𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

SEVENTEEN

PAST

Y/n remembered bright pain.

Sizzling hot, fiery heat that raked down his spine, past his bones, into his flesh. Blood spilled onto the floor, his breaths were punched out brutally, his tears fell quickly and easily.

"Please don't hurt her," He begged, "don't hurt Ally. She didn't do anything," His voice cracked, "and I didn't do anything."

His father. The monster in his household towered over them, a cane in his hands. It was a whip, with the way it slashed onto the fragility of Y/n's skin, and the way it took a few seconds before the pain registered; before the pain exploded.

So many lines. So many crimson lines dotted on his skin, bleeding out vibrant colors. They had cast him to black and white, yet all he did now was bleed red.

"Why did you take the money?" He thundered. "You stole, Y/n, you stole from us."

I was hungry. I didn't eat for two days. S/n was about to collapse. We were starving.

"I'm sorry," He croaked out.

"Stealing is a horrible thing, you know." His father snarled. His anger then was even hotter than the sweltering summer that made sweat drip down Y/n's face. But with the tears that rolled down his face, he could no longer distinguish which was which. His battered form was crouched, crumbled, holding his little sister in his hands.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

"I was hungry." Y/n heard a voice from the side. His sister had spoken, attempting to take the blame for herself.

Y/n's father's words were fading. His body felt too small, too weak in front of such a large person like his father. He was convinced he would never make it out alive. Maybe this would be his deathbed. He imagined his name on the several gravestones he saw before, on the barren ground, crowded with bushes and abandoned.

Voices seemed to ricochet back and forth. His mother and father, Y/n realized, fighting, fighting, fighting. They always fought.

"Hungry! Hungry! We feed you. We waste everything on you two," His father said in disbelief, and Y/n didn't see, but felt the burning pain that erupted when the cane touched his skin.

"I'm so sorry," He repeated hoarsely, his tone weak and dehydrated, "I'm sorry, Father."

"Are you really sorry? Or is it another excuse? Is it just another excuse?"

Y/n wanted to die. He wanted to escape this hell, he wanted to leave.

As he grew up, he learnt to forget that emotion he had felt, but now Y/n felt it tenfold.

The desperate, defeating feeling of panic.

The feeling of wanting to escape.

It was all there.

PRESENT

Y/n heard of Helen's death.

Can you believe it? The words were soft. The words were malicious, mocking. Can you believe such a loyal believer died? Oh gosh, I heard she was a traitor...

How many of those voices were sentient? Y/n couldn't help but think. Maybe there was some soul buried beneath that cruel, rough veneer that was calling for help, just like Helen. Perhaps some were also trapped in this game, but could not speak for fear of meeting the same fate.

Their connection had been short-lived. Terribly painful.

Y/n had lost another person. Another friend.