꧁ 𝓐𝓶𝒆𝓼 𝒆𝓷 𝓹𝒆𝓲𝓷𝒆 ꧂
His intoxicating kisses
Helped her to forget
Better than any alcohol
The pain of her grieving heart.
Addictive,
She took possession of his mind
Faster than any drug
Ever did.
─── ∗∙⋅❀⋅∙∗ ───
↬ Important note : The orig...
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Keisuke couldn't count the number of times his father had laid a hand on him.
He couldn't even remember how it had started. These distant childhood memories were too ancient for him to date. The first five years of his life spent in Europe, before he and his father returned to Japan, had all deserted his memory. Had he already been beaten before their return to his father's homeland? He didn't know. What he did know, however, was that from then on, these kinds of outbursts became part of their daily routine.
It was usually for no particular reason.
All it took was for his father to be in a bad mood or under the influence of alcohol, and for him to be around. Ichiro Akaashi wasn't known as a violent man, but when it came to his unwanted son, his actions seemed to know no bounds.
It usually began with a few degrading words, reminding him that how much his father wished that his son was never born at all. Then his anger would raise, as if his son's mere presence were enough to set things alight, and the shouting would escalate until it gave way to gestures; the adult was well aware that his offspring always remained impervious to words, but not to punches.
It wasn't unusual for slight bruises to mark his skin, but in those days, as a child, he was far too young and fragile to dare rebel. He'd learned to simply shut his mind, swallow his tears and take it in silence.
Of course, Keisuke couldn't remember how it all began. On the other hand, the memory of the last time his father had been abusive to him would remain engraved forever, both in his mind and skin.
It was eight years ago, when he was ten. In a fit of rage, and perhaps because he'd had drunk too much, his father had seized a jade vase and thrown it at him with all the anger he had.
It all happened so fast that Keisuke had no chance to avoid it. He barely had the reflex to shield his face before the porcelain vase hit him. It was the first time that anything other than a hand had fallen on him, but the consequences had never been as dramatic as on that day.
Keisuke still remembered the shrill sound of the vase breaking. He still remembered where the razor-sharp shards of glass were scattered around him. Some were covered in the crimson liquid that leaked profusely from his open right forearm, and others had ricocheted all the way to his father's feet.
Keisuke always remembered Ichiro's expression as he watched in horror the impressive pool of blood that had soaked his office floor in record time. And if he had dared to look at his son's mutilated arm, his eyes had instantly turned away as he took in the considerable amount of blood staining his face; one of the pieces had slightly nicked the top of his forehead, but the blood leaking from this small cut was no less significant.
Keisuke would never forget the look on his face. It was the first time any semblance of regret had crossed his tormentor's eyes, as if he realized he'd perhaps gone a little too far. Yet he hadn't apologized for it. Not then. Nor when he'd come home from the hospital with stitches. Nor afterwards. Nor ever.
