Cold Water

PROLOGUE

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The day his mother died, the world fractured. The comforting walls of Brandon's home, once filled with warmth and laughter, turned cold, shadows stretching long across the floor like accusing fingers.

The scent of her perfume lingered, but even that comfort faded quickly, leaving behind only the sharp scent of loss and something far more bitter.

Brandon stood in the doorway, small and trembling, staring at the remnants of a life that felt like a dream now—her favourite mug on the table, her knitting abandoned on the arm of the sofa.

His father was there too, hunched over, the man who once towered with gentle strength now seemed smaller, twisted in on himself like a wounded animal.

"You did this," his father's voice cut through the silence, harsh and ragged. The words struck Brandon like a physical blow, sending him reeling even though he remained rooted to the spot. "If you hadn't been so damn needy..."

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Brandon didn't respond. He couldn't. The guilt was already there, festering in his chest, gnawing at his insides.

His father didn't have to say it—Brandon had already been saying it to himself over and over since that day.

But the words weren't enough for his father. The grief, the anger—it had nowhere to go but onto Brandon, the boy who had survived when she hadn't. The first time it happened, Brandon had been too shocked to react.

A slap across the face, sudden and stinging, the kind that left a mark for days, both on his skin and deep in his heart.

The boy who once looked to his father for comfort and protection now saw only the shadow of a man broken by loss, a man who blamed him for the one thing he could never take back.

The abuse was sporadic at first, an outburst here, a shove there. But as the days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and the nights became a blur of fear and sleeplessness, the violence became routine.

His father's grief twisted into something monstrous, something that took pleasure in the sound of Brandon's muffled cries, in the bruises that blossomed across his skin like dark flowers.

Brandon learned to make himself small, to hide in corners, to move quietly so as not to provoke the rage that simmered just beneath the surface of his father's sorrow.

He learned to wear long sleeves even in the heat of summer, to avoid eye contact, to silence his tears.

But no matter how much he tried to disappear, his father's hatred found him.

It was in the way his name was spoken with venom, in the way every small mistake was met with fists or cruel words.

Brandon's world shrank until all that was left was the pain, the endless cycle of blame and punishment, and the suffocating knowledge that he was the reason she was gone.

The house became a prison, each room a reminder of what he had lost, of the life that had been torn away. And as the days blurred together, Brandon's spirit dimmed, like a candle struggling to stay lit in a storm.

He began to believe the words his father spat at him, the idea that he was unworthy of love, that he was the reason for all the suffering.

In the quiet moments, when the house was still and his father's footsteps echoed through the halls, Brandon would retreat into himself, into memories of a time when his mother's arms were around him, when her voice was soft and reassuring.

But those memories were fleeting, always chased away by the harsh reality that now ruled his life.

And so, the boy who once knew love now only knew fear, regret, and the weight of his mother's death pressing down on him like a stone.

The bruises on his skin would fade, but the ones on his heart were permanent, a reminder that the love he had lost would never return, and the father he had once known was gone forever, leaving only a broken man who saw his son as nothing more than a curse.

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