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A Grudge's Decision	By : toujourseveille Category: Bleach > General Views: 6010 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, its fandom, or any of its characters. I make no profit from writing this story.

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Pickle Reviver's Illusions of a Drunken Heart and Chapter 114 ("Sins of the Father") of Dracoqueen22's Seireitei Monogatari have planted a seed in my head. It's been sitting there for weeks, and I've finally tended to it. It seems I have written something really... horrifying. I was writing this, and somewhere along the line, it started to lose its fictionality. I felt really... sobered up by it when I finished. And even though I wrote it, it's still sort of hard for me to read.

A/N: To preface, I'll warn for physical abuse, a little gore, incest-rape, a pitiable jackass parent, and just... well, humanity, unfairness, and generally vicious dialogue (and it's unbeta'd, as it is a formatted monster).

But I am not warning for "yaoi." Please don't make me do that.

This is, by no means, "yaoi." Sure, if you want to be technical, there are two males engaging in sexual intercourse, but this story has more or less nothing to do with homosexuality, much less homoeroticism. If you tell me this is "gay," I will figure out a way to eat your first born.

This is a story about personal affront, anger, selfishness, loneliness, and untended grief. It's not written expressly to horrify or upset—it's written in an attempt to capture a certain reality. Below is a fairly graphic account of some pretty horrible (yet not impossible or incomprehensible) human jackassery—an exploitation of the possible... less savory aspects of the Kurosaki family dynamic. It is formatted disjointedly, skipping and highlighting odd places like a memory, yet it happens in the present.

