chapter xv.
(   iron man   )

you   all   say   i've
crossed a   line,
but   the sad fact
is i've lost my mind
beekeeper ─── keaton henson

malibu, california
may 14, 2010

TRIGGER WARNINGS

depictions of mental illness, violence,

mentions of sexual assault, torture

I drop my bag down in the doorway of the house. It's hard to walk through the doorway and I'm sure that's for a number of reasons. Guilt. Blame. Anger. Shame. And the one that I keep trying to push away: fear. When I enter this house, I enter the same situation I was in just two days ago. Drowning in thoughts of death. Stuck in Edgar Frost's clutches. I shiver at the thought of the Benefit. And I hate myself for thinking that the only reason I decided to go across the world to help innocent refugees was to take my mind off of him. The one decent thing I could do and I don't even do it for decency.

"Lisa?" Pepper's voice catches my attention and I jolt up to look at her standing inside the house with a confused expression on her face, "Lisa, where were you? I was so worried when you weren't here,"

My chin trembles as I speak hoarsely, "Hey Pepper. Long time," my voice catches so obviously that I just decide to not say the 'no see' part and I give up on even trying to figure out an excuse for me not being here.

Her eyes scrunch up in concern as she makes her way over to me, "Sweetheart? Honey, what's wrong?"

I shake my head quickly, not meeting her eyes.

What am I so afraid of? I'm always afraid. I've always been afraid. If this trip to Afghanistan has taught me anything, then it's that I have never stopped being afraid. Fourteen years of being terrified out of my mind. Fourteen years.

"Nothing, I'm just tired," well, that last part is true at least.

Why am I always lying to them?!

"Lisa," she lightly touches my arm, but I pull back instinctively.

"Ugh," I push my fists up against my eyes, trying to fight the tears and anger, "I'm sorry, Pepper. I'm freaking out. I'm sorry."

"Hey, Sweetie," she rubs my arms and takes my fists away from my eyes, "why don't you go downstairs and talk to your dad? Maybe that'll help. Actually, I know it will. It might not be very," she pauses and winces, "pleasant, but, with what I caught him doing a while ago and with how you've been acting, well, I think there is a lot you two need to discuss."

I nod slowly and my eyes burn as I quietly whisper, "O-okay."

She kisses my cheek before leaving the house and closing the door behind her. This is most certainly the last thing I want to do. Talk to my dad? How about, no. Somehow my feet start carrying me down the concrete staircase anyway. The glass doors are suddenly before me and I can see him now. He's leaning over his work table, working on the familiar red and gold suit. Probably patching bullet holes. I scowl before shaking my head slowly. No, I have to stay calm. Again I'll be mellow so he'll stay mellow. Well, hopefully it works that way anyway. I swallow hard, brush my tangled brown hair behind my ears, and type the passcode before stepping inside slowly. He glances over his shoulder and his face darkens before he looks back down to his suit.

So much for mellow.

I stand in the center of the room, feeling even smaller and feebler than I already am. He doesn't even look at me or say anything. He just keeps working. It somehow feels worse than if he was scowling at me, that he won't even give the time of day to glance in my direction.

"Dad, p-please just l-look at me," I stutter, thinking back to how I used to when I was a lot younger and was still learning to use my voice again.

"Can't. Busy. Working. Suit."

I squeeze my eyes shut, "J-just, please."

"Oh, I'm sorry, but I didn't think that was what this family does."

"Huh?" I peek my eyes open at him, confused.

"I thought we never listen to the other person when they say 'please'. Because of stubbornness or stupidity, who knows?" he still doesn't look at me, speaking in such a nonchalant manner.

"I was helping people, Dad, why is that so bad?"

Suddenly he's slamming the tool in his hands down on the work table before standing and stepping over to me. I hurriedly step back, stumbling on my own feet. I was wrong. I think I preferred when he wasn't even looking at me. His scowl is so much worse. It makes me want to run and cry.

