F.L.Y.N.N [ Book no.1 of "The Fouling Damned duo"]

01: 02 | present day

~Axel's POV, present day, age: 26 ~

IF THERE WAS one thing that was certain, it was that all those fucked-up moments with father ended in vain.

All the sweat glands in me resounded by the millions.

They all multiplied, and chased after me in vain, like my fights with Raymond. Crap. All I ever wanted was to grasp a lump of his hair and yank out every single strand like grass yanked right off the ground.

Besides that, the ground was hard and cement, it was cool when I laid my head on the slap of half-melted cement.

The construction workers had just implanted the right amount of slab into the ground and being like the total psycho I was I dumped my fists into the cool, sticky cement that seemed to ooze as my hand melted through it like quicksand.

I wished to myself.

I wished that all the things that people said about me weren't true. But there was one true epiphany in all of this realization that started to repel from my chest. Ugh...Fuck...

There was a time. A time where all children in this stage of growth-of-the-human-cycle were propelled to make straight A's and play nice with other kids.

The mafia taught me well to cover my ears whenever the teacher reminded me not to staple another kid's arm. I was a violent kid. The kid who was both a creep and a loner along with the mix of the word violent.

The violence that I was portraying to my peers wasn't me. It couldn't be, couldn't it? Me who would stand up for YOU whenever all your friends betrayed you. I was the monster. Not you.

Today, unlike yesterday, was a better day. A day that shone out of the creaks of darkness and haha-ed its way out of its cave and seemed to lurk: even though it was morning. Today was the day.

YOU are tending to your drunken father in the living room.

He's down after a couple of shots of mezcal beer, and two hours of beating your poor mother up.

He's locked the door to his room, but you are KIND.

You walk over to the little cupboard above your kitchen microwave and you unlock his door. That disgraceful bastard doesn't even appreciate you. Even though he knows that you are tired, and you have just came home from France, and, you are still in the same clothes you were in just so you could greet him while he was watching the Astros play on live television.

When the internet gets bad, he scolds you and blames you for turning off the wifi signal. You sigh and go down to the basement only to find your baby brother, Alex messing with the old man's wifi. "Beep, boop, beep." the innocence of this toddler certainly was fake.

Your little brother has just turned three-years-old and he was a result of your old man's affair with his woman Leyl Brooks, a lawyer who lives in Ontario. However, you treat him like HE is actually your real brother. You are so kind.

YOU head over to where your "brother" is and you kindly tell him to stop playing with the wifi or else your father will get mad at you. Or even worse, he'd beat the crap out of you with a whip.

The look on YOUR eyes pains me.

Why would such a beautiful and kind person such as yourself have such a terrible family? YOU begin to pick up Alex, being careful to not make him scream.

Your little brother is frail, with big round brown eyes and platinum-blond hair: just like your father.

To me, he reminds me of your father's mini-me. After you pick Alex up, he starts to wail. Slowly, but louder and louder the more you make him rise from the ground.

He screams like there is no tomorrow like YOU are going kill him, not your father.

But, you doubt that your father will kill his only son. Unlike YOU the little spoiled brat has inherited more rights and privileges than you will ever have.

Again, the sad look in YOUR eyes makes me sad.

For one thing, YOU have mentioned to me that you couldn't have toys or dolls growing up.

But, your baby brother, Alex, has a whole toy box of them. (Dolls, build-a-bear stuffed toys, LEGOS, light up trucks, you name it)

That night, you are beaten terribly by your father.

The many scratches and bumpy-bloody bruises lay on your back, all turning a deep purple and making your veins pop. YOU refuse to scream, however.

No matter how many slashes you endure throughout the night, you never refuse to disobey him. He who, (according to my photos and observation) is the evil one, not YOU.

No matter what people call you: slut, hoe, bitch, I don't care. I love for the real you.

The one who-in the middle of the night- has tears piled on your pillow sheets, muffling tears under the covers, your neck, back, and hair all slashed by never-ending scars and wounds.

For one thing, your hair still looked beautiful, no matter how many times your father pulled it.

No matter how long it takes I will avenge YOU.

*****

HE is a sleeper.

A knocked-cold-deep sleeper. His snores could've woken up the entire suburb.

The birds were chirping happily, I spy a red robin on the windowsill of HIS window. HE shoos it away and mocks the poor bird. I already hate HIM.

HE starts the day early: 5:35 am to be precise. Not a minute more, not a minute less.

He then rolls out of his huge king-sized mattress and flops on the mahogany floors with a THUD. "Damn you!" He directs this insult to himself, in shame. He was only in his late thirties but he was suffering from a mix of insomnia and type four diabetes.

HE then uses his hands to prop himself from the floor and stands up, still groggy from the lack of sleep. He heads over to the pantry and fetches a flashlight.

Then, he uses every ounce of dull light that seemed to spew out of the flashlight, cursing himself for not going to Walmart to buy triple-AAA batteries.

After gulping down DANNON vanilla-flavored yogurt from the Samsung silver-but rusted refrigerator, and black coffee, he is refreshed after his hunger has been satisfied and his thirst quenched.

He looks tired.

Thick black eyebags seep under his eyes, and his eyes are sagging from yes, you named it, lack of SLEEP. This was due to the beating he gave to YOU last night.

The moment he stops eating (finally!) he walks upstairs, not being mindful of his sleeping wife and children. He was a selfish man, that was for sure. But the moment he tries to open the door to his room-

"WHAT THE HELL! MIRANDA, WHAT KIND OF SICK JOKE ARE YOU- ?" His voice, dry and hoarse, seems to crack through the edges of his lips. He licks his lips and starts muttering to himself:

" Why the hell would my sweet Miranda lock up my room? She does know that I have a meeting this morning does she?" He was trying to make up for his mistakes to her, without even telling her. He really was nothing without her. Finally! He actually believes that SHE is his wife after all! His first love, his married partner in crime.

The door creaked open, making a loud squeaking noise like the door hinges were purposely rusted.

And they were.

BAM! CR---REEEAK!

And his mouth was slit shut, the blood seeping from his pale and dry lips.