MIRIFIC ... a.lightwood [2]

↣ Chapter Twenty Two ↣

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E M P T Y 

B E D 

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The storm howled in his ears, rain battering against the windows, the wind fighting the clouds in the sky. Lightning flashed across the darkened sky, lighting up the room in which the young Christopher Lahey was in. He was only nine, still considered a child. His hair was an awful mess of blonde curls and his pale skin was littered in terrible bruises.

Tears ran from his beautifully blue eyes, his angel face looking broken as he fought the will not to scream at the way his father's belt felt across his back. But by the seventh lash, he could not help himself and the wail left his mouth just as lightning cracked across the earth. His father, Isaiah, hated when he cried. He said that only weak boys cried. And so he dropped his belt, forcing the boy to face him.

Christopher cried harder. For nine whole years he had been raised without a other, and everyday his father reminded him why that was. Christopher had killed her, because his magic was too strong for her. He was a damn filthy warlock, and that was why he was being punished. It wasn't Christopher's fault that he was a warlock, but Isaiah Lahey did not see it that way. So he beat him until the boy could hardly walk.

Isaiah was shouting, but the blood that rang in Christopher's ears stopped him from fully comprehending his words. So he just allowed the beatings to continue. His skin was torn, and the blood trickled down his back, and from his mouth. His face throbbed, his arms ached, his legs screamed in pain. He wanted the pain to be over, he wanted his father to get distracted by one of the skinny maids so that he would stop the torture. But more than that, he wanted it all to stop. He was nine now, and he had suffered nine years of abuse, all because he was born.

He hated Isaiah Lahey, and that hatred consumed it. It made every muscle in his body screech with anger and frustration, and that seething turned to energy. He could not control his magic, he had not been taught how to, instead he had been forced to bottle his magic up inside and compress it until it hardly existed. Sometimes he forgot he was a warlock. But in that moment, when Isaiah was shouting at him, his voice shrill and his fists bloody, Christopher could only think of one thing.

He wanted Isaiah Lahey dead.

The magic - a very bright red, like the colour in all paintings of hell that Christopher had seen - erupted from his body like a flame. A flame that burned Isaiah Lahey to the core. The man fell to his knees, screeching in agony as the magic flew from Christopher's hands and consumed his body. Christopher hadn't noticed the way his eyes had turned a bright orange too, like there were actual flames in his soul.