The Shadows We Hide

Chapter 5

Zak's Pov

20 years ago

The worn leather of my Bible felt cool against my skin as I walked home from school.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows, painting the streets in shades of gold and purple.

I recited Psalm 23 under my breath, the words a comforting balm against the anxieties that always seemed to linger beneath the surface.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake."

The words echoed in my mind, a shield against the taunts and jeers that had followed me throughout the day.

My friends, if you could even call them that, had been particularly cruel today, their laughter ringing in my ears like a cruel taunt.

I didn't understand why they found such amusement in my faith, in my attempts to live a life that honored God.

I reached my house, a small, modest dwelling with a peeling paint job, and paused, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Inside, I knew, awaited a different kind of torment.

My father, a man whose smile never reached his eyes, ruled our home with an iron fist. His anger, a venomous creature, lurked beneath the surface, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

Mother, bless her gentle soul, tried her best to shield me from his wrath, but her efforts were often futile. I had learned to walk on eggshells, to anticipate his moods, to disappear into my room whenever the air grew thick with tension.

But today, something felt different. A quiet strength, born of my faith, surged within me. I would not cower. I would face him, armed with the armor of God.

The door creaked open, and I stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale cigarette smoke and simmering resentment filling my nostrils.

Father was there, as expected, an unsettling cheerfulness plastered on his face. And beside him, lounging on the worn sofa, sat Dylan, his smirk widening as he saw me.

"Zak! There you are," Father boomed, his voice too loud, too forced.

"Come in, come in. We have… guests."

Before I could voice the question burning in my throat, Father launched into a tirade.

Each word was a shard of ice, piercing my already fragile heart.

"Disappointment. Weak. Just like your mother!" he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

"You shouldn't even exist. To rectify this… inconvenience," he gestured towards Dylan with a chilling smile, "I've arranged for these… gentlemen to help you… straighten out."

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the image of Dylan rising, a cruel glint in his eyes.

My pleas, my desperate cries for mercy, fell on deaf ears.

Father simply nodded at Dylan, a silent command.

The next few hours were a blur of excruciating pain and terror.

They dragged me to a dingy backroom, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood.

A sign above the doorway, barely visible in the dim light, read "Blake's Butchery."