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[b]"[color=ab2020]Now that that's settled, then,[/color]"[/b] King's face was unknowable. A mixture of countless expressions, happiness and fear and disgust and excitement and everything in between. He stepped across the room in five big strides and pulled open the door with more force then necessary, already aware of what his first mistake and first act of freedom would be. A priceless, empty vase sat on a hall stand just outside Astrid's door, leaning against the banister as if it were just [i]asking[/i] to get thrown off. He thumped forward, heavy footed and inspired suddenly, and his calloused hands clutched the ornate decor. He reveled in how light it was, how delicate the intricate white handles seemed to be beneath his grip, and his smile widened into something much more sinister. [b]"[color=ab2020]Rest in pieces, bastard![/color]"[/b] He cried over a roar of white noise and anxiety that only appeared after he told his brain to [i]throw it[/i], and then he held it over the banister and let it fall and fall and fall and shatter on the floor below.

His whooping laugh almost sounded like a pain cry. He stared down shakily at the remains, the white dust and chips that glittered in the afternoon sunlight, and he shook and shook and shook because it was so close to the front door now. If his father walked in he would see it easily, and he would blame King and King wouldn't be able to fight back.

[i]But he's not coming back yet.[/i]

King glanced back at the room full of kids, smiling or grimacing (he wasn't sure), and then stepped back to kick the hall stand over. The clatter inspired another laugh from him. [b]"[color=ab2020]Destroy this place! It's gonna be [i]fun.[/i][/color]"[/b] His voice was laced with anxiety and excitement, and without another word he rushed for the stairs and vanished to the lower floor. Panic continued to surge but the less he thought about his father and his fists the more he realized how much easier it would be to run from him. With a van and friends and stolen money, he could get far, far away form this house. Farther then he ever thought possible. The cycle was crumbling in his head, the abuse was now nothing more then a scare tactic and he was overcoming it faster then someone should perhaps.

[i]But are you really?[/i]

The study was grand and empty when King pushed through the usually locked doors, glittering with dust and afternoon light. His father's work place stood before him like a hideously nostalgic dream, or nightmare. It didn't hold the clutter of a scholar, rather the neatness of a politician, complete with fat silver pens with 'Henry King' written on them and wax stamps. Books were bound in blacks and browns, their binding nameless save for dates and the occasional surname. King brushed passed the bookshelves first, ripping the binders from their place, watching them curl at his feet like dead and browning flowers. Documents with his father's name, his own name, Astrid's name fell from some of the less-professional looking books, as if they were meant to be hidden away from curious eyes. King found more pleasure in stomping on them than reading them.

The safe was hidden behind a rather hefty collection of lawyer-esque trappers, pressed deep into the wall like a shadow or a painting. King had to prod at it a few times to test the reality of the object, and when his finger tips met cool metal and matte plastic his smile spread. His panic swelled to anxiety, but he didn't even notice the tightness of his chest. Not yet. Not yet.

Combinations passed through his mind constantly; his father's birth date, his mother's, Astrid's. The surprise he felt was huge but easily forgotten when he placed his own birth date into the safe and found that it worked. He didn't want to have time to think about it, so instead he ripped open the door and grabbed whatever was in there. Checks, either blank or late, shuddered in his grasp at first, and after throwing those useless things away he found what they all needed: cash. Stacks of money, tied together by plastic and string, sat heavily in his palm. Twenties and hundreds, stacking higher and higher at his feet and as he continued to pull out wades the only thing on his mind was [i]how were they gonna carry all this dough[/i].

With the final available stack came a stowaway. King didn't notice the metal box at first, but when he felt it shake against his palm as he let the bills settle his eyes automatically fell to connect with it. Shiny silver metal gleamed up at him, calling to him, and as he collected the small trinket in his hand he suddenly knew exactly what it was.

A Zippo lighter.

It was [i]heavy[/i] despite it's size, and otherwise clean and unscathed save from an odd collection of letter near the base of one of the metallic sides. The lighter was engraved, pressed perfectly to read out "Si vis pacem, para bellum". King's brow furrowed with curiosity, and while he could tell the saying was in Latin he had no idea of how to translate it. Curse small town education, his mind whispered coyly, and King grinned to himself, shoving the lighter into his back pocket before collecting the remaining cash up into his arms.

They were going to need a very big bag.