My Little Neko Boy

Chapter III

Author's Note: This chapter will be of Castor's life and escape from Eldred. It is told from his point of view. There will be scenes of rape, violence, abuse, and what some may consider to be torture. If this is upsetting to read, feel free to skip this chapter. Chapter IV will see Aries pick up the narrative and give a basic, clean summation to make sure he understands, and also for those who skip this chapter will be caught up as well.

Being fifth born in the litter, I was called 5. I would be called 5 until I reached maturity at age 20 and in accordance to the laws and customs of Eldred would be able to choose a name for myself.  I was a happy little kitten, romping around with my brothers and sisters. Mother would stay home to care for us. Father would go out to work in the gragdonion mines to provide for us. He was always complaining about how much such a big litter cost to take care of, and how little he got paid. As there were no nearby relatives, nobody could care for us, and mother had to stay home.

To take his frustrations out on what he considered being trapped in a shitty life, he would be strict at home, and would beat us if things were not to his satisfaction. Sometimes, his hands would be enough. Other times, he'd use whatever was available as an improvised weapon.  I remember the first time he struck us.

He had come home, and as was usual, smelt intoxicated. The fumes of the spirits wafted off of him in waves that assaulted our sensitive noses and made us wrinkle our faces in disgust.

"Oh, you think you're better than me?  You're not!  I work hard all day and you make judgement of your father?"  He grabbed me roughly by the neck, I flinched. It was the wrong thing to do.

"It's a hard old world, and being a coward won't get you anywhere!  You need to toughen up!"  His right hand flew back, and sailed through the air and it connected with the left side of my face. My head rolled back. He slapped me multiple times, back and forth as if he was painting a house. Just back and SMACK!  Forth and SMACK!  My lips got smashed against my teeth, and began to bleed. My right eye began to swell shut. Finally, he dropped me, and kicked me in the gut for good measure. If I had had any breath at all, I would have been crying. Gasping, mewling like the kitten I was, I writhed at my father's feet.

He turned his attention to my littermates. Each of them were too small to fight back. He beat us all that night. It wasn't until he'd gotten to the end that he pulled off his belt.

"I want to be greeted like a father should be!  You all need to be standing respectfully when I come in!  Not in a pile on the floor! You useless waste of flesh!"

He took each of us over his knee in turn, and wailed on our exposed backsides with his belt. We were all crying in shock, pain, and shame. We couldn't sit for a week after that as we were too badly bruised. As young kittens, our bodies hadn't developed enough to heal our injuries, so they faded away slowly. Our butts and backs were purple and black, and soon they faded to yellow and then the bruises disappeared entirely.

It was the worse thing that had happened to me in my young life. In all our young lives. At night, when we slept together on a blanket, we huddled together for love and comfort. I didn't think that it could be worse. I was wrong.

Some months later, as usual, he was intoxicated. He came home, and sat down and asked for a drink. We scurried to fulfill his desire. But we were young and too hasty. My older brother, 2, tripped and dropped the glass he was carrying. This outraged father.

"You have any idea how hard I work, and my stupid, useless family wastes precious drink?  I never should have had you!"

The glass had rolled to a stop at his feet. He picked it up, and looked at me. I was closer, having been setting up the tray that his drink would rest on. I saw his eyes. They were incandescent with rage. Swinging his arm around, he smashed the side of my head with the glass. It didn't break. It wasn't until the fifth time that he hit me with it that it shattered. Bits of glass flew everywhere, and I could feel some embedded in my head. My father's hands were tough as stone, and he wasn't hurt.