What Remains

Chapter 15

The Bastard Child
Infant and Innocent.

I shoot up on my bed, sweaty and panting.
Once again the night terrors terrorize my sleep; though I know those dreams will become reality once more the minute I step foot upstairs. I have no choice either way; father will probably hurt me worse if I choose to stay down here anyway. Something about faking depression when I have everything I could ever need or want.
It was just a dream.. just a dream. I'm okay.
I give a small sigh, ridding my forehead of sweat with the back of my palm. I catch sight of the new-ish scars that rest upon my arm; they are fresh and deep enough to be the least bit unnerving. I have to draw my eyes away before I gag.
Today is my birthday, isn't it? October 6th. Yeah. I'm thirteen.
I snap myself out of my thoughts and scan my room with observant eyes. Dark, and boring. The air is slightly pungent, reeking of BO and old blood. Dim yellow sunshine beams down from the small window above my bed, highlighting the carpeted concrete ground below. I scratch my scalp and stand, feeling the fuzzy floor-cover with my bare feet. I've always hated that texture, but at least it wakes me up.
I hate that I feel the need to be down here. I have a room three floors up, but I just... I can't find it within myself to be out in the open like that. I'm weak. I am so weak.
Um. Anyways.
I'm a little hungry, so I decide to go upstairs right away. I spare my dark bookcase a small glance though.
A cake. Hmm.
I take a preparing breath and trudge up the curved wooden steps with light feet. Before I open the slanted cellar door, I press my ear and a single hand against it.
"—Need to eat more. You're wearing thin, Charles." A hoarse masculine voice sounds faintly through the thick wood.
"I don't believe you have a right to be speaking to me like that," A younger voice responds, holding a small tone of scepticism and mockery, "I don't waste food like you do anyway."
"You watch your tone with your father, Charlie!" The older voice snaps back. A strike hits the counter and makes a loud crash.
Mouthing off father after his morning drink.
"I don't care what you say to me, you old sod— you don't scare me like you scare Kenneth." My brother hisses.
Father doesn't scare me, you dunce. You're just too blind to see what I see.
"Where's he, anyway? He better not be sleeping." Father replies, his aggression already growing.
"You leave that boy alone today." A feminine voice suddenly pipes up. My stepmom.
Since when do you care, hmm?
"Mom, don't fight. Not today." A much younger feminine voice sounds. Jamie.
"Don't try to involve yourself. Go get your sister." My stepmother commands. I can imagine her spitefully tossing the keyring to Jamie.
"I'm fetching Kenneth... He's going to be late for his piano lessons if he doesn't get his arse up here." My father grumbles. Stomps follow those words, making me back two apprehensive steps away from the door.
My father flings the door open, letting his dark eyes rest on me.
"Are you daft? Have you forgotten how to bloody walk?" My father barks, getting a bit closer to my face.
Muppet, stupid, daft. All that comes out of your drunken mouth.
Despite those thoughts, I stand my ground in silence, letting my hazel eyes hold onto my father's reflected ones.
"Don't give me eyes! Get up here." He grabs my arm with unnecessary force and throws me upstairs, making me stumble on my own feet.
Charlie gives a slight snicker, but immediately stops as my eyes meet his amber ones with a challenging glare. "You should behave, Kenneth." My older brother smirks, digging a fork into his food.
Kenneth... Don't call me that. You don't deserve to call me by my full name.
I want to scream. I know I can't.. Shouldn't.
"Charlie." My stepmom hisses. "Don't set him off— I can't deal with a tantrum right now." I feel her eyes drift to me, "Kenneth, grab yourself some food."
I sigh and draw my eyes away from my brother, instead looking at the counter. Waffles. They are each rushed-looking and unevenly baked. No condiments added— just simple, plain waffles and probably-undercooked bacon. My stepmother has always been terrible at cooking. I wouldn't trust any of the others with making food either, though. Odd with how much we can afford, that a meal like this is what we can get. Cheapskates, the lot of them.
I give a small sigh and plate whatever looks edible; a single waffle and a few pieces of bacon. Before I can pull away from the kitchen, I hear incoming footsteps. Sydney rounds the door frame with Jamie, making a slight smile twinge the sides of my mouth.
