Leone Frasier is struggling to survive the aftermath of a tragic car crash that took his mother's life and left him with a permanent injury that affects the way he walks. Haunted by grief, trapped with an abusive father, and relentlessly bullied for...
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I spent the entire night crying up at the moonlight, my exhaustion drifting me off to sleep, only to be awakened shortly after by the immense pain that continued to ripple all throughout my body.
Taking beatings just before the weekend usually allowed me to heal my bruises and wounds up to avoid any suspicion for the following week. It meant that the marks on my skin played as a temporary barrier from my father giving me anymore, for now.
I clamped down on my teeth as hard as I could to suck up all the pain from my attempts to get my weak body out of bed. All my muscles and joints were collectively reacting to the beatings I had been given, pulling me down into a fit of hisses and grunts whenever I'd gather up enough courage to face the excruciating sensations embedded in my body both internally and externally.
After eventually getting up in tears, I stumbled towards my mirror and quickly got lost in shock at how horrible I looked. I slowly raised my shirt up and drew my breath at the various etches of shadows and discoloration that took over my fair skin. My heart ached at my sight as I questioned how much more will I be able to take. I had been turned into a mere shell of the person I used to be and it's gotten to a point where pain and misery is slowly becoming all that I know.
I momentarily closed my eyes at the thought of my mother for strength; I envisioned her large warm eyes and soft golden hair that closely resembled mine. She had endured a great deal of pain and misery before, but unlike me, she was not easily succumbed to it. Instead, she gracefully persevered until the very end with nothing but love and light in her heart.
She'd always tell me to keep my heart filled with love and light but it has gotten so very hard to do so.
Despite of my desire to return to bed, I decided to refrain from such luxury to get ready for the day. I had plenty of stuff to do and the first thing on that list was to be on time with my father's breakfast. I am only permitted to eat after he eats and since I wasn't allowed to have dinner last night and all the breakfast had been finished that same morning, all I've had was a piece of half-bitten toast two days ago.
I had set on making him what I usually cook for breakfast which was eggs, bacon, toast, and various sliced fruits that I prepared to fill up the table.
As soon as the table was set, the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall always sent a cold wave of dread coursing through me. The anticipation of his presence, the slow, inevitable rhythm of his approach, never failed to absolutely scare me. Each step he took seemed to reverberate not just in the air but deep within my chest, tightening like a vice around my ribs. I would subconsciously freeze in place, my breath shallow and uneven, my heart pounding in a frantic attempt to escape the inevitability of m my father's arrival.
He often woke up feeling unwell, his mornings poisoned by the liquor he consumed to drown his nights. The bitterness of his hangovers seemed to seep into every word he spoke and every action he took, a storm brewing just beneath his skin. His uncontrollable irritability, his unpredictable rage, it was all far too much and no one in this world knew about it except for me. I couldn't exactly predict when the storm would break or what would set it off, and that uncertainty was as suffocating as the fear itself.
