Work Text:
"You're not weak, Vance."
He looked off to the side, anywhere but his dad's eyes. He knew he would vomit if he did.
"I know."
_
Were legs supposed to feel numb? Probably, yes. sometimes. Sometimes when they fell asleep, sometimes when he got them too cold, sometimes when he accidentally twisted them.
But they've never felt this numb.
He ran, and ran, and ran, and ran...Where was he going? What the fuck was he even doing? Running, obviously. Stupid fucking question.
He had been running at night, in the cold Denver breeze, the rustling of leaves and grass and floura following his every step, the man's own far away, but still noticeable. He was still being chased.
He knew he had to stop sometime, but the adrenaline that pumped into his blood was harder then any herion or weed he had gotten zooted as fuck on before, his survival instics in full fucking overdrive.
But what was he even running from? Disappointment? Cowardess? Being hurt? Maybe all of them.
Maybe nothing at all.
Maybe he was running just to do so. Maybe he was running from something big and monstrous that would swallow him whole, maybe he was running from himself. Maybe he was running from everything, and everyone in the world.
That would be nice.
Maybe he could run with Bruce. Hold onto eachothers hands so tightly they where practically morphed into one and get away from everyone and everything in this world, kiss his warm lips like there was nothing left for them in the world.
Because there wasn't.
Fuck it. Who was he fucking kidding?
It was pitch fucking black outside, he's cold, his cheeks are disgustingly wet from tears and sweat, his legs are cut up as hell from thorn bushes and his ankles are already blooming red and swollen from poison Ivy.
Where was Vance Hopper? Who was Vance Hopper? And why is he being so majorly fucking stupid right now?
Fuck if he knew.
He heard the footsteps vastly approaching, gaining speed. Gaining on him. Oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck he's dead. He's gonna be hit with that fucking belt so many times he wont remember his own fucking name, his skin would be bloody and his bed would be stained with his old blood and he would be apologizing and crying like a whiney fucking bitch. He would be praying to god or satan or any-fucking-body if they existed out there for this fucking nightmare to end his pathetic little li-
.
He tripped on a trees root, fell into a bush, and the bear trap tightened its jaws directly onto his calf.
And he screamed.
_
After the last couple of months, The maggots and larva had gotten to him, they burrowed deep into his dead, cold skin and nawed off his flesh, ripping apart his muscle and tendons and veins.
The flies burrowed in his eye sockets and mouth as they laid their eggs. The fungi sprouted from his legs and scars, His hair falling off in large clumps, his glassy eyes looking off somewhere at the ceiling, still wide.
His bones still broken unnaturally, twisted in places that weren't possible if he where still alive.
The basement still smelt sickly sweet, the blood still stained in dark splotches on the wall.
The man looked at him, and left out a soft, shaky sigh. Almost a laugh. Maybe it was one.
He had no use to be here anymore.
The man opened the large black trashbag,
He would have to be put with the others now.