Brutally
Even from a young age, Sage knew something was wrong. You see, Sage was a very keen boy, because he listened to his mother's rambling on the nights she walks into his room. He's learned to listen, to be quiet and take in every single sound that comes out of his mother's mouth.
He was quite the mother's boy.
From day one, Mrs. Carrie always took comfort with her son, Sage Derrick Carrie, whom she often called by his full name just to hear it. On those nights, when Sage hears his full name, he knows it is his turn to sit and listen, but on the others he is more than happy to tell his mother everything that goes on in his life.
As a kid, it was always nonsense stuff, but as he got older, he became much more mature for his age. Mrs. Carrie saw this happening, but made no stop to change him. She was rather proud to see the caring and understanding man that was becoming of this boy.
Of course, a boy always wonders. Every child does.
One of the most often question he asked from age four to about age eight or nine was "Where is Dad all of the time?" for Sage hardly ever saw his dad. His mother did best to shield her one and only son from the man they lived with.
But, after her distant rambling, Sage asked a more interesting question after he turned ten.
"What is Dad like?"
You see, normally you'd think she reply with a very vague expression so her son wouldn't know that his father abused his mother, because with her actions, she took a great deal of care to make sure he didn't notice anything.
But, she didn't.
Nor did she tell him that his dad was an abusive monster.
No, Mrs. Carrie always told him something new about his father.
Some nights, it was that his father was a very handsome man. Or that he had the