"Stop that."
I jumped slightly as my eyes shot over to the familiar hulking form standing in the doorway of my bathroom. I always forget how tall Derek is until I'm standing right next to him. Or in this case in front of him.
"Stop what?" my brows...
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It all started when I was seven and my mother got sick- diagnosed with stage three lung cancer.
At first, it was just snide comments and backhanded compliments, but as my mom got sicker and sicker, things got worse. Dad started drinking, coming home later- sometimes not at all for days at a time...
The first time my father hit me, I was eight years old.
Mom had just been admitted to the hospital for the third time within two months, all because she'd collapsed in the kitchen while making me breakfast.
When he hit me, it wasn't anything like I'd seen in the movies or TV shows I'd watched with my mom. There was no apology, no tears, and definitely no remorse. In fact, I'm pretty sure that fucking bastard laughed when he smashed his beer bottle over my head, causing me to fall down the stairs and break my wrist in two places.
"You deserve that broken wrist boy! Your mother is sick because of you, you know?" He would tell me all the time, "Because of the stress you cause her by being a useless piece of trash, she's dying!"
To an eight-year-old boy who looked up to his father, those words were a punch to the gut... Sometimes literally. And for the longest time, I believed him. I believed that his anger toward me was justified and that I deserved the beatings I got.
Or "punishment" as he liked to call it. My "punishment" for being born, basically.
Mom didn't know anything about what went on at home while she was at the hospital. I didn't want to have to stress about me while she was doing her chemo. When Dad would let me visit her, he always told me to tell her I got I go fights at school to explain away the bruises on my face.
I don't know that she ever actually believed me though, because I would see the sideways glances she would give him.
"My brave boy... I wish you wouldn't get into so many fights..." she would often tell me when she saw the bruises on my face.
And, "I'm okay mama, you should see the other guy..." was always my witty response while I laughed.
I miss her... so, so much...
She died... not long after I turned 10. I wasn't there for her last moments and it's something I will always regret... Even if it wasn't my fault. Dad had locked me in the crawl space that our landlord had called an "attic".
I don't know who that man was trying to fool; you'd be lucky enough to fit 2 or 3 boxes up there let alone a small adolescent boy. He locked me up there when he got the call from Mom's doctor, telling him that she didn't have much time left.
Maybe that's why I'm no good with small spaces... or the dark...
