Can You Teach Me What Love Is?

Prologue:

Not quite sure about this yet but hope you enjoy :)

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Can You Teach Me What Love Is?

Prologue, back story:

     How would you feel if you lost your best and only friend to a scummy house and an abusive stepfather? Well, it seemed that was the very question I was asked the day my mother married an abusive, psychopathic monster. The day I told her, Wendy Stone, goodbye, waving the same thing as I rode away in a taxicab, a life of torment and misery had just begun.

     Scars and scratches wrapped randomly around each arm of mine. They were sore; they ached with pain from the four years of abuse. Why? Because I was forced to live with a crazed psycho, whom had no respect for human life; he thrived on torturing my mother and me, which, I never quite understood. Some days I wondered if the end were near, if he was actually going to kill me, which didn’t seem so bad after the things he had already done.

     Short chocolate brown hair that was a tad messy, green eyes filled with pain, and a face frozen in fear stared back at me in the mirror, hating himself and his life. He said these words to me, “I, Maxwell Alan am a chained, kidnapped victim of abuse with no escape.”

     He was me.

     I was a weakling, a baby cub whom loved his momma bear.

     After taking one last glance at the mirror, I looked out the window of the old house which I never really considered my real home, but indeed my real prison.

     I heard footsteps coming up the creaky steps. He was coming, he as in, the Devil himself, or so I thought of him that way.

     “Do you love your mother, Max?” He asked once entering the room, “Do you want to die?” It was strange, he never mentioned me, he usually only mentioned my mother. Obviously, I did love my mother, no doubt; if I hadn’t, the police would have already arrested the madman. I was asked the same thing every morning before school, if I were to ever tell anyone, mine and my mother’s life would end cruelly, he would make sure of it.

     Every morning seemed to start the same; every night seemed to end the same,

     Horrible.

     I always had to wear long sleeve clothing to hide the scars and fresh cuts, I made sure no one could know.

     I was but only ten; the horror had been going on since I was six, four full years of utter Hell and misery. I spent every day after school chained to a post to be beat and whipped on, but what was the reason? Though, compared to my mother, I had a much softer punishment, for whatever I did wrong. Unfortunately, at such a young age, I knew what he was doing to her.

     But one day, I found out the hard way how much my mother really loved me, since I had thought she didn’t love me at all because of things I was put through.

     She killed him, with his own gun, which was brave of her, but what I didn’t understand was…why she killed herself too.

     After that, I was forced to live with my aunt Jessie and Uncle Morgan, which wasn’t much better. A bully named Harry as a sibling, an aunt and uncle who were addicted to drugs, not much better, but it was better than being chained to a post every day to be made a punching-bag or cutting-board.

     Harry was part of the cool crowd, he, along with his “cool” friends, would bully me; high school was just a different side of Hell.

     “I miss you, Wendy Stone,” I said every morning into the mirror, wishing she were there.