Healing Harry's Heart

 Author's note

We are writing this story in hopes to  raise awarness, and support for people who have suffered, or are suffering from abuse. Keep strong guys! We would also like to bring attention to the increasing rates of homophobic violence in school systems. We feel it is unfair to persicute those who are homosexuals, simply because of their orientation. Please take this into consideration while reading our story

Healing Harry’s Heart

Chapter one

Harry’s POV

“Wake up boy! I have a job for you!” Uncle Vernon snarled at me through the door, “and get dressed. I’m renting you out.”

Harry’s eyes shot open. Renting him out? Again? He had been rented just last night!

“Who is it this time?” Harry asked, “You promised you wouldn’t do it this often!!!! I’m not going to cooperate!!!!”

“That’s okay,” smirked Vernon, “Most of them like it better that way.” I flinched, and backed into the corner of the room, even though Uncle Vernon wasn’t even near me. I was still sore from last night, and the feeling of it made me nauseous.

“No.” I protested, and I could feel the fury radiating off of  Vernon.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” he snarled.

“I-I mean I won’t do it.” I stuttered, “I won’t be used as your personal prostitute anymore!”

“Don’t you dare talk back to me! You will do what I tell you and that is the end of it!”

“No!” I whispered hoarsely, and I flinched backwards again as the door creaked open again, and a huge shadow was cast over me by Vernon’s looming form.

“Say it again,” he threatened.

“NO!” I yelled, “I won’t-“but a solid kick in the ribs kept me from complaining further. I reached out, intending to retaliate but Vernon’s fist connected with my face before I got the chance. I tried to scramble away from him, but he picked me up, and threw me on the bed, slamming my head against the wall, and cracking another rib. As I lay sobbing on the floor, I heard Vernon leave the room; going to get the whip.

    When Vernon re-entered the room, I let out another choked cry, and was reworded with the crack of a whip as it hit me across the face.

“Get on the bed you freak!!!” he growled at me, and I obeyed quickly, not wanting to make him any angrier than he was.

As I lay face down on the bed I felt him pull my shirt up and I prepared for the lashings I was sure to get, but they didn’t come. Instead I felt his chubby, awkward fingers, poking and prodding me back, tracing old scars, and pushing harshly against bruises. I started to cry again, but quickly stopped when his fist hit me across the back of the head. Dizzyingly, I rolled over onto my stomach, and put my hands over my face, in a last effort to protect myself, but I realized it was helpless when the whip cracked again, and hit me over and over, bombarding me with pain until I was a quivering mess of cuts.