Just A Smile

Chapter 4: A Closed Fist

Chapter Four: A closed fist

Quinton grew up in a household of pain. Afraid of his own shadows, Quinton learned to fear instead of trust, hate instead of love. He learned to cover his bruises in makeup a slightly darker shade to hide exactly where the bruise was located. He learned to wear long sleeves after multiple attempts at suicide. No pill bottle was child proof, no alcohol placed high enough.

His father was the wolf in sheep's clothing A demon behind fake smiles, who hunted under the cover of night. His mother was the angel, protecting him from all of his fears and keeping them locked away in a pirate chest; his fears were right beside past costumes and fake happiness forced out of him for show.

He knew that his mother would finally be happy where she is, looking down on him and seeing the freedom he finally felt. She'd be waiting to cast his father into forever damnation.

His father. The very thing to make Quinton fear most men, including himself. Long lists of past abuse, drowning in various alcoholic beverages and choking on pills too large for his throat.

His father was hell in a 6'3" frame, dressed in ragged jeans and stained t-shirts.

His mother was heaven in her small 5'2" stature, bathed in a crimson red so fiery hot it rivalled the very tongue she spat at his father when Quinton was in need. She may have worn the devil's colour, but she was meant to be the angel that saved him.

His father's beatings were nothing compared to the beatings his mother got for the longest time; that is, until something inside his father's raging mind broke in two. His father's beatings were hectic, and no long would he ever be able to cover the bruises with makeup because the bruises weren't outside but inside, a flurry of pain from that killed him forever and showed him just exactly what it was he feared every night walking on the street alone.

There was one night his mother caught his father. His father was finally deep enough to spread pain more than just Quinton's mind. Quinton was pinned, his cries muffled by the pillow and his heart in half.

He had never heard his mother scream like that. It was something he had heard in a horror movie, he was sure. The banshee sound split his mother's throat and his father was no longer on top of him but sprawled across the floor, blood seeping from a large gash on his forehead. The blood was as red as the lipstick his mother wore and with this side of her he believed it may have been his father's blood that made his mother's lips look like cherries and her smile look wild and carefree.

Quinton had just enough time to roll over and cover himself before his mother lifted the frying pan again and got ready to lunge. The beatings had finally taken its toll on her body, he noticed in that moment. The stress of having to protect both of them was finally wearing her down, finally tugging on her like the demons of hell trying to drag her down but she was wild in that moment and there was no way in hell she wouldn't go down without a fight!

Her skinny frame braced itself for his father's hit when the man got up and lunged at her. A commotion outside happened, the neighbours trying to see why his mother was screaming and why Quinton was crying and how all of the sudden a silver object in the shape of a handgun was brandished from his father's back pocket.

"You better watch boy," his father's haunting voice taunted. "You better watch how your mother dies. This is what happens to the people who don't keep their mouth shut!" Quinton screamed. His voice raised so loud it scratched at his throat and no longer could he cry but he wanted to throw himself at his father.

Me. Me. Me. Me. That was all he wanted. Don't kill my mother, he thought. Not my saviour. Not the woman who stopped you. Please, no.