Kyle's Childhood/History

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8 years old

"Where is that little bastard?" Kyle heard his Father's yells echoing through the field. He'd find him soon, but Kyle wasn't about to give himself away just yet. Why would he want to go back earlier? No. Kyle was going to stay right where he was, in the long grass, with his stick and half-dead frog. The frog had been full of life and completely healthy until Kyle had arrived; he'd chased it and caught it, breaking its legs so it couldn't escape.
"He's been drinking again." Kyle whispered to the frog. "I don't wanna go back there."
Kyle breathed heavily as he heard his Dad's shouts getting closer.
"He's just playing! He's out of the way, isn't that what you want?"
Kyle sniggered at his Mother's words. Of course it wasn't what he wanted; one of his punching bags wasn't around for him to abuse. Kyle used a nearby rock to sharpen the tip of his stick as the frog tried to drag itself away.
"Sorry, little guy." Kyle whispered as he pulled the frog back by its broken back legs. "Though I'm really not."
In one quick movement, he lifted the stick above his head, and slammed it down right into the centre of the frog, killing it.
"I saw your arm, you little shit!"
Kyle looked up quickly, eyes widened and heart racing, to see his Dad running for him as fast as the chubby little drunk man could.
"Phil!" Kyle's Mum shouted. "Phil! Please, don't be too harsh."
Kyle gritted his teeth when he heard her say this. Hadn't she learned the last time? Kyle had told her to let his Dad beat him, so that her beatings wouldn't be as bad, but here she was, trying to stop him again.
Phil eventually made it to Kyle, who knew better than to try and run away. Phil grabbed Kyle's wrist, squeezing it to the point where it was surprising it didn't break. He dragged the screaming and crying Kyle all the way back to their caravan, and threw him inside.
"Now." Phil bent down so he was eye-level with Kyle. "Are you gonna go out without me saying so again?"
Kyle, rubbing his wrist, whimpered. "No."
"No? No what?" He spat in Kyle's face, his alcoholic breath burning his nostrils.
"No, Sir."
"That's right." Phil stood slowly. "You still gotta be punished."
Kyle was beaten for about ten minutes straight, whilst his Mother screamed in the background, the dog barked loudly and blood splattered the ground around them. The blood came from various places: mouth, nose, arms - everywhere.

Later on in the same day, Phil went out to the nearest pub, using what little money his wife earned from her long night shifts at the petrol station nearby. Kyle could hardly walk, but he had to see what state his Mother was in. Even if she didn't care enough for him to be able to run away with him, he cared enough for her to want to comfort her.
"Mummy?" He dragged himself from his bed - made from an old blanket and a cushion for a pillow - in the little tent outside and limped into the main room of the caravan.
"Yeah, sweetie?" She jumped up, but he could see what she'd been doing. She'd been burning the dog with cigarettes again.
"I want to go." He looked her up and down, taking in all the fresh wounds.
"Go where, hun?" She pulled him into a hug.
"Away. Away from Phil."
"Hey!" She gave him a light tap on the arm, but to him it felt like another kick from his Father. "He's your Dad. Not Phil to you. Have some respect, kiddo. You have a tent over your head, don'cha? You wouldn't have that tent if it weren't for him. He's the best we're gonna get."
"No." Kyle tried to shove her away, but he was too weak. It hurt too much to move, anyway. "He doesn't do anything but steal your money, get drunk and hurt us. How can I see that and you can't? Why do you want him to hurt me?"
"I don-" she pushed him away suddenly. "Kyle. Kyle, get back to your tent, sweetie. He's coming back. I heard him coughing."

16 years old

Kyle had had enough. He couldn't take it anymore, and it was time. He no longer cared for what happened to his Mother; if she didn't care for him, why should he care for her? No. Now it was his time to get away. His time to have a life and stop hurting. Their dog had died 5 years ago - prematurely, due to the torture it received - so Kyle had nothing to stay for. Kyle sat up in his tent, containing the same blanket and cushion he'd used since he was sent to sleep in the tent when he was 6, and thought. He thought about how to leave so that his parents could never find him, but, most importantly, he thought about how he'd escape without getting caught in the first place. He checked the watch he'd bought using the money he earned from his secret job drug dealing for a guy he knew, and it was midnight. His Dad would be kicked out of the pub soon, and he would stagger home. Then, he'd maybe 'wake' Kyle for a drunken beating, beat his wife and then pass out on the floor. His Mother would struggle to lift him into bed so she wasn't beaten for leaving him on the floor, and Kyle decided that tonight he would help. He would help so that he could tell his Mother what he truly thought of her, before slipping away into the night. It didn't bother Kyle if his Mother followed him outside and saw him preparing to leave, as she wouldn't have the guts to stop him, and she wouldn't be able to wake Phil to help stop Kyle. Kyle packed his few things quite quickly - he decided to leave the moth-eaten blanket and cushion behind - and soon after heard his Father coming back. Kyle was happy when his Dad skipped the tent, going straight for his wife instead. No final beating that night, and he would be able to escape sooner. When Kyle heard the thud that signalled his Father's unconsciousness, Kyle waited a few minutes before entering the caravan.
"What're you doing up, hun?" She asked when she saw Kyle.
"I came to help you." He nodded towards the now snoring Phil, and grabbed underneath the arm his Mother wasn't holding onto. "And also to tell you what I think of you."
His Mother almost dropped Phil straight back onto the floor. "What's that?"
He could see the worry in her eyes...she knew. "How pathetic, weak and disgusting you are. You women..." He shook his head. "You women are awful. The scum of the Earth, you know that? You can't do anything for yourselves, and you crave the suffering of others. You wouldn't even help your own son escape the torture your boyfriend gave him."
"I'm sorry!" She began to sob. "I'm so, so sorry."
"No. You're not. Women don't know how to be sorry; you just pretend for your own benefit." He spat the words out, letting her know that he thought of her the way he would think about faecal matter on the bottom of his shoe.
"Kyle, hun-"
"No!" Kyle yelled. "No. Don't call me that. I hate you, Mother." He spat. "No. I don't hate you. I despise you. Even more than I hate him." He nodded his head towards Phil.
His Mother cried throughout the duration of time it took to lift Phil into bed, and Kyle left the caravan without saying a word. He threw his tattered backpack over his shoulder, and was about to leave, but he was stopped by his Mother's voice behind him.
"I won't stop you." She sobbed. "This is what you've always wanted. I should've listened.  But I'm too scared, Kyle."
Kyle didn't turn to face her, but he listened.
"So I won't stop you. I wish you the best, sweetie, and I just want you to know that I do love you, no matter what you may think or what you think of me. I always will."
Her voice cracked as she spoke, provoking a small half-smile to appear on Kyle's lips. He stayed still for only a moment, before walking away with a spring in his step whilst his Mother cried her heart out to the darkness.
"Cry some more, bitch." He muttered to himself. "I know it's not for me. It's 'cause you'll get beat worse when he finds out I'm gone."

27 years old

Kyle had established himself a great career over the past 8 years, and owned a famous, prosperous pharmaceuticals company: Grace Pharmaceuticals. Wanting a bigger home that was isolated in a more secluded area that would really show off his wealth, Kyle went house hunting. 3 months into hunting, he found Goldstein Manor, and immediately bought it. After moving in, his hate for women and his anger stemming from his childhood grew because of his loneliness and simply the horrible atmosphere in the mansion. Not even 3 months into living in his new home, Kyle Grace committed his first murder...and he loved it.

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