Honey Badger

00.

    Warning : this chapter contains incidents of rape, abuse, and violence.

         Mother once told me I was full of red.

        I always thought it was an odd statement, as every human is pumping blood through their vessel. It wasn't until I turned 10, tripping over my tattered shirt that fit me like a dress, busily trying to find her. My small hands reached for the knob of her creaky door, opening it with such delicacy just to expose my mother groveling on the ground.
        My blue tinted orbs widened ever so slightly at the sight, before identifying the man that was hunched over her crippled form.
        Ah. The small voice in my head began with a sigh. Sir Gallow.
        As if hearing my conclusion, his darkened gaze snapped to my frail form. A muffled squeak was heard from mother as his calloused hands were scraping at her upper thigh.
        "Akira," came her breaking voice, "leave at once."
        Now, I may be a child, but the world has taught me many things so far. I knew this was wrong. I knew he was hurting her.
        Sir Gallow began tearing at the hems of her tattered cream dress, exposing more of the flesh that she tried so hard to keep hidden.
        "You heard your mother," his gruff voice sounded, his gaze never leaving mine, "leave."

        "You're full of red."

        The vague memory of mother combing back my tangled blonde hair, whispering that sentence so softly it almost got taken by the breeze.
         "No." I deadpanned, my brows furrowing together as my young voice rang through the dark room. Mother attempted to push herself up, scraping her nails on the dirty floorboards. The room seemed to creak and groan with protest at her movements, but Sir Gallow made it clear.
        He grabbed a firm handful of my mother's brown locks, forcing her head back down into submission. Greasy strands of his once well-kept black hair framing his face. Sweat from the excitement, I suppose.
         "Get the fuck out. Or you'll join her." His rough bark echoed, and I knew it wasn't an empty threat. I clenched my small fists together, something in me beginning to tear and wither away.
        I was angry.
        And he was the reason I was angry.
        My face dropped, my brows pressing together and my gaze squinting just slightly. I wanted to kill him. Kill him for touching my mother like that. Kill him for speaking to me like that. I wanted to end him.
        My mother, with all the strength she could, lifted her chin just a tad. Just enough to meet my gaze. The feeling I had just connected with melted  in the pleading blue eyes my mother stared at me with. Hot tears began to form at my ducts, filled with anger and frustration. But I knew better. I knew to step back for her.
        And so I did. I withdrew myself without a single word, closing the creaking door as my eyes never left Mother's. I kept her gaze until it finally closed, leaving her in a dark room, with a dark man.

        We didn't talk that morning. Silently munching on my hardened bread, I avoided looking at her directly. She avoided me as well, guilt clearly wracking through her used body. Flesh not well kept. The anger in me had subsided, but it had not boiled down to nothing.
How could she lay there like that? I harshly thought. How could she let him do that? However, I wasn't dumb. I knew he treated her after with red apples, and bread that was baked last week. I knew he keeps our home safe from prying eyes and danger. She made a deal with the devil, and it was for our sake.
        A hallow noise pushed through my nose, much like a scoff. I finished the last bit of my bread, pushing myself up from our small wooden table. The chair I had been sitting in screeched back in an awful noise, and Mother finally tried to find my gaze.
        "Akira," she started, "you know why-." I harshly cut her off with a sentence of my own.
        "There are other ways." I glared down at my bare toes, searching for anything to look at besides her. She didn't offer a response, silence greeted our small home. A huff left my small form, before I retreated back to our room. I opened the same creaky door I had to close on her, my brows knit together in contempt.
        I made myself comfy in the same corner I've always had, nestled between rags and a pillow that was on its last life. My gaze began to flit closed, trying to block out all the thoughts of last night, of this morning. I was tired, rightfully so. The sound of small steps creaking in the kitchen rocking me to the black abyss.

