Hell
My father’s foot assaulted my ribs, and a laugh crept through my lips as the right side of my face lifted with amusement. Louder and louder it became, stealing all the ominous energy from my father.
“Is something funny?” His baritone was as hefty as his body.
But it didn’t stop me from replying, “Your efforts.”
My words were the same as the ones he’d always give me whenever he’d laugh in my face over anything I did to try and impress him.
A gold buckle hit me in the face, the prong almost taking out one of my eyes, reminding me how gold always trumped silver. The crack of the belt neared my face for the second time, and I forced my eyes to stay open, welcoming the pain.
I didn’t fear it.
I didn’t fear the fucking scars, either.
My image, despite my almost perfect face, meant nothing to me. A fleck of silver hereand there would mean so much more. A trophy of survival was much more than a pretty boy image destined to wither with age.
His belt hit my body, its thundering crack echoing in my ears, calling out a red trail of blood and another laugh from my mouth. He thrashed, again and again, creating zebra patterns across my ribs.
I stayed low, allowing him to have his fun, beating up a teenage boy, who weighed almost half of what he should have.
The room silenced. I knew he hated the laughing. He hated that I still had control over my reactions. Power over the fear he hardly felt when he was this intoxicated.
“Get it over with, Daddy dearest,” I taunted, waiting for the worst of his aggression.
He moved behind me, his arm locking around my throat like a vice ready to snap my neck. His free hand remained fisted, eager to deliver violence. My head shook, my throat uncomfortably rubbing against the flabby skin surrounding the muscles in his forearm as his knuckles pounded my temple multiple times.
A bruise painted my skin purple; a swelling accompanied the new design I wore.
He moved his aggression to my empty stomach, punching once, twice, a dozen fucking times before he gave me the relief of a second’s peace.
Holding me in place, he hit again as he whispered into my ear, “I know what you’re thinking, you’re biding your time to kill me. But don’t be stupid enough to believe you’ll be successful tonight, Woodrow.”
“Don’t call me that.” I laughed again, almost like I was unable to help it. The movement strained my throat, but I didn’t fucking care. I didn’t care about anyone, anything. “I thought you knew me better.”
“Well enough to know that you’re not yourself right now.”
“Bull…shit.” I drew the words out, and I felt my father’s mood shift, becoming a little uneasy around me. Such a thrilling fucking feeling. Why the fuck would a grown man—an oversized mass of male DNA—be concerned by the scrawny kid he may have created. I laughed again, knowing he didn’t create me. . . the devil did.
His giant hand patted my back twice as he distanced himself from my unpredictability; violence didn’t linger on his touch; he meant me no harm, this time.
I stayed on the carpet for a second longer than I needed to. I took a single breath, and then I rose to my feet. Staring at myfather, I smiled as I swallowed the lump in my throat without covering my neck.
The look of disgust on our father’s face, would have hurt Woodrow’s feelings, good thing the pussy wasn’t around right now, so he didn’t have to fucking see it.
“Don’t,” he warned me, believing he could sense my next move.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do, you sad old prick.” I stepped forward, ignoring his warning to deliver my threat. “Hit me again, I dare you.”
I moved closer to his face, stealing the air from his breathing space. My head jolted forward, my forehead smashing against his nose, creating splits in both of our faces. I did it again and again and again, laughing in his face as I caused us both more injuries. Injuries that I didn’t feel thanks to blood loss.
He stopped me with a push. My lanky legs, too thin for such force, had me tumbling away and creating a distance between us for my crimson mist of rage to fill, bringing a nice color to this ugly fucking room.
His round face reddened. “I told you, save your anger. You and I are going to have a fun night, if you can fucking control yourself!”
He didn’t tell me how, not with words. . . but memories of him already doing that crawled from the crevices inside me, where all Woodrow’s fears hid.
I saw my father’s entire plan, the glint in his eyes speaking volumes, wording the sordid script of a snuff movie that no one in their right mind wouldwant to be part of.