"You know what they were going to do to you, don't you?!" he snaps, eyes fiery with rage, "Kill you or rape you, one of the two, probably both," my mouth falls open and I think I'm going to be sick, "If I wasn't there in that next second, that's exactly what would have happened! Can't you understand that?! Can you get that through your thick skull or are you just too stupid?!"

I flinch at his words, but I am too angry to stay quiet, "Stupid?! Me? You just knocked off a bunch of terrorists, not to mention the fact that you were nearly killed by the US military and,"

He cuts me off, "You think that what you did can even compare? I'm an adult and I'm also fully equipped to do what I just did, clearly. And you," he steps closer and my feet are glued to floor, "you are a small, little kid! You clearly can't even listen to simple instructions, and you can't, apparently, do anything that doesn't cause me some form of trouble! Sorry, but it's true! You don't even deserve to tell me off right now!"

"'I don't deserve'," I repeat his phrase, realizing how hot my face is and how much my eyes burn, "Don't you dare tell me what I do and don't deserve! Who are you to tell me anything, huh? You married my mother, ditched her when you realized that she was psycho, and you left me to her,"

"One day," he stares deep into my eyes, "one day that is exactly what is going to happen. Someone will take you. They will hurt you so badly that you wished that your mother had killed you that day ten years ago," my breath catches and I become aware that I am crying, "and then they will slaughter you. Your big mouth and your stupid, stupid, stupid decisions will get you killed and I'm going to have to suffer for it! No wonder," he stops suddenly and his face contorts in pain, realizing what that must have sounded like.

"No wonder what, Dad? No wonder what?!" I sob, but force the words out, "No wonder they poured poison down my throat, no wonder she made me sleep underneath the sink, no wonder they beat me, no wonder she tried to kill me?!"

Dad shakes his head quickly, "No, that's not what I meant. That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say 'no wonder you're my kid', come on, Lees, I wouldn't say that."

"Is that what you really want?" my voice whispers brokenly and I can't look him in the eyes, "Is that what everyone wants?"

I want to run away and lock my bedroom door. I want to escape and never come back to this house on the ocean. I want to do something childish and rebellious, but instead all I do is sob harder and my shoulders begin to shake with each cry. I squeeze my eyes shut and pull my hands up, slowly squeezing them against my head like I sort of did when I was a child, when I wanted nothing more than to speak. But it's different now. I want nothing more than to forget that I'm me.

"Stop it," Dad takes my hands from my head and his voice is sharp and frightened, "Stop it!"

"No! Let go!" I shriek, yanking my hands back and pounding them against his chest, "Let me go! No! Just leave me alone! Please, just let me die here, please, God, please! Just," he pulls me tightly against him as I start to scream, "I hate you! I hate you!" I can feel his chest trembling up against me as I continue, "I hate everyone! I hate your suit! I hate Pepper, I hate Rhodey, I hate Happy, I hate you! I hate me!" my voice breaks down into sobs and I feel my knees give way.

Dad holds me close as I lean forward, unable to carry my body weight anymore.

"I hate me, please, Tony," my hair falls in my eyes, "please, just, please."

I don't even know what I'm asking anymore. I'm just begging.

"Sh, sh," his face presses into my hair as he continues to hold my crumpled form, "Sh, Honey, it's okay."

"I hate me, I hate you, I hate me," I hold tightly to his fingers.

"Sh, sh," he continues gently, kissing my head through my hair and pushing his face back into it.

"Tony, please," I whisper, "I hate us. I hate us."

"Nope," he pops the 'P', trying to find some means to remind me who I really am.

"I hate me so much," my head starts to shake repeatedly and Dad forces it to still, "Please, help me, please, I can't take it anymore. Tony," I beg, "help me!"

"Help you with what, Baby?" Dad whispers back, soothingly.

He gently eases us down onto the concrete ground. I'm still hunched over his arms that are keeping me from falling. He puts his legs out and makes sure I am comfortable on top of them. Then he cradles me like when I was a little girl.

"I can't do it," I bite my lip, shaking my head, "I'm so scared. I'm so scared."

"Sh, sh, it's okay," Dad holds me even closer, which I didn't know was possible, "I've got you now, remember? You don't have to be scared. I've got you."

