He hears his mother’s voice. “Haven’t you had enough?” Strident, shrewish. Frustrated.
“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough. But there isn’t enough beer in the US of A to drown you out.” Good ol’ dad.
They’ll cut him off soon. He knows that. Doesn’t matter. There’s a two four back in his fridge with his name on it.
Then he walks in. Not he, it. Dirty bastard. Dirty thing. He wants to walk over and stick it in the chest, watch it dissolve into a zillion bits of dust. But that would involve moving. He has other things to occupy him at the moment. Another drink, for starts. But he’d love to take that platinum head and squeeze it between his hands till it popped. Or beat the creature into the ground with his fists. Maybe later.
“Shut up.” Ah, dear old dad. Always the subtle one. Takes a swing at mom, busting her lip. What will she opt for this time, heavier makeup or staying at home? Depends on the bruise, like usual.
“Stop it. Please stop it. Don’t hurt Mommy!” That’s done it. Here comes daddy, belt in hand.
“Stay out of this, you little brat!” He’s used to the feel of leather slapping his skin. This time there’s a backhand to the face, as well. Another explanation for the teacher. “He fell again. You know. The kid’s clumsy.”
The vampire doesn’t see him. Maybe he will go over, deal with it once and for all. But the bartender puts another one in front of him, so maybe later.
How could she let that thing touch her? He wasn’t good enough. Not good enough for Anya, not good enough for Buffy. But they’d let that thing go places he’d never been. Evil, dead thing. Disgusting.
The door to his room opens. “You awake, kid?” a voice whispers. He tries to be very quiet, pretend he’s asleep. But it doesn’t work. It never does. Uncle Rory comes in anyway. “Don’t tell your parents.”
He throws his money on the counter, staggering over to face the vampire, but it’s already gone. Must have just dropped in for a quick one. Never mind. He’ll get it later.