He had to get out of there. Injured or not, Cecil couldn’t stay, or come back—not after what his father had said. God, the man was a sick bastard. Cecil may be a thief—a hustler, to be exact—but he would never sell himself. And he sure as hell would never let the disgusting people the man called friends touch him.
Whatever, it wasn’t a big deal. Cecil had already planned on never coming back. He was officially eighteen. No one would be able to drag him back if they found him. It would be kidnapping.
Of course, it being illegal probably wouldn’t stop his father, or any of his father’s friends. They would still have to find him first. Fat chance of them doing that now that he was older—they were way too stupid.
But, dammit, his plans had been shot to hell. Cecil had come back for the sole purpose of stealing all the money the old man had stashed away. Well, that and to have a shower.
You would think that after all the years his father had abused him, paying his way for a while was the least the man could have done—unknowingly or not. The little nest egg Ernest had built, from what Cecil assumed were drug deals, would have kept him fed and in a motel for months. But no, the bastard just had to show up his former level of psychotic.
Cecil didn’t have time to wait for Ernest to go out on one of his famous drinking sprees. No money was worth the risk of being raped. And there was no doubt in his mind that the man would carry out his threat of bringing him a birthday “present” in a few days.
Cecil started to sigh, but choked from lack of air. Agonizing pain filled him, his body convulsing as his lung seized up in their attempt to comply. “Fuck!” he rasped when he got enough air.
His situation was looking worse by the second. Not only did Cecil have limited funds, but now he had to worry about whether whatever was fucking broken would heal right. And his success rate for tricking men tended to drop when he looked like an accident victim. Unless they were sick fuckers, that is, but Cecil stayed away from those.
Turning off the shower, Cecil stepped out and looked in the cracked mirror above the sink. After running his fingers through his hair, Cecil gently pressed the areaaround his left eye. At least, his face didn’t look too bad. He only had a busted lip and a black eye—both would heal quickly.
Now the rest of him, not so much. Cecil’s right side was a mass of dark purple-black bruises, which were most likely caused by his father’s boots. There were also a few forming on his neck. And judging from the random twinges of pain in his back every time Cecil moved, there were probably more there.
He supposed they didn’t matter much. Cecil had no intention of actually sleeping with the people he drew in anyway. As long as his face healed, he would be fine. Cecil found it slightly entertaining that most men couldn’t even conceive that he wouldn’t want them. Or maybe they didn’t want to question why he was hitting on them…
Honestly, his looks weren’t that special. But, for some reason, men found Cecil’s bright glowing teal eyes, almost translucent pale skin, long pointed ears, and curly white hair appealing. Cecil just didn’t get it. White hair was pretty common in the Second Realm, and his skin, ears, and the glow of his eyes were typical for an arcadian. His eye color, while not standard, wasn’t that unusual.
It made hustling pretty easy, so he supposed he couldn’t complain—to each their own.
“Don’t even think of sneaking out, you little whore. If I catch you, maybe I’ll try you out before my friends,” his father growled from behind the locked door of the bathroom.
Cecil jumped at the sound of his father’s voice. Too busy gagging, he said nothing. Yep, he had to get out of here—now. Breathing shallowly, Cecil waited until he heard his father stomp away before exiting the bathroom.
He put on his cleanest clothes and grabbed hisbackpack. Cecil had nothing to pack. Everything that was important to him was already in his bag. Unless Cecil knew it was safe to do so, he never went anywhere without it. Never once had Cecil left it behind during the previous times he had fled the house—who knew what Ernest would do if he looked inside.
With how much his father hated his mother, he knew the photos of her that he had stolen away would have been destroyed. Though, considering what she had done, Cecil wasn’t sure why he kept them.
Sitting on his box-less mattress, Cecil closed his eyes and listened. He focused on his father, ignoring the sounds of dripping pipes, and the scurrying of the rodents and bugs that infested the house. The man’s steps, while not graceful, were steady. Ernest was too aware right now for him to try anything. He’d have to wait for his father to either fall asleep or go out.
Cecil’s moment came when the sun set. Ernest’s movements had become sluggish, as the alcohol the man had consumed now polluted his blood, slowing both his mind and body.
Cecil rolled his eyes—not that his father’s thoughts were that quick to begin with. If things were normal, he would have waited until Ernest had passed out. However, Cecil’s father had apparently changed his mind about waiting a few days. The phone calls he had made were reason enough to leave now. Cecil would never be able to get away if Ernest’s friends came over.
With his backpack on, he eased the door of his bedroom open and slipped out. Cecil briefly entertained the idea of sneaking into the man’s room for the money, but in the end,he decided not to risk it. Quieting his breathing, Cecil made his way through the house toward the front door.
If only he could have silenced his heartbeat. It was thudding loudly in his ears, so much so, Cecil had missed the movement to his right.
Good thing his father was too stupid to maintain an element of surprise. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Ernest slurred.
Swaying, but still mobile enough, Cecil thought when his father lunged for him.
Shooting forward, Cecil felt the scratch of Ernest’s nails as he barely escaped the man’s grasp. His sprint through the house was short, but by the time he made it to the door, his lungs were sputtering along pathetically.
Even with his hands trembling, Cecil somehow managed to get it open. Unfortunately, he was only able to take a single step outside before his father was on him again.
The man hurled himself at Cecil, taking him down. His knees slammed onto the cement steps, while his hands scraped against its rough surface. Luckily for him, Ernest was so drunk that the man’s aim was off, and he’d only managed to grab hold of his legs.
Cecil frantically tried to get away. He caught a break when one of his legs broke free. And with all the strength he could muster, Cecil kicked his father in the face.
Ernest howled in pain, his hands releasing him to clutch his nose. Free of his grasp, Cecil scrambled up and darted off. Weaving in and out of alleyways, he ran as fast and far as he could. But he only managed to get about a mile away due to his damaged body.
Cecil’s lungs burned. Feeling dizzy, he staggered out of sight into an alley and plopped down on the wet ground.
