Title: Sick/Alphabet 2025 - Day 8 & 9
Sicktember'25: Aches and pains Alphabet of Whump'25: D is for Dehumanise
Sicktember'25: âGet your butt back in bed!â Alphabet of Whump'25: E is for Enemy
Rating: Teen (for child abuse) Series: Venom (movies) Characters: young Eddie Brock, Carl Brock Pairing: n/a Summary: Eddie's surrounded, both inside and out, as he fights an unwinnable war.
A/N: As a reminder, anything crossed out is a thought Eddie is trying to ignore.
Word Count: 867 Posted to AO3
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A sharp blow to his stomach brought Eddie Brock awake all at once.
He gasped, eyes watering, and curled instinctively to protect his aching guts. Loud noises thundered over him, but his ears couldn't make any sense out of the sound. Half of his face was wet; it felt blessedly cool against his feverish skin.
The world around him was blurry and bright. He tried to blink his gummy eyes clear. Slowly, his vision wobbled its way back into focus. Faded, cracked linoleum tilted one way, then the other, before settling uneasily beneath him. A hazy lump sharpened into a loaf of pre-cut bread: the colorful white-and-dotted bag was open and a few slices were scattered across the floor, outlined by a sketchy trail of ants. The something wet beneath his cheek was milk, its filmy bottle cracked and leaking, lying sideways on the floor, just like him.
He was in the kitchen.
Why was he in the kitchen?
He had been sweating in his bed, unable to sleep, unable to stay awake, and then⌠then heâŚ
He had wanted something for his gnawing empty stomach.
But he had been alone all day and he didn't really know how to make anything other than toast. Or a sandwhich. Maybe some grilled cheese. Nice, warm, oozy grilled cheese had sounded so good.
Except all of those foods started with a piece of bread, and when he had stumbled his way into the kitchen, the world had gone all grey and sideways, and thenâ
A second blow rang his head like a bell and he whimpered, abandoning his stomach to wrap both of his arms around his head. Stars somehow squeezed their way in, stabbing at his sore eyes through closed lids, rousing his smoldering headache until it blazed back up into a blinding pain.
The blow must have loosened something else in addition to his headache, because his ears suddenly started working, turning the noise into words:
"âevery damn day to put food in this house and if you aren't stuffing yourself sick, you're wasting it!"
Sick.
He hadn't stuffed himself sick, he was already sick. He had been coughing all weekend long, coughing until it was hard to breathe, coughing until his body hurt all over.
It was just that he was hungry, too.
These days, he was always hungry. The old woman next door had said something like that, that he was a growing boy and growing boys ate like it was their jobs; his father had closed the door on her words, grumbling that Eddie knew nothing about jobs, that he wasn't a boy, just a greedy, scrawny piglet.
It wasn't his fault he was scrawny. He tried, he really did. Little by little, he was getting bigger, getting stronger, at least he liked to think he was. He had turned eight three weeks ago, not that there had been any sort of celebration to note it. No, people like himâ
"Disrespectful! Breaking things, making a mess⌠you lazy, stupid little shit!"
âdidn't deserve things like cake or presents.
"Get up!"
Another blow, but not at him: his father kicked the broken bottle of milk, sending it skittering across the kitchen floor, where it hit a wall with a crash that sounded far too loud in the unsteady space.
"Don't make me repeat myself, boy. Now get your ass up, clean up your mess, and get back in bed!"
He tried. Really, he really tried.
He tried until his tired body shook with effort.
But his arms felt so heavy, and the rest of him felt even heavier when he pressed his hands against the floor to try and push himself up. The milk made everything slippery, made his hands skid out from under him when he pressed too hard, made him fall face first back into the puddle. A stinging sensation cut across his cheek as invisible shards of glass bit at him.
Eddie struggled again to sit up, watching in strange fascination as little bits of blood dripped from his chin, a faint pinkish color rippling through the puddle.
"You want to act like an animal?" He flinched at the thundering voice, hunching his shoulders as he braced himself. "That it?"
He should have known better; he did know better.
Bracing himself never helped.
A vice-like grip grabbed him by the back of the neck, squeezing, pinching, hauling him up just enough for his father to drag his limp limbs across the floor.
"Want to sleep on the floor like a damn animal⌠well, fine."
The thump of his father's shoes as he stomped across the kitchen.
The creak of a door.
A damp smell.
There was a moment of weightlessness, then a jarring impact that sent a new rash of pain blooming across his arms and along his side as he collided with the basement's cold cement floor.
Eddie sucked back another whimper as he curled into a little ball. As much as he hated the basement, at least he was away from his enemy father. The chill stole away the heat from his headache and soothed his aching bruises.
At least it was dark.
Maybe he could finally sleep.
