The Butterfly Effect

Chapter 17

Daisuke

"You worthless piece of shit," my father snarled, slamming me against the wall. His hand clamped around my throat, choking the air out of me.

"What the hell are you doing out?" His grip tightened. I kicked and clawed at his arms, but I was just a 14-year-old boy. He was a grown man—and drunk.

"I told you to stay in your room. You never listen." He let go, only to swing a heavy punch at my face.

I cried out, stumbling backward, clutching my cheek with my hand. The pain throbbed instantly.

"Come here," he snapped, grabbing me by the shirt and dragging me to the kitchen. "This'll teach you to disobey me."

He flicked the stove on. The blue flame hissed, casting flickering light onto my face. My eyes widened.

He forced my neck toward the flame.

I screamed.

"Stop—please, stop!" I sobbed, tears spilling down my cheeks.

But he didn't. He shoved my neck closer. The fire kissed my skin, burning—searing. My cries echoed through the kitchen.

"Dad—please!" I choked out, my voice breaking.

Finally, he threw me down onto the floor and shut off the stove.

My body shook. My neck stung like hell.

"Don't ever disobey me again," he said calmly—like he hadn't just tortured his own son.

And then he walked away.
...

I jolted awake, gasping, sweat drenching my sheets. My fingers flew to my neck, brushing over the faint scar. Faded now, but still visible. Still real.

A gift from the man who was supposed to protect me.

It always happened when he was drunk. Like some kind of demon took over his body. The man I called my father would vanish, replaced by something cold, something dangerous.

And the worst part? He never remembered.

Every morning after, he'd stumble around hungover, clueless about the damage he'd done.

My mom was never there. She was constantly traveling between Korea and Japan for her family's company. She knew he drank—she just didn't know how bad it really got. By the time she came home, my bruises had already faded, and I was an expert at hiding the scars.

I couldn't bring myself to tell her. If I did, it would all become real. The truth that he abused me. That he chose alcohol over us. Over me.

I didn't want to destroy the image I had of him—the version of my dad that didn't hurt me. The man I used to idolize. Before everything fell apart, he was kind, hardworking, and the best example of what a man could be.

I used to want to be just like him.

Now I wasn't even sure I deserved to be his son.

He had everything—status, success, perfection. And me? Maybe I was just his biggest disappointment. Maybe that's why he drank.

I got up, walked to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face.

Yeah. I'm definitely getting high today.

I texted Andre. He was one of my plugs—one of the few people I smoked with besides Antonio. Antonio wasn't really into it like we were. But Andre? Andre always had what I needed. Weed, acid—whatever.

Me: Yo, you home?
Andre: yeah, Pull up.

I brushed my teeth, showered, and got dressed. I had planned to pick Nova up today, but it was only 8:00. I figured I had time to chill first.