═══ 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛 ═══

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊

𝐌 𝐄 𝐌 𝐎 𝐑 𝐈 𝐄 𝐒

It was 1977 when the absence of a mother's warmth decayed with his adolescent mentality, the same day where everything changed for the worse. It was heartbreaking, lonely, the youthful nature never chimed high; he was lost. Alone to cry on the other end of a phone that bared the faintest assembly of bitter words and lies. She never came back. She abandoned him, that's what it felt like anyway. 

His father wasn't there, drunk if anything or too occupied by the embrace of a scrubber: whore, to mind the traumas of a young boy who only needed his father the most at that time. It was like this even before, where countless nights were left to the stray outdoors with his mother after an argument. The two would often find refuge outdoors together, something he leaned on quite often back then where the stars were bright, until he was forced to endure such abrupt loss. She hadn't died, though it sure felt like it. 

How could a mother let her singing bird cry?

Sitting in his room blaring music, surfing no longer favorable, lost to the bittersweet memory he now wanted to scorch, he sat staring at the ceiling for hours. It was now a routine embedded and played like a drum on re-run on the same beat, never changing, never missing. As much as he wouldn't admit it, he cried. He cried hard until the tears were dirt dry. His father wasn't the most adamant about taking care of kids, hence the neglect and self-pity he forced onto his 10-year-old son, blaming him for the divorce, impelling the boy to believe it for years. At the age of 12, year 79, Billy had grown fond of bullying the students at his school, right when recess rang. He would only continue this behavior until he got his first detention, resulting in a violent quarrel against his father and himself. He had quite the bruise on his arm after that, though he hid it well under loose fabrics. Long sleeves were his best friends back in middle-school.

It wasn't that he wanted to endure this, it's because he had no choice whatsoever in the matter. He'd often be told he'd be in the streets if anyone caught word of his father's abuse, though he wasn't aware that this was abuse. In fact, it was normalized in this household to the point it felt only right, even if it did hurt him.

It was 78, eleven years, where he had rested his eyes on a Mattel baby doll that was adorned in a bib and a blue and white dotted dress; finding it under a pile of sand at the beach, luckily, he saw the bright color of its dress or else he would've passed by it without much thought. 

Its Blonde hair reminded him far too much of his mother that he didn't pass up any moment to bring it home and hide it under his bed where he would find himself holding it in his arms during the night. Figuring where his father was often gone or out cold in the comfort of his ugly green couch with a half empty beer spilt against his shirt, it'd be safe to at least salvage this toy and give him some kind of enjoyment. Luckily this didn't catch wind, at the moment anyway, so he kept his breath sharp and ready, keeping watchful eyes whenever his father would enter to either talk, which wasn't often, or throw various insults his way. He never understood or could comprehend what drove his father to be this petty, derogatory, and he didn't question, in fear it would cause another uproar that he couldn't spare any strength for. He was already at his limit.

Everyday became less enjoyable, and more restraining after finding this doll; the only peace he had was when he was in his bed sleeping with it. His father would often ridicule his pitch at the school games playing baseball like the rest of the good boys did, throwing the bat in his face like a rabid dog until the pup finally surrendered and listened. Toughening himself up rather quickly and reflecting off others, especially his father. He himself started to become what he never wanted to be, the villain. 

"You totally burnt the square Grover; I think he's had enough!" A voice, shrill, puberty has yet to hit, riddled out of a boy's mouth. The voice belonged to an eleven-year-old boy named Nick Cliff Berny, one of the school's troublemakers that Billy had soon taken in to create a small circle of their own called "The Tricksters," a group of rebellious teens that would often vandalize the schools bathroom stalls; typical things, nothing too severe. Nick was big, hefty and broad. He was the guard, Billy was the leader and bull of the three. He called the shots. "Yea, Grover stop!" Grover was a nickname that Billy had instilled in everyone to use, and those who had used his real name were clocked in the face. Just like this kid here. This voice came from another member of his 'gang,' his name was Henry, slender but quick. If he wanted something from a store and did not want to pay money for it, Henry was the guy to call.

"Pft, whatever." Billy spat, diverting his attention to Nick and Henry who were shot in fear. He liked that, thrived off of people's reactions. The boy was left with a bloody nose, crimson visible and running down his chin. "Get the fuck up you coward," Billy darted his icy blues to the burnt hazels of the boy he had just fought, though it wasn't much of a fight. The boy didn't listen, in fact he just stayed there. Billy shook his head, white knuckles prominent before lowering them to his sides, "the fuck did you think would happen anyway? Saying my name like that, you had a death wish for sure." Billy stated, turning around before an audible sound came from behind, causing him to instantly turn around and arch a brow, "what was that there ponyboy?" He was quiet now. "Are you de-" "I said 'all I wanted to be your friend, Billy,' if you must know." Again, he dared to say his name just like he had, but this time Billy actually heard what was said. It puzzled the boy, unsure on how to react. He had friends, he had Henry and Nick. He didn't need anymore. "Pft, you thought you could be friends with Grover- no THE Grover?" Shot Henry, simultaneous laughter between himself and Nick churned Billy's stomach, but he laughed with them. "Right? When did I ever need a nerd in my circle! How cute!" He mocked, adjusting the sleeves of his white shirt. "Let's get out of here," said Billy, turning around and strutting away in triumphant success. The other two followed along like rag dolls, shooting a few threatening glances to the boy before giving him the finger.

Making his way back home, parting with Henry and Nick, Billy had made it back in time before his father had parked into their garage, the squeal of a rusted door making it all the more known that he was home. "BILLY." His name dribbled down his father's mouth, a rasp cluttering his lungs due to what he could only assume to be the lack O2 and abuse of liquor. He didn't make haste to leave the comfort of the indoors to his father, who had been practically leaning against his car for support. The shot of a tiger's glare seeped into Billy's core, making his belly flop. He wasn't hungry anymore. This caused him to jolt at the sudden movements his father made once he had seen Billy was waiting there for further instructions. "Ph'fuck you starin' at kid, help ya pops up!" And that he did, all the way down to the living room couch where he was told to turn on the tv, grab him some food, and leave him be. The rest of the night was distilled, carved in haunted silence, that same blue dotted doll wrapped around his arms. He had no more tears to shred.