Sydney. I mumble in my mind, setting my plate on the counter and stepping to my younger step sister. Sydney's bright green eyes soften with seeing me, her demeanour becoming much warmer compared to her once-apprehensive look.
"Goodmorning, Kenneth." She mumbles quietly.
Goodmorning, Syd. You should eat... Let's get you a plate.
I scan over her face before gently grasping her arm and leading her to the food.
"The only time you're not an arse is when your sister's here. Maybe we should bring her out more often." My father teases. He thinks he's funny.
I ignore him, instead grabbing a plate and gesturing to the food.
Sydney complies, doing a once over of her minimal options and picking out a few scraps of food. Her portion is small, as per usual, making me give a slight scowl. I usher myself to my plate and picked out a few things to give Sydney.
She gives me a light side-smile as I softly place the pieces of food on her plate. I ruffle her bright blonde hair in reply as she walks past me to find a spot at the dining table.
Alright... Nothing else for me, Jamie needs food.
I then turn with my plate, facing the basement door.
They forgot about my birthday. I'll just treat today like any other day, then.
Before I can take a step, my father takes a breath, making me stop in my tracks.
"And where do you think you're off to?" My father asserts. If he keeps going.. "Answer me." He demands. I hear him shuffle out of the seat he took. I slowly turn to face him; my eyes wear an unimpressed expression, which seems to tick him off. "You brat! Always pissing me off for no good reason!" My father raises his hand to strike me.
"Ah— no. He has piano after this." My stepmother scolds, grabbing my father's arm.
Father scoffs, "He'll just end up driving her away anyway."
I turn, tired of their bickering— their voices. My feet take me away quickly.
"That's what I thought. Run off to your basement, see what happens." Father calls after me with a hint of triumph in his tone.
I waste no time bringing myself further out of the kitchen and into my space, almost slamming the door behind me. I hear my stepmom begin to yell at my father behind the door.
I make my way to my bed and sit down, beginning to eat my food. It tastes plain, almost old.
Everyday. Every fucking day I have to deal with those arseholes.
I'm tired of it, I'm tired of them!
As I try to savour my food, I feel my throat clench while tears prick their way into my eyes.
I'd kill them if I could.. Bloody stab their sorry arses. Kill them. They're walking corpses.
A small tear falls down my face as I set my plate aside, taking in the last bites.
They hurt me everyday. Every fucking day and I do bugger all.
I have hundreds of these ugly scars.. and all because of them!
I let out a silent sob and dig my hands into my hair.
Stop crying, stop it! He's gonna hear.. he's gonna hurt me!
As if I queued it, my father slams the door open and stomps down the steps. "Get the fuck over here, Kenneth." He growls, making me yelp in fear. The belt he grips in his hand is still bloodied from two days prior. "I said, get the fuck OVER HERE." My father grabs my arm and throws me to the ground with enough force to make me wince as I collide with the concrete.
"You have nothing to be crying about. You've got everything— EVERYTHING!" He whipped my back once, making me let out a cry of agony. "You're so ungrateful! I do everything for this family, and you take it all for bloody granted."
"Please, dad! Please—" He cuts me off with another strike to my back. I cry out in pain.
"Toughen up, come on, fight back! I've got half the mind to beat the sissy out of you." I flip myself around at his words, facing him with a look of pure spite and anger.
"I hate you! I HATE YOU!" I scream, clenching my eyes shut to ready myself for another blow.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite HEAR you." My dad spits.
"I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU! I HOPE YOU DIE, JUST LIKE MOM—" With those words, my face is struck, sending me backwards into the cold, hard ground.
"That's enough out of you! You're always getting yourself into shit!" My father shouts, stomping off. "Hope you're fuckin' happy you killed her. Goddamn—" His voice fades to a mumble as the door slams behind him.
I feel my consciousness falter as I sit up. I touch the back of my head; no blood.
My face, though...
I touch the left side of my face and wince. As I pull my hand in front of my eyes, I am met with bloody fingertips. Extremely, at that.
I let out another quiet sob as blood trickles down my cheek in an alarming portion.
My consciousness falters once more, and I finally submit, letting myself collapse onto the concrete floor once more.
Happy birthday, Kenneth.