        "You impudent whore!" A crash set me up straight, blue eyes wild and searching for the identity of the voice. With haste, I scrambled to my feet, sudden adrenaline filling my body. Another loud crash was heard, my mother's whimper accompanying it.
        "I didn't do it!" She cried out. My body began to move on its own, out the bedroom without a second thought. My bare feet taking me straight to the commotion in the hall, my toes scraping on broken glass beneath me. The sight I stumbled on sent a cold rigidness down my spine.
        "Mother?" My voice came out small, barely a whisper.  There was blood. Everywhere. Mother's brown hair matted with the red substance, her shaky hands profusely trying to protect her head. He came down like an iron sword, slashing at her ribs, her face, her stomach. I was mortified, my voice couldn't be found. The creak of the floorboard beneath me gave me his attention.
Sir Gallow.
        The boiling rage I had previously found began to be buried deep. Beneath my fear. My body began to shake, small tremors that felt like I could move the whole world. Sir Gallow craned his head back, his brown eyes sizing me up for a few moments.
        "You," he snarled, "come here." My breath began to quicken. The first instinct I had was to take a step back.
        "No, please," my mother sobbed, "please, not her." His face began to get hot with anger as he lifted up his foot to approach me. My mother's desperate hands reached his ankle, pulling him back.
        She didn't mean to.
        Sir Gallow fell forward, his foot snagged by the writhing woman below. His face met the bits of broken glass from what I assume is lamp shards.
        It happened too fast.
        Blood began to trickle from his cheeks, his forehead, his neck. He was mad, more mad than before. Mother was scared, more scared than before. And I was frozen, glued, even. He reached behind him with one hand, grabbing Mother's hair, and used his other hand to push himself off the ground.
No. I could only think it, I couldn't even muster a word. In one, swift motion, he had put her head through the wall. The wall of our home, our life.
Stop. Tears began to pool down my face, my cheeks red from anguish. He brought another heavy hand down, and another, and another. Until all I could hear was the sickening squelching of Mother's head.
        He did not stop.
        I did not breathe.
        He did not stop until his hands were fully coated in red, the floorboards soaking up the excess spills. The familiar feeling of boiling came to my body. Hot with anger, as I watched him continue to drive her body into the wall.
        "Enough," it came out hoarse, but it was a word. I was not longer silent. He whipped his head to the side, so fast I thought I heard a pop. He rose, leaning his body back as he exhaled slowly. His gaze closed momentarily as if to relish this moment.
        He seemed relaxed. It made me more angrier.
        So much angrier, I grabbed a shard of glass. The sharp piece began to cut at my small hand, but I paid it no mind. The rage would not let me think about it, only him. And as I ran, so silently you'd think I was a mouse, by the time I had reached him his eyes began to open.
        It was too late.
        I had rose the shard in my hand, like a mighty dragon, and dragged it down with so much velocity you wouldn't believe I was just a child. I made its home right inside his left eye. He screeched, like a pig in pain. His hands clawing out to grab me by the scruff of my hair. But I was too angry. And anger drove me to be too fast. I dragged the glass down his eye socket, pulling it out with an aggression I had never known.
        And then I rose it again as he grabbed his bloodied face, squeezing his good eye shut as he blindly began to grab at the air where I once was. I was below him now, as I brought the glass down on his heel, slicing it open with a disgusting sound. Sir Gallow was brought to his knees, more wails accompanying his injured form.
        For the final time, I rose the shard up. The man was a sad pool of tears and blood, cries of mercy bouncing off the walls. But I did not care, as he did not care for Mother. The glass was brought down once more, piercing right through the flesh on his clothed chest. I drove it down until I could feel it scraping the floorboards beneath. Until he stopped squirming like a worthless dog. Until I could hear silence once again in our home.
        I slumped down, my legs cradling his torso as I stared at his now disfigured face. The anger boiled down to nothing, and soon the adrenaline was gone. Tiredness clawed at my state of mind, a sigh leaving my chapped lips. Blonde strands of my hair stuck to my skin, slick with sweat and dried blood.
        He was dead. I craned my neck, to get a view of Mother's limp form.
        She was gone. A sob chokes me, rippling through my small body.
        I was alive. Another sob, louder than the last sounds from me as I dip my head back. Crying to God, crying to Mother, crying to our home.
        And finally, I realized Mother was right.

I was full of red.