"He'll kill me," I whimper before growing desperate, "Oh, please, just let me die right here before he gets the chance. I don't want him to touch me again. Please!"

I feel Dad go very still behind me and his voices changes from comforting to fearful and urgent, "Who'll kill you, Baby? Who's touched you?!"

I start sobbing again, burying my face in his t-shirt, "He'll come for me again. He came and he'll come. He'll expect me to do as I'm told. I don't want to. Please, don't let him touch me again."

"Lisa," his voice is still as fearful and urgent as before, "Lisa, who came for you? I need you to talk to me here, Smalls, come on."

Instead, I carefully pull back from him and slowly lift my shirt up just enough to reveal my stomach that he's never seen before. All across my skin are the pink scars that I was promised would go away. No one ever asked me how I got them and I never told. The nurses and doctors promised that they would fade, but they haven't. They're just as fresh as the day the stitches came out. The scars criss-cross and lie at odd angles. Some are long and some are shorter. There isn't any skin that goes unblemished for more than about half an inch.

"They're on my back too," I whisper, shrinking back into my father, "He said he liked to see how the flesh reacted. He would hold me down and cut me," my voice cracks, "He told me to put myself out of my misery. I don't want to. But if I don't, he'll do it himself."

Tears fall and I look up to see that they're coming from Dad's eyes. The tears may reflect his sadness, but his face shows anger.

Without taking his eyes off of my scars, he spits the next words out like poison, "Is his name Edgar Frost?"

I flinch at the sound of it before I finally work up the courage to ask, "H-how did you know?"

"Pepper and I knew something was off when you got that call from 'Mr. Hinckley', so, I told Pep to look into who called you," he answers, still scowling at my scars.

The tears start falling harder, "He'll kill me, Daddy."

"No, he won't. I won't let him. And I don't want you ever doing anything like he told you to. You understand?"

"I understand," I close my eyes and allow the words to spill out, "He was at the Benefit."

"What?!" when I jump at his harsh tone, he quickly adds, "Sorry, I'm sorry."

It takes me a moment to keep speaking, "I wish I had screamed or fought or done something, but seeing him just made me lose control. He grabbed me and made me dance with him. Then he took me into that hallway and my mouth got me in trouble. He cut me," my voice drops and I hoarsely croak, "He said it was just like it the old days."

Dad again tightens his arms around me and gently rocks me back and forth, "So, when I found you,"

I nod weakly.

He lets out a heavy, mournful sigh and rests his face back in my hair again.

After a long silence, I whisper, "Please, don't let him touch me again, Daddy, please."

He takes in a deep breath, trying to steady his voice, "I won't. He won't ever go near you ever again."

The tears are still falling from both pairs of eyes, but mine are less heavy now.

He eventually asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"

I whisper back, "You knew that I had cuts, but I just didn't want you to know how bad they were because I didn't want y-you t-to, to,"

"To be angry?" his brown eyes look into my blue ones.

"N-no," I shake my head slowly, "To be sad. About any of it."

"I'm sorry," he whispers, closing his eyes as more tears slide down his tan face.

My fingers lightly touch his face as I push his lips up into a smile.

He takes my hand and kisses it, "I'm sorry about everything, and definitely about what I said, Lees. I was just mad and,"

"I don't hate anyone. And I don't hate you," I whisper quickly, needing to get it out before anything else is said, "I've never hated you. Even when I was little and I knew that you left Mama, I understood and I didn't resent you."

"I know you don't hate me, Smalls, I knew you didn't mean it," he pauses and then shakes his head, "I'm sorry I left you to her."

"Ugh, I didn't mean that either. You didn't; you left her. Not me. There's a difference," I tell him before adding softly, "I love you."

And, then, in that moment, I think maybe this is really it. Here, he will tell me that he loves me too. Because I know he does. He has to. It's obvious. I close my eyes, waiting to hear the words I've been dreaming about my whole life. But they never come.

Sorry....

Poll to make us all feel better:

Who else gets the whole Chris Evans/Steve Rogers is a Dorito thing?