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I Hate You, I Don't	By : GrimmUlquigrrrl Category: Bleach > Yaoi - Male/Male > Grimmjow/Ulquiorra Views: 1287 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Grimmjow hated being wrong, but for once he wished he was. When he'd gotten home from boxing practice the first thing he'd done was grab his laptop and scurry into his room, dodging past his parents and googling Ulquiorra Schiffer. There was already news, and now he was leaning against his door with his laptop in his lap reading it. He'd found a CNN story, one he thought he could trust, and with each passing word his stomach sank a little lower.

Last night at approximately 8:30 PM, Child Protective Services were called out to 15280 Pleasantview Drive. They reported hearing screaming form inside the house when they arrived and entered to find a chilling scene.

"For the sake of the victim I cannot tell you the specifics," said Bradley Kingsman, a CPS officer on the scene. "What I can tell you is that the victim is in a very critical condition medically, but the people responsible have been apprehended and the victim will most likely make a full physical recovery."

"It was horrible," Mary Foster, another CPS officer said. "In my years of working this job, I've never actually walked in on the abuse. There was blood everywhere, and the poor boy was lying there broken on the floor…" She choked a little as she explained the scene to the CNN reporters. "He's going to need years of therapy."

The victim has been identified as high school senior Ulquiorra Schiffer. Aizen Sousuke, Schiffer's father, as well as nine other men were arrested. Two men got away, and there is now a heavy search in progress for them. Their pictures are below, as well as the number to call if you have any information about their whereabouts.

Schiffer's mother, who has been absent since Schiffer was four, has been contacted by CPS and is on her way. When CNN contacted her she cried, "My fault! This is all my fault!"

Schiffer has varying internal injuries, and requires surgery. We will let you know more as soon as we have more information on this breaking story."

That was it. Someone was abused for years, and all they got was half a page somewhere on a news feed. Grimmjow had figured as much. Still, he was glad he'd acted on his hunch and called. After all, it sounded like Schiffer really could have died if he hadn't. He might have saved a life.

The door thumped harder against his back and he leaned back more to keep the door closed. "Grimmjow!" his mom's high-pitched voice screeched, slurring his name heavily. "Open the motherfucking door before we break you!" Grimmjow ignored the threat, even though he knew how serious she was, and braced himself as his dad sent a particularly powerful kick to the door, catching himself before he could sprawl forward. The spot between his shoulder blades ached with the impact, but he couldn't let them in yet. Besides the fact that if they saw the computer they'd break it, there was a link to a video and he wanted to watch it. He needed to see for himself how bad Schiffer had it.

He pressed play and took it to fullscreen, muting the sound. Through the flashing police and ambulance lights, he could barely make out glass all over the road and swarms of people that looked like insects in their blue uniforms. The sky was dark, making the difference between the red and blue lights seem blinding. Then, as the camera stopped panning and zoomed in, he saw Ulquiorra on a gurney, being wheeled into an ambulance.

He looked like hell. His black hair was messy, his skin was even whiter than normal. Blood ran down most of his face from his obviously broken nose, dripping down his neck and onto the open collar of his ripped up shirt. He had a black eye developing and a few lacerations on his brow and left cheek. Through the opening in his shirt Grimmjow could see several more ragged cuts and bruises-he'd never realized how skinny Schiffer was. Even on the bustling, grainy film it was easy to see that he didn't eat right.

But his injuries weren't what terrified Grimmjow. It was the look in his eyes-his eyes that normally looked down on all the world, but now looked around, glazed over in pain and panic. He was so recently saved, but the world still scared him. He looked like a lost little child all alone in the big supermarket, looking for his parents.

The door cracked under the repeated pressure, and Grimmjow was shocked away from the video. He didn't have any more time. He slammed his stolen laptop shut and slid it deep under his bed, curling into a fetal position on the floor. He made sure he was away from any furniture that could be tipped over onto him and let the door burst open. His mother cackled wildly.

"We gotcha! We gotcha now!" she screamed, pushing her husband toward the ball that was Grimmjow. "Git 'im! Git 'im git 'im git 'im!"

