Of Puppet Strings and Broken Shards

Glass smashed above his head, sending shattered fragments raining down.

The young boy buried his head in his arms in a weak attempt to protect himself, he felt warm liquid trickle down the back of his neck from where the glass had cut him, his arms and hands were already covered in scratches from flying fragments of glass or whatever else would get thrown at him. Last week it had been a shoe, yesterday it was a shattered mug, today a smashed glass. When it was safe, he'd pick himself up, further scarring his hands. He'd wash the scratches under the tap until the stinging pain went numb, he'd wet some tissue and use it to get the blood out of his hair, then he'd cover up his injuries with a sweater and a pair of gloves, no matter how warm it was outside. As long as no injuries are visible, he'd be fine, she wouldn't know. As long as he could keep her happy and safe, that's all that mattered.

But for now, he sat there quivering in fear as the man he's meant to call his father yells abuse at him. More things get thrown, a newspaper, a tv remote, a vase; he just sits there, knees pulled up to his chest, face buried in the gap between and his hands as his final protection. It's useless. No matter what, it still hurts. He can't protect himself.

The words sting like the broken shards of glass that cut into his skin every time they're thrown at the wall above him. He's certain they're meant to land on him, the target for both the words and objects is his head, but the man's aim is off. He's thankful for that at least. It could be worse.

Finally, he's left alone. He waits. Unsure if he's allowed to move yet. The front door slams and he scrambles to his feet, glass digging into his palms as he pushes himself up, he runs to the bathroom to start cleaning himself. Every step is agony, the bruises on his legs making it difficult for him to move, yet he still drags himself up to the sink and allows himself a tiny smile when he sees his face is unharmed. Injuries on his face are the hardest to cover up, they're the ones he has to make up lies for.

"Oh, I just tripped over!"

"Don't worry, I just wasn't paying attention and walked into a wall."

"Ah, silly me! I closed a door on my own face, can you believe it?"

He didn't like having to lie to her like that.

He struggles to twist the tap on with his bloodied hands, it slips away from him a few times but he finally gets the water running. He takes a breath and attempts to hold it in to stop himself from wincing at the pain of the cold water rushing against the cuts and grazes which littered his hands.

It wasn't fair, he thought.

But at least it was only him.

It could be worse.

.

.

.

It became worse.

He arrived too late, the loud sorrowful song of a young child crying flooded his ears as he entered the house, she sat there beside shards of a broken vase, bleeding cuts covering her hands and knees. She looked up at him, eyes filled with tears as he stared at her in shock. He never should've left her here alone for even a moment, he never should've assumed she was safe just because she was never usually the target.

She cried harder when she saw him, recognising him as safety, she'd been in fear wondering where he'd been the whole time. He stepped forward and gently scooped her up in his arms, pulling her close into a hug. He carried her to the bathroom and cleaned up her cuts, taking far more care with patching her up than he ever did for himself, he warned her when it might hurt and he gently wiped her tears as they fell.