Three months ago.
The letter trembles in my hand. My vision swims.
I stagger back into the chair, lungs burning. My palms drag down my face until they cover everything, sealing me in darkness.
And in thatdarkness—
I’m thirteen again.
The house reeks of lamb fat burned onto the pan, baked potatoes gone cold, and the stale cocktail of cigarettes and cheap liquor that never leaves the walls. The floorboards warn me with every groan as he stomps down the hall—each angry step a countdown.
I’m already curled in the corner of my room, knees to my chest, small arms wrapped over my head. My back still burns from the first round, every welt pulsing.
He kicks the door so hard the hinges scream. The knob punches straight through the drywall with a crack, like bone.
“You hiding from me, boy?” His voice drips venom, slurring around the edges. “Think you’re clever? Think you’re BETTER than me?”
The belt hangs from his fist, the buckle catching the light like a blade.
“You damaged my wall. Stand. Up.”
I can’t. My legs won’t obey.
He doesn’t wait. He never waits.
The first strike doesn’t just land—it detonates. A line of fire tears across my shoulder, ripping a scream straight out of me.
He snarls at the sound. “Shut your mouth. Only weak boys make noise.”
The buckle finds my ribs. Once. Twice. Again. My breath shatters in my chest. I curl tighter, but that only exposes something else to break.
Leather snaps across my forearm when I raise it too slow. Skin splits. Heat floods out. My knuckles burst when I shield my face. My lip tears open against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth, metallic and warm.
“Look at you,” he spits. “Crying like a little shit. No son of mine cries.”
But I can’t stop. Hot tears spill before I can blink them away.
He hates tears most.
He grabs a fistful of my hair at the root and yanks my head back so violently I see white. Then he slams my skull against the wall—a sickening thud followed by a shockwave ripping through my vision.
The room swims. Plaster dust drifts around us like snow.
Somewhere through the ringing, I hear her voice. My mother. Thin. Terrified. “Jonathan—please—please stop—”
A heavy impact. A crash. Her breath leaving her in one broken sound.
Then nothing.
Her silence is louder than his shouting.
He crouches in front of me, breath sour, eyes wild, spit flying. “You’re NOTHING,” he growls. “Soft. Ruined. Just like her. You’ll never amount to a goddamn thing.”
His fist hits my jaw. The world tilts. My ears roar.
“You think you’re getting out? I wasn’t granted that luxury. Why should you be?”
The leather swings again. And again. I stop counting. My body stops feeling like mine. It’s all heat, noise, pressure, darkness.