(01)「恨みの決断」A Grudge's Decision.
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.
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He's slurring.
"You're so stupid… It shouldn't a' been her…"
He has Ichigo on the bedroom floor. The kid had been half-asleep, but not so much anymore—all wide-eyed, looking up at his father.
Worried for him.
Isshin sees that compassion, and it makes the fury and the alcohol acrid and hot in his stomach. Sheen of sweat on his brow, he scrunches his face and backhands Ichigo.
"YOU'RE SO STUPID!"
Ichigo cups his cheek, mouth open. There's a moment, and he gives the man hunched over him a look of unalloyed betrayal. But it dies quickly, falling into a guilty reticence.
(Because it's his fault, isn't it?)
He sees his father squeezing his eyes shut and drawing in a shaky breath. Isshin opens them again, directing a glazed, miserable glare at Ichigo.
"If it WEREN'T—…"
A burnt strain in his throat.
"If it weren't for you…"
"Dad…"
It's a near whisper.
(The night is muggy, and the extra body heat above him makes his bedclothes uncomfortable.)
At first, Isshin falters.
As a parent.
But the need for revenge is stronger, and that display of meekness fuels his anger—his desire to hurt. He snarls and grips his son's collar, tightening it around his throat, breathing in his face.
(He probably doesn't know how close he is.)
Ichigo tilts his head back, trying to free his airway, and attempts to wedge his fingers between his neck and the stranglehold. He looks afraid, and Isshin feels gratified even though he knows he shouldn't. He knows, in the back of his mind, that his behavior isn't justified.
But he can't stop himself.
"You took'er away from me, you little shit…"
—the words Ichigo has been waiting to hear for the last six years.
It's almost affirming, in some perverse way, because it turns out he was right. His father had been lying when he'd said he didn't blame him.
(It's sudden when he lets go.)
Ichigo's head hits the floor. His vision blackens around the edges, and he struggles for breath. The relief is short—a loud sound rings in his ears, and he feels a sting in his left shoulder, sharp and curling.
Isshin's crying.
"You took—her—away!"
He raises his belt again, bringing it down again as if to punctuate his feelings. Ichigo sees it this time, and he tries to roll away from the strike out of instinct. But he can't—knees hinder him on both sides. The buckle nicks him in the cheek.
He winces, but still feels a little guilty for trying to evade the blow.
His father pants in frustration, chest heaving, the rising and falling of his shoulders a visible silhouette. It's poor light, in the small hours, but Ichigo can see the whites of his eyes clearly—a terrifying expression, a gutting stare filled with so much hate and so much disappointment.
Ichigo cringes.
(The look isn't frightening because it's unfamiliar. It's frightening because he has seen it in the mirror for so many years.)
There's a hand on his sternum now, pressing him down into the floor. The wood is hard on his shoulder blades.
Voice coarse.
"You 'ere… y'were s'pposed to stay LONELY…"
(Like Isshin is, still.)
Ichigo's shirt is torn, skin exposed to the belt.
"NOT—go make 'friends' with fuckin' S-shoul Society."
.
.
.
"You KNEW?"
He's shocked. Why hasn't he ever said anything?
His disbelief stunts his reflexes, and he cries out when the hard leather draws a large, bleeding gash across his chest.
(Choked up, Isshin tells Ichigo he wants him to suffer.)
"But Y'KEEP GETTING STRONGER! What—"
He slaps Ichigo across the face, giving him a wet smear of red on his jaw.
"What'll it take… to de… defeat you?"
Isshin grabs him around his upper arms and shakes him—his head hits the floor repeatedly, and he feels dizzy. The dimly lit parts of the room begin to swirl.
"I wan' you to PAY—"
He spits.
—for what you did t'me…"
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.
.
"It's not my fault."
The words spill out before he can stop them—he doesn't even believe them—and he's awarded with another slap.
"Don' gimme that bull, Isschigo."
He sits, straddled over his abdomen.
He leans in closer, eyes darkening and breath sour with sake.
You took'er away, 'n then you have the NERVE—"
Isshin looks at the ceiling and swallows hard, grimacing.
"Do y'even… know how much you look like 'er?"
Ichigo knows and doesn't respond.
"Every day…
EVERY FUCKING DAY, you remind me of 'er, and it makes me craaazy."
.
.
.
"IT MAKES ME CRAZY!"
His father belts him again, harder. Ichigo's side starts bleeding, and he presses the underbelly of his forearm over it to alleviate the pain.
(Keep from crying.)
Isshin makes a strangled noise, unslaked—his breath is becoming erratic, and his eyes bulge. He does look crazy. He looks crazy, furious, and—predatory?
"But I can't have her. I can't HAVE her, so—"
Isshin's weight shifts from Ichigo's torso to his thighs, and large hands travel south. Ichigo's eyes widen.
He makes a choking sound in his throat before he can speak.
"N-no. Dad, you… can't. You can't do this."
The hands stop on his hips.
(Calloused palms and blunt fingernails. A working man.)
"N' why not?"
His father growls, low.
"You owe me."
The fingers continue, tips under his waistband feeling thick and foreign. Ichigo inhales sharply and starts to shake. He grabs Isshin's wrists, trying to pull them away from their destination.
"You can't do this,"
—he repeats breathlessly.
"You have to—stop. You're drunk…
And I'm a guy. —I mean, well, I'm your kid—you can't…"
Isshin pauses, and then flips his palms upward and outward, leading and twisting Ichigo's wrists. In a swift movement, he switches grip and forces the heels of his son's hands flush to the floor. There are two sickening snaps, and Ichigo screams, seeing red. But it goes unheard—Isshin quickly cups a hand over his mouth until he runs out of breath.
Ichigo shivers with pain and slowly draws his injured wrists to his chest, cradling them protectively. He grits his teeth and tries to steady his breathing. It's hard to think, but when he feels Isshin's hands again, on top and between his thighs, he realizes how helpless he is.
(He can't push him away with his arms.)
He bucks, hoping to throw his father towards his waist, off balance, and give himself a chance to roll them. A chance to escape. But he's too heavy, and Ichigo's limbs are weak and chalky with adrenaline.
He sees the growing erection in his father's pants, and the feeling of abject horror makes him want to scream, but he can't breathe steadily enough to reach that volume. He finds his voice and scrambles for some sort of diplomacy.
(But he's losing hope fast.)
"Dad… Dad, you have to stop. It's… okay if you hate—
—me, but… you can't do this—uh…"
His ability to process halts when he feels Isshin's hand around him.
(It's not supposed to be there; he's never felt anyone else there.)
He comes back to himself and attempts again, hard-pressed to keep his voice level.
"Stop… You're… You're not like this. If you DO– this, you won't…"
He makes eye contact and feels queasy at the look on his father's face.
(Hate. Lust. Sorrow.)
"You won't—you'll never forgive yourself!"
The hand loosens.
Isshin looks somber—almost thoughtful. Ichigo sighs, muscles relaxing fractionally, thinking he might have succeeded in turning the situation around.
He wheezes when Isshin punches him in the stomach, roaring.
"WHO'RE YOU TO TELL ME WHO I CAN AND CAN'T FORGIVE!"
The world disappears for a second. Ichigo coughs, trying to curl inward and maintain consciousness. His skin is raw and clammy from cold sweat and a little numb in some places. It chafes when he feels his clothes being ripped off.
"Dumb bitch… Should a' been you… Yeah, should a' been you…"
Isshin is trying to pry his legs apart. He resists, and thumbs dig into the fleshy hollows behind his knees, making the nerves in his legs burn. Weakened, his legs go loose.
"Stop…"
He croaks as he feels his thighs being spread.
"Stop… S-stop. STOP IT—Dad? DAAAD!"
Unthinkingly, he tries to bat at Isshin's arms until a paralyzing pain reminds him of his damaged wrists. His fruitless exertion engenders a desperate whine.
"No…"
He is close to blacking out—dark dots flickering in front of his eyes, his hearing going fuzzy and quiet, his sense of time veering.
Blearily, he's able to make out Isshin kneeling between his bare legs, unzipped. Engorged. Dripping at the fantasy of his late mother. He's so tired—so TIRED, but realizing his father had let go of his legs, he makes a last ditch effort to kick him away.
When Isshin catches his ankle, Ichigo knows he lost.
As the fact strikes him, he begins to sob in frustration.
"—uuwh, shit… SHIT!
…UGH—I… I…
mmnnnn-agh—I HATE YOU!
–hih–… unngh… –hif–…
…I haaate—you…
I HATE YOU!"
He knows what's going to happen—what he's going to lose—and he can't do anything. As he cries, he stomach turns with the physical effort of his violent, gulping breaths.
"Shut th'fuck up."
He feels his calves being hooked over his father's shoulders, the seams of the shirt abrasive on his skin. His hips are held painfully tight by brawny hands—
(Which aren't supposed to hold him there.)
Isshin is breathing heavy, and Ichigo wishes he could plug his ears, but his wrists are hurting too much to even think of using his fingers—
He forces his eyes shut. It would make the anticipation worse, but he doesn't want to see the penetration happen.
"Don't do it, Dad…"
It hurt.
It hurt more than he thought it could. It reminded him of the pain of having his saketsu cut—literal erosion of the soul. He can feel the tissue rupture and the blood slick on his legs, his lower back. The sting. The sting deep inside, because his father is razing—invading deep inside; it's gross, it's too deep—
(It's not okay for him to be doing this.)
Each movement makes his upper back scrape against the floor. It's wet now; the skin had probably broken. He tries to brace himself—cushion the force of the thrusts with his elbows—but the floor doesn't provide enough friction. His legs fall from Isshin's shoulders to hang limply over sweaty forearms, body trying to accommodate the motion.
He's hiccupping, cursing at no one in particular. He can't really even hear himself—not over the awful squelching sounds.
Not over Isshin moaning:
"Masaki… Masaki…"
Ichigo prays.
He prays for it to end. It makes him feel foolish and a little childish when he calls again and again, almost inaudibly,
"Someone help…"
It's long. Ichigo tries to go away in his head—count, but the numbers escape him when his concentration wavers.
(At around twenty.)
It takes forever and a half, but his father slows and stiffens.
He feels both horrified and relieved when his father orgasms and withdraws. The semen is hot, prickling, and painful over open lacerations. His legs flop, boneless, to the floor—sore and spattered his bruises. His hamstrings feel greasy and sticky.
He opens his eyes.
Ichigo is still. He doesn't know what to think. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do. He's too exhausted to sob, but the tears keep running. He just watches his father, mindlessly.
He's barely in the room until he sees Isshin getting hard again.
It sets off an animal sense of terror within him, and undeterred, he screams louder than he has ever screamed in his life. Isshin is holding his inner thighs again, and he starts to hyperventilate. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to calm down, and his mouth starts to taste like metal.
The door opens. Karin—sleepy, rubbing her eyes.
"Ichi-nii, what's wrong? What's going on—…Dad? What're you…"
"Karin."
Her expression contorts as she makes out the scene.
(As defined by the hallway light, the doorway.)
The ripped clothing. Her big brother, naked bleeding, crying.
(Even though he never cries.)
Their father, hovering over him, pants undone.
"Dad… What… What the hell? What have you done? Did you…"
She panics—grabs the desk chair, swings it at his head. When it connects, he has a queer look of surprise before he falls to the floor, unconscious.
She rushes over to Ichigo. He's littered with bruises and long cuts—he lies on his back, legs sprawled, arms drawn close. Breathing labored and shallow, he looks up at her with watering eyes and opens his mouth as if to say something.
He doesn't.
(He's turning to the side and throwing up.)
"Ichi-nii… Ichi-nii, I'm gonna… call the police, okay?"
He nods ambiguously, not really listening. Karin gets the quilt from his bed and drapes it over him. He stares at his knees blankly.
"Okay."
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A Grudge's Decision