John felt on edge. It was almost surreal. He usually avoided this feeling with a hit or a six-pack, but he hadn't had a chance this morning. His dad was suddenly interested in his performance in school, keeping tabs on his attendance, and today John had woken up to being dragged out of bed and to the car for a ride to school. He would be on time for the first time in years.

He glanced toward his father out of the corner of his eye, then looked back to the grungy car carpet beneath his own shoes. For a long time he'd managed to get at least a little high before crossing his dad's path, so this anxiety was really bugging him. He didn't feel like Bender, the school criminal right now - he felt like 8 year old Johnny, an angry but cautious kid trying to avoid the wrong kind of attention.

The car was going kind of fast and John looked over again. His dad was gripping the wheel tight. Not a good sign. He didn't reek of alcohol, so he wasn't even drunk. Being sober wasn't necessarily better when it came to his dad, he just got a different kind of pissed.

Out of nowhere, the man stepped on the brakes and the car lurched to a stop on the side of the road. Bender was slammed forward by the momentum and his head hit the dashboard with a thwack. He yelled and grabbed his head, doubled over in pain. The searing agony consumed his thoughts and he was overwhelmed with the irrational fear that his skull had split open.

"You useless piece of shit, think you can slack off and get high all day? Bet you thought you'd get off easy and get the fuck to school whenever the fuck you wanted, huh?" His dad grabbed him by the back of the neck. John was still reeling from the blow to the head, but lowered his hands from his head and held the door handle next to him. He knew to brace himself. "Lucky for you, your old man had the foresight to wake up early, get your lazy ass out of bed, and drive you. What do you have to say about that?"

Bender said nothing, staring at the floor. Without so much as a snarl, his father slammed his head into the dashboard and pulled him back up with his grip. John squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply, trying not to react.

"Come on, I know you got some smart-ass answer for me, I'm ready."

No answer. When the pressure returned to his grip as the man was about to smash his son's head into the hard surface again, John's hands shot out to brace himself against the dashboard and avoid the impact. This pissed off his dad, and a struggle broke loose. John got a hit in, and his dad snatched the passenger side seat belt and wrapped it around his son's throat, then pulled. Bender choked and his hands immediately came up to try to release the pressure. His struggle was futile as his dad pulled harder.

"Say it."

More struggling, but no response from the gasping teen.

"Fucking say it, or you'll die right here, right now, punk."

John spluttered for a second. His brain begging for oxygen would always win out over his stubbornness. "Thank you."

His dad smiled like all was well now that it was clear who was in charge, and he let go of the belt. Bender coughed and wheezed as air rushed into his lungs. Before the seat belt even snapped back into its retracted place, the car was moving again and they were back on route to the school. John sat as close to the door as possible, and one hand held his throat as he tried to breathe quieter.

"You're different when you're tired, you know that?" His dad said conversationally. "All jumpy."

John remained silent. His nerves would be frayed all fucking day after this.

~

He'd managed to go to every class and still avoid all interactions by merely glaring at anyone who dared approach him. His friends could tell that something had him on edge, so they gave him plenty of space. They didn't even bug him about being bitchy. It turned out to be a bearable few hours. When he got out, Claire made the effort to try and talk to him, which he knew must be hard for her with so many people around, but he simply ignored her and continued walking home. There was no way he could be late today, and he didn't want her to ask about the nasty bruise on his forehead that his hair didn't completely obscure. Apparently his bandanna covered the dark bruises on his throat well enough, though, because Claire didn't notice any injuries and just pouted about his rejection.

When he got home, John made a beeline for his room, seeing as his old man wasn't out in the living room and the coast was clear. He opened his drawer... and there was nothing in there but clothes. Looking up in shock, he went to his mattress and pulled it from the wall, looking on the floor under it. Nothing. He checked the closet, the corner, his pockets, growing more frantic.

"Looking for something?" John froze when he heard his dad speak from the doorway. He turned around. "Yeah, I took your stash, all of it. Made some good money selling it. You're not going to light up anymore, Johnny, not in this house." He sounded smug, and ready to crush any resistance.

Bender's mouth was agape. "You sold..."

"Your weed." The man leaning against the door frame entered the room and stepped up to his son. John was stunned, staring at his dresser that usually held his most prized possession. "Yeah. You gonna do something about it?"

John thought a minute, then stepped back, his gaze cast downward. It was gone, done, and he'd already taken one beating today. He'd seethe in private, it was not a smart move to say what was running through his mind right now.

"Pussy," His dad huffed and left, closing the door none too gently.

Bender sat on his mattress. He had no idea what to do with himself without that stuff. All day he'd needed a hit, and here he was without so much as a cig. The injustice of it all swamped his mind and he felt like a little kid for the second time that day, consumed by thoughts of how he'd get him back. As if that was an option. He laid back on the mattress, aware for the first time that he hadn't spoken more than four words all day. That was a first.