorrow morning at 7:30 just like any other day.
The calendar on his wall gives him relief.
Only a week until school's out for break.
He can hold out till then.
A familiar set of claws scratch at the underside of his bedroom door. He rises to his feet, almost tripping as his socks get caught in the rough carpet underneath him, struggling to traverse the path of the classic messy teenage thrash metalhead bedroom.
...Is that his lost potato chip on the ground, just between his ruffled Slayer shirt and Snakes N' Barrels interview magazine with their new frontman on the cover? Hey, he hasn't seen that chip in ages.
Big, almost understanding brown eyes stare at him from behind the door once he's opened it. His dog whimpers, sitting patiently with his tail thumping on the ground behind him.
"You wanna come in, boy?"
The dog can't speak back, but he tilts his head ever so slightly in a playful gesture.
William can't help but smile a little.
"...Yeah. Come in, go ahead."
Ears perk up at the sound of approval and his dog becomes a blur as he rushes past him, burrowing deep into his bed as though he were trying to burrow through dirt. He barks once, then twice, then finds a comfortable spot to lay down.
"Schomeone'sh happy."
He finds himself sitting on the mattress before letting his back fall back downwards, strained from fatigue.
Chico- the name was meant to be a placeholder, since Stella was never quite good at naming animals, and had to make the decision when she'd taken him in with Murderface after the family massacre, but it stuck and it's worked ever since- shuffles closer to the teenager, pushing his arm with his snout.
Hm.
Murderface reaches up to brush a curl from out of his face and is met with the back of his hand licked.
"Hey, don't do that! That'sh grossch!"
A whine is all he gets in return, and suddenly he finds himself feeling... bad. He manoeuvres and turns himself at a peculiar angle so he can wrap his arms around Chico to half-apologise.
His grandmother has always made him 'hug things out', which he's hated with other people. But with his dog, he's okay with it. He's more than okay with it.
It isn't long before he's sound asleep, laying down curled around the sizeable German Shepherd on his bed with his face nuzzled into his warm fur.