Midnight Thoughts

Chapter 2: More

I stood up and yanked the door open. Dragging myself through the hallway, I lurked in a pool of negative thoughts. I hobbled down the stairs in search for water. I haven't had a meal for a day now, after locking myself up in my room. I ran towards the kitchen and grabbed a jug of water.

Creak...

The sound of a door opening interrupted me. I hastily put down the jug and sneaked out of the room. Plop. My eyes widened. "Someone's coming down the stairs," I whispered to myself. I hid under a nearby table and peeked out. My heart started to beat faster and faster. I was ready to make a run for it. "Where is he?!" A voice boomed. Dad. "How am I supposed to know?!" Mom. I didn't wait for another second to pass. Run, you dimwit! Run!

"When did you come out, huh?"

Don't talk to her.

"Just now?"

Idiot! I told you to zip your mouth!

"Well well, you're one of a kind! Disrespectful bitch! Is this how you treat me? Us? Your fucking parents? Alfredo! Get me the cane. The thick one. The thickest of them all."

My heart froze. No. No. No. No. No. RUN! I instantly sprinted to my room and locked the door shut. I dragged my bed and positioned it right in front of the door. Sweat trickled down my cheeks; lungs gasping for air as I grabbed everything I could find and plopped it in front of the door. Jingles could be heard. Keys. No. There's absolutely no way they could touch me. Even just one finger. "Get out of there, chode!" My father screamed. Am I dead yet? I accepted defeat. He's loaded with muscles. There's no way I can stop him. I curled into a ball and started crying.

  I was anticipating his wonderful arrival. The bed started moving. So did the table lamp. And the four-thousand page encyclopedia. And the bookshelf. Light shined on me. A shadow was visible on the floor. I saw a long and thick stick. Cane. Another shadow appeared. Mom. My heart told me to fight back; my mind told me to accpet defeat. Either way, I would get hurt. I couldn't take this torture anymore.

  Sixteen years of living like this was too much. I've been bottling my feelings up and it was about time the bottle shattered. Crying wasn't enough. Cutting wasn't enough. Punching the wall wasn't either. I always thought of running away from home. Dad had lots of connections with gangs and spies. Surely they'd find me in a week. They're sprawled across the whole country it's hard to imagine life in paradise. Then there's this option of running to an orphanage. Then again, Dad. Every single option has this giant red cross with the word "Dad" stamped on it.

  I could go to a police station, but that also has "Dad". Bribery. Or, he could make up an excuse. "He's still under our custody and we have our own methods of disciplining our beloved son," usually accompanied with a warm smile that hides his true intentions. In short, Dad owns the country. Or the world. We might be rich, but without happiness our wealth is useless. "For your studies, Alexander! We do this for your studies!" Yeah. Sure. As I said, without happiness education buys nothing. They have to realize their method of "discipline" is archaic. Wait, should I call it discipline? More like torture. If it were to be called discipline, their methods are extremely archaic. If in their time, whipping belts was okay, in 2016, it's considered child abuse. Especially if you don't have a valid reason for hitting your child.

  Mom and Dad really know how to act. A few years back in elementary school, they beat me up. I had a huge bruise on my face and it was extremely visible. Of course, my teacher noticed and asked me what happened. I didn't get into a fight. I didn't want to tell my teacher about Mom and Dad. I just stood there without muttering a word. My teacher, Mrs Jones, called Mom up. "Oh no, it was an accident," and she continued to explain "how I fell down from my bicycle".

  I shivered in fear as my parents drew closer and closer. The cane started moving up. I anticipated The Hit. Any second now. There we go. I was hit on the back by my father. This time, I didn't cry. I just shivered and shook. I turned up to my dad. "Have you learnt your lesson yet?" Dad boomed.

  "How am I supposed to learn if you keep resorting to violence, huh?! Dad! Have you ever noticed that I've been staying the same? I haven't been shaken by your violence! Obviously, your archaic discipline didn't get me anywhere! And one more thing. What have I done wrong to deserve this? As far as I can remember, I have done nothing wrong. I don't need a lesson to be taught!"

  Dad stood there. He didn't utter a word. Happens every time. He never gets any sense into this head of his. Sometimes I wonder if he does this on purpose. If they do this for fun. If they love seeing me cry and sulk, only torturing me thereafter. I seriously need to knock some sense into them. But slowly, I'm giving up. For sixteen fucking years I've tried and out of these sixteen agonizing years, my efforts were in vain. "I'm willing to change if you teach me how!" Do they even mean it? I can see doubt in their faces. I can see discontent.

  Their voices speak to me. I know that somewhere in there; doubts and lies lurk. It's obvious. I know that they don't mean it. They love to lie. Make up stories to hide the truth. Like seriously, no one is dumb enough not to notice. Even if you haven't, surely you'd suspect something fishy from time to time. Their faces speak of something inexplicable. And I have yet to decipher the messsge. And by the way, this happens everyday. All I need is more torture. Yes. More. More. More. More. More. More. Till I die. More.