![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
doop doop
Isaac Lahey is a man of many words. Unsavory and not, naturally—words nonetheless.
As a kid, people called him ｃｕｔｅ.
And he could go to the playground and steal children's toys—their parents gawking at curly brown locks and a squishy face instead of defending their kids' rights to play. Isaac got what he wanted as a child, and looking back it’s probably obvious why—the face of an angel, the mind of a devious baby. Stealing for fun, taking what he wanted because he knew he could get away with it, knew that literally stealing candy from a baby was in his capabilities.
It’s a wonder what people will do for a pretty face. How far a kind, sweet face can bring you, even if you're trash underneath. Naturally Isaac didn't think he was trash—not as a child, not as a misguided kid who wasn't taught the world doesn't revolve around him. Looking back, all he sees is disgust. Not in the toys he stole, or in the ice cream cones he'd shove into sand—but in the fact that in the background, there was Camden sitting off with his parents, playing by himself.
Really, kids miss the smallest things. And they you grow up and your brother dies, and where are you then?
It’s a wonder what people will do for a pretty face. How far a kind, sweet face can bring you, even if you're trash underneath. Naturally Isaac didn't think he was trash—not as a child, not as a misguided kid who wasn't taught the world doesn't revolve around him. Looking back, all he sees is disgust. Not in the toys he stole, or in the ice cream cones he'd shove into sand—but in the fact that in the background, there was Camden sitting off with his parents, playing by himself.
Really, kids miss the smallest things. And they you grow up and your brother dies, and where are you then?
In middle school, they called him ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ.
It was easy, tricking people into believing him no matter what he said. A smile, a flash of certain dimples and girls fell pliant in his metaphorical hands. He could get whatever he wanted, he didn't have to steal anymore. An extension on a paper, a girl's number if he really wanted. It didn't matter. If it existed, he could have it. Those pearly whites could get him anywhere.
Isaac recalls frequently getting, "even with that bruise on your nose, you're still beautiful." Even with he's father's artwork decorating his knees and arms in shades of purple and blue, he was still beautiful. People still saw what they wanted—an angel face, dimples, dusty brown hair, and a bright smile—instead of looking at the shattered person inside. The person screaming for help, a child still waiting for his brother to come home or his mother to walk in the door, hugging him, saying I know baby, I know. The door stays closed, freezer lid sealed shut. His family is gone and all that's left is the hollowed out shell of the thing that used to be his father, the thing that pushes him, drowns him, locks him and forgets him in icy confines for hours upon hours.
It's a thing he looks back on and smiles at. Smiles because tears have been shed and tears have played their parts. He doesn't want to be a victim.
Isaac recalls frequently getting, "even with that bruise on your nose, you're still beautiful." Even with he's father's artwork decorating his knees and arms in shades of purple and blue, he was still beautiful. People still saw what they wanted—an angel face, dimples, dusty brown hair, and a bright smile—instead of looking at the shattered person inside. The person screaming for help, a child still waiting for his brother to come home or his mother to walk in the door, hugging him, saying I know baby, I know. The door stays closed, freezer lid sealed shut. His family is gone and all that's left is the hollowed out shell of the thing that used to be his father, the thing that pushes him, drowns him, locks him and forgets him in icy confines for hours upon hours.
It's a thing he looks back on and smiles at. Smiles because tears have been shed and tears have played their parts. He doesn't want to be a victim.
As a teenager, he was named ｂｒｏｋｅｎ.
Ironic, really, because for the first time he actually felt beautiful. Derek's teeth were uncomfortable and the mark they left behind were unruly, but the feeling, the power felt incomparable. The lonely child who batted his eyelids to steal from people was no more—no, now he could reach out and take what he wanted, because he was in control, he was powerful, he had it in him. Maybe beauty really is in the eye of the beholder—maybe Isaac's form of beauty was being able to stop his father, stop swinging glasses and balled up fists. Other people think of beauty as a toothy smile or bright blue eyes. To Isaac, it's strength.
People learn his secrets. The things he's kept hushed into the cotton of his pillows as tears seep through like whispers, blood from wounds dip-dying his bed sheets all technicolor of red and brown. And he gets pity, which is something he honestly never wanted—of course, he always wanted people to care about more than his looks, but he didn't want pity. Its scent is like wet and rotting books. But it's a smell he has to get used to, apparently, because it follows him—every step, every motion.
When he enter the McCall household, rotten books turn into waterlilies and lemongrass. The breath of fresh air from pity to love.
Isaac recalls his mother had lemongrass perfume. It reminds him of meadows he and Camden used to run through.
People learn his secrets. The things he's kept hushed into the cotton of his pillows as tears seep through like whispers, blood from wounds dip-dying his bed sheets all technicolor of red and brown. And he gets pity, which is something he honestly never wanted—of course, he always wanted people to care about more than his looks, but he didn't want pity. Its scent is like wet and rotting books. But it's a smell he has to get used to, apparently, because it follows him—every step, every motion.
When he enter the McCall household, rotten books turn into waterlilies and lemongrass. The breath of fresh air from pity to love.
Isaac recalls his mother had lemongrass perfume. It reminds him of meadows he and Camden used to run through.
And now—where is he now? Today, and in this hour?
Lost, is probably right. In the spiraling wind that is high school, twirled among the constant impending threats of doom and death. In between clinging on Derek and wanting to reach out and hold Scott. In between wanting to stay with Scott, and wanting to kiss Allison's soft lips. Isaac is a man of many needs and many wants, and for once in his life, he can't take whatever he wants to. He has choices to make—bridges to cross, burdens to bare.
For the first time people care about him, and he cares about them in return. For the first time he's worried about hurting people as he was hurt, because he doesn't want anyone to feel the way he felt, hear the things he heard.
For the first time, he's not ｃｕｔｅ, ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ, or ｂｒｏｋｅｎ.
For the first time, he's Ｉｓａａｃ.
And damn if he isn't happy where he's at.
