Endlessly - Eren x Reader

Chapter 2.5 - Liars

* Tw: mentions of abuse, physical abuse, verbal abuse, mature content, mature language. *

Honestly writing a story about love is difficult for me.

I spent my whole life looking for love around me.

To see love embodied, to feel it, hear it and maybe even touch it. I searched in everyone I knew for the presence of love.

As a kid you look at your parents like Prince Charming and Cinderella, and that's what I did too.

My parents were writers, as am I, in fact I became one because of them.

You'd think that having two parents, both having written countless love stories, gut-wrenching, heart throbbing, and extremely detailed books— would show their only child what raw, unconditional love would look like.

But it only made it harder for me.

See, in my mind, they both had an idea of what love should look like, maybe they saw it once, maybe they felt it too, perhaps it was something they imagined they deserved, but the point is, they both had an idea of what love was supposed to look like.

They would write these magical stories about chivalrous men, doting women, and the happy endings that everyone craves.

But when it came to the love they showed on the outside, the love I watched growing up, the love that was so far away from what their stories would describe, I couldn't grasp the fact that they actually wanted to call it "love".

When it came to that love, it was cold, it was screaming, crying, hiding, eves-dropping, heart pounding, sometimes it was slamming doors, other times it was hitting, scratching, pushing, shoving, and then one day it wasn't anything at all.

It was silence that filled the entire house and the absence of love completely.

One day it was; "Mommy's okay, she just tripped down the stairs and hurt her head."

"Mommy has to take medicine to make her feel better."

"Mommy gets sick sometimes, she needs to stay in bed."

And then it became; "Daddy's going to visit a friend, he'll be back soon."

"Daddy might be gone for a few days."

"Daddy sometimes puts his hands on mommy, but he loves her very much."

"Daddy loves you and mommy very much."

And the cycle continued.

You see, my father would abuse my mother.

Verbally and on the rare occasion, physically too. Not that that makes a difference.

There's no point in beating around the bush.

I used to like to think that he was a hurt man who hurt people, but really there's no excuse.

They'd argue like parents do, and then they'd fight, which turned into screaming, and then my father would strike my mother, she'd try to conceal her sobs as he left, and then it was silence.

My dad would leave almost immediately after, maybe it was fear that he'd one day strike me, he never did, but I imagine he's been close.

He would leave for a few days, there was one time he left for a month but it was only the one time, he would be gone doing god knows what with who knows who, and then he'd come back bearing flowers, gifts, and he would always be smiling a giant smile.

When I was a kid, I used to think these were the best days ever because of how much he'd spoil us when he returned.

My mother believed his poker face just as much as I did.

She would forgive him, kiss him, and then she'd build up the courage to touch him again, she'd make supper for him, and hum her favourite songs as she did, and then they'd go back to writing stories about what love looks like, as if that's what the kind of love they had looked like.

And I watched it all.

They were liars.