Hydranomaly

Chapter 10: Just Like Me For Real

As the final, brutal blow landed on Ryujin's frail, emaciated body, his head was violently driven into the floor. His thin, malnourished frame shuddered from the impact, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The floorboards beneath him were cold and splintered, digging into his skin as he lay motionless, the world around him a blur of pain and disorientation.

Ryujin's soft sobs and whimpers echoed through the dim, dank room, akin to the pitiful cries of a wounded animal. He fought to stifle them, his voice breaking into silent, tearless cries as his strength waned. The relentless barrage had left him writhing, powerless against the onslaught. His vision was clouded, his ears ringing, and his head spun chaotically as warm blood trickled from a gash at the back of his head, the coppery scent mixing with the stench of alcohol and sweat.

The constant drip of blood from his father's fists, now stained and glistening, was the only thing keeping him tethered to consciousness. Each drop was a cruel reminder of his reality, jerking him awake just as the darkness threatened to swallow him.

With a grunt, Ryujin's father heaved himself up from where he had knelt over his son's battered form. His words were a slurred, venomous hiss, laced with disdain and drunken rage.

"Such a worthless, shitty brat you are, you know that?" he spat, his voice cutting through the haze of Ryujin's pain. "Do both of us a favor and go to your room..." He raised a half-empty bottle to his lips, taking a long swig before stumbling towards the stove. "Dinner will be ready in a few. Now get those damn crimson eyes outta my sight, ya hear me?"

Ryujin managed a weak nod, his movements sluggish and pained. He pushed himself up on trembling elbows and knees, wincing as the rough, wooden floor pressed against his bruised and battered skin. The pain was searing, coursing through his veins like molten lead.

Despite the agony, he persevered, forcing himself to his feet. He limped towards his room, his face streaked with tears, each step a monumental effort. He closed the door behind him with a gentle pull of the knob, the faint click of the latch a small, hollow comfort.

His room was a tiny, stuffy space, more a glorified corridor than a proper room. There was no furniture, just bare walls and a single, grimy window that let in a sliver of sickly light. The white walls were stained and peeling, the floorboards broken and uneven, crawling with insects that had made their home in the rotting wood.

Yet, amidst the squalor, Ryujin found a twisted sense of peace. This cramped, neglected space was his refuge, a place where he could escape, however briefly, from his father's wrath. It was a sanctuary of sorts, offering a fleeting illusion of safety.

He sat against the wall, wrapping his arms around his knees and tucking his legs close to his chest. He stared at the fresh wounds etched into his skin, the bruises already darkening. The sight was a grim reminder of the violence he endured, but also a testament to his resilience.

A tear trickled down his cheek, yet he managed a small, sad smile. Today's beating had been less severe than usual. The cuts were not as deep, the bleeding not as profuse. For once, he had managed to remain conscious. In his shattered world, this was a small victory that he was more than grateful to claim.

While Ryujin could never fathom the identity of this "mother" his father loathed so intensely, the hatred was palpable. The man often beat him solely because 'he shared her eyes', a cryptic condemnation that Ryujin could never understand. He had no memories of her, no whispers of her existence beyond his father's drunken rants. Sometimes he wondered, if she had been there, would his life have been different? Better, perhaps?

Lost in thought, Ryujin stared blankly out the window. The night was settling in, the rising moon casting a gentle glow over the darkened forest. His reverie was shattered by a sudden, loud knock. He snapped to attention, glancing at the half-eaten, moldy slice of bread shoved under his door. Only a small, untouched portion remained edible, but for the starving boy, it was a feast.