POISE//AMBW

11.

The caramel skinned teen wiped off the blood after his punishment. It was torture, but they said that they were doing it for the better. The better of him changing. But why do I have to change, he'd ask, only resulting to get hit. Why were they doing this? He tried changing for the benefit of those that were around him, but it was always to no avail. He drew tiresome trying to accomplish something that could, obviously, not be conquered.

Thoughts of rebellion clouded his vision. Oh, how the images played before his eyes!---how black dissolved into nothing at all, it was all that he could ask for. It was all that he craved, to be able to take back what was snatched from him---to hear them scream and jostle around in the same agony that he had endured for such a longevity.

You are not good enough! Why is that? How many times to do we have to do this to you for you to learn? We don't want to hurt you, they whispered soothingly in his ear. And he believed it. They don't want to hurt me, I will change, he thought to himself. He was told to pick up the glass that was shattered on the floor. Slowly reaching down in affliction, he carefully picked up the pieces, stopping every so often to touch the open wounds on his back that oozed red juice. He cringed the way he usually does, and sniffled through his broken nose. Gathering the useless pieces, the rotten soon-to-be-man opened the cabinet.

His hands shook in an unnatural way as he held the bottle. He felt the growing fear in his heart, because he knew what he would feel next. Treacherous wailing enveloped the house, and he writhed, clutching the arm of the chair he sat on for comfort. You will be healed of your sins, they said. Soon, they said.

The blood that had left the protection of his body mixed in with the salty tears that flowed endlessly from his brown eyes. He pleaded and pleaded them to stop their wrongful ways and yet silence was given in return. His neck bent down in an unsightly manner for he was ashamed. He was ashamed of how people could rule his body, something that was his natural born right to control. He was ashamed at how he was always afraid to fight back. After all, he didn't want to hurt them; he would be hurting himself.

He would do anything to be rid of them. Often times, he would consult a teacher at school or an administrator, but they continued to talk down to him as well. He had no one. No one wanted to be around such a disgrace. No one wanted to be seen talking to him. He seemed to reek with this odor that told people to stay away; people were not friendly. But, that was his culture.

Gather your things and go upstairs, they said. He obeyed and went upstairs, silently and unhappy. Before he sat on his bed, tiredly, he took a look at his small reflection that was on his deep brown stained mirror. With what little image he could see, he stood there and gazed at the pitiful being in front of him.

He simply would not lay a hand on them. He couldn't; he was too afraid. They would always retaliate on even the littlest of things, so doing so would mean a stopping heart. As for now, his heart beated on. But, why didn't he feel alive?

Namjoon went inside the bathroom and spread out all the materials to fix his beaten face. He rummaged through the belongings angrily, never failing to mutter a few English curse words in between his native tongue. He would not hit her back; it wasn't right for him to do so when he could go about things differently. It just isn't right.

He had already put Hanuel to bed, shushing him while rocking him and promising that everything would be alright. Namjoon looked up before proceeding to stop the bleeding from his nose with a few cotton balls. He stopped, eyes widening like he saw a ghost.

That fire within the teenager drew up into smoke. The flames not firing up fiercely at all; he lost his chance. He has no hope, no dreams. He accepted his fate a long time ago. There is nothing he can do.

"There's nothing you can do." He nodded his head at their words. They got him just like they had so longedly wanted. There was nothing he could do.

The lights in the small bathroom shut completely off, surrounding Namjoon with no light.

"Fuck." He whispered, flicking the light switch up and down. The lights were cut off due to the bill not being paid. Anger continued to pour down on him, but he contained it all calmly. Namjoon had his hands in a ball and his shoulders hung low like the ocean with a low tide.

It was Amara's duty to pay the bill.

Namjoon began hyperventilating in rage. He wanted to hit something, to hit it hard, but he knew it was wrong. He'd wake up Hanuel with the loud explosion that he'd create. And he knew deep down that once he starts, he can't stop. Yet a little wire in his brain kept believing that he would be punished. The memory of having to get beaten triggered the noxious stimulus in his head and sent waves to his Gyrus Cinguli, inflicting pain in his demeanor.

Namjoon sighed, struggling to find the couch that seemed to hug him when he needed it most. He slid on the couch with ease and laid down. He felt his old scarring rub against his shirt. The pain would not cease which caused him to clutch his knees together. His mind reminded him of how he never told his wife that he suffered from Chronic Pain which was caused by his past.

He rocked and he rocked and he rocked and he rocked and he rocked and he rocked.

Until, finally, time seemed to stop.

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