He woke up to the sound of his own scream. Dark hair stuck to his forehead; his hands sweaty and quivering. The nightmare still vividly played in his mind; replaying his drunken slurs, her lusty voice and her threats. A sense of terror seized his entire being, the mere thought of never escaping the vicious cycle made him want to tear his hair from their roots.
He was paralyzed in fear.
Abruptly the door was slammed open shaking the walls. A woman in her late forties stood in the frame, a hand covering her mouth as she studied the sight of the boy in front of her.
The boy who was crumpled in his blankets, tear mixed with sweat streaking down his face.
"Mom," his voice broke, hands wiping his face.
An ache spread across the woman. Her hands slowly dropped to her sides as a sense of helplessness took over. Something was amiss but she didn't know what. All she knew was that it had been happening for a while now.
Words failed her. What could she have said, that she hadn't already? Closing the door, she walked to the curly mopped boy. Her arms deftly wrapping around his back, holding him close to her.
"You shouldn't have come." He stated. He couldn't have let his Mother see him like this.
The words ingrained in him since childhood sprung upto him, boys don't cry.
Then what kind of boy am I? Self-doubt resonated throughout his entire being.
Miranda just shushed him, holding him closer.
"I love you."
He sobbed.
{WE ARE ON NUMBER 190 ON THE HOT LIST IN SHORT STORIES. WOHOOO.
THANKYOU GUYS}
YOU ARE READING
The Jock
Short StoryWhen the jock hooked up with the star dancer, he hated, the look of a classic cliché took a mask. Nobody could read between the lines. Nobody knew that not everything was the black and white as they had all so rigidly prejudiced.