At his wife's insistence, Grimmjow's father lumbered drunkenly over to where Grimmjow carefully held his position. It was like playing dead while a tiger sniffed at you-if he moved, the wrath of hell would come down on him. So he held his position, held it so hard he shook, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting for the first blow. For the thousandth time he wished he could spring up and punch them both right in their ugly mugs, but he knew that would only get him hit harder. Unless he could knock them out, jump over them and run, run all the way to Mexico, to Canada…the first hit came. It was sloppy but powerful, and it sent Grimmjow rolling to one side. His father grunted, his eyes blurry, and kicked again.

His father had almost no will of his own when he was drunk, acting only on his wife's frenzied cries, but once he got going it was impossible to stop it. He was like certain kinds of cars: he was slow to get rolling, but once he his engine warmed up he could do 120 no problem. It was only a matter of seconds before Grimmjow was assaulted by feet, fists, and anything that could be picked up. Is this what Schiffer had felt like, with the dull, thudding impact of random objects assaulting him? No, it couldn't have been, it had to have been hella worse. Weren't there other guys arrested? Nine, or something like that. What would it feel like to get mobbed like that?

Grimmjow grunted heavily as he was knocked into the wall. He bit back a curse, something he almost never did, but he knew how his mother would react. She hated him in the best of times, but especially when he acted like a regular human being. His spine hit the wall again, and all his muscle didn't protect him from the sharp ache; but then his father kicked just a little too hard, and Grimmjow spasmed as red-hot pain ripped through him. Oh, fuck. He had felt this pain before, in his arms, his legs, but never in his ribs.

He choked back a cry as his broken ribs were hit again, seething out a groan and blinking away compulsive tears. No, he would not cry for them. He'd had broken bones before-but somehow this hurt worst. Every breath shot arrows through his torso, pain clouded his mind, and suddenly he was really scared. His father pummeled the spot again, and Grimmjow couldn't help the loud yelp that escaped him as agony laced up his spine like long, hooked fingers.

"Ha!" his mother jeered, "just this much makes you scream? You pathetic attention whore!" Grimmjow cried out as his ribs were harshly kicked again, and his mother brought down her beer bottle on Grimmjow's arm where it covered his head, cackling. The glass broke and bit into his skin, and even though he seethed he focused on it. The sharp pain was better than the blunt throb from his back and chest.

He coughed, and the spasms ravaged his nervous system. God, how could one solitary cough cause so much pain? He nearly blacked out. He heard his mother's wild laughter dully and felt something warm drip through his hair-blood? From is arm? He wasn't about to reach up and find out. "Here ya go, sweetie!" his mother screamed, pouring burning alcohol over him, "this oughta help that ache! Drink it up!" Her laughter spiraled out of control again, and Grimmjow bit his cheek as the beer bubbled against his skin sickeningly. He would be so sticky in the morning.

His father took another swig of his drink, and Grimmjow had just a moment of respite. Now the kicks were aimed less accurately, and the impact with his ribs occurred less frequently. Still, every time it happened he had to shout. He couldn't stop it. His screams fueled his mothers fire, and the louder she called for violence the more violence his father gave her. "You're pathetic!" she taunted Grimmjow. "Look at you! Sitting all curled up, crying for your mommy! Well, your mommy's right here, bitch! Whaddaya got to tell me, huh?! HA ha ha ha ha ha!"

Normally it would have gone until one of them passed out, Grimmjow knew, but tonight he was lucky. After a few hours his father stumbled back and looked blearily at his mother. "You turn me the fuck on," he growled, staggering over to her, and her eyes lit up savagely.

"Oh yeah?" she said. "You wanna fuck me?"

"Fuck yes," his father slurred.

"Then come catch me!" And with that she took off, playing her usual game of cat and mouse, and the drunk man lumbered after her.

Grimmjow sat there for what felt like an eternity, waiting until he could her them getting jiggy downstairs. He sat there a little longer, unwilling to move because hell, if breathing hurt this much what would moving do? But he had to get up, had to get to the bathroom, to wrap his arm, to lock the door, to protect himself. They'd get bored, they'd come back. He had to get somewhere safe. But when he moved it was like falling from a twelfth story window onto concrete, just the tiniest shift, and he gasped. Oh God. Oh God. He couldn't move, he couldn't. But he had to.

He struggled across the hall slowly, so slowly, letting the tears roll down his face but muffling his noises. If they heard him, they'd come. He crawled into the bathroom, locked the door, vowed to stay in there for the rest of his life, and sobbed.
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I Hate You, I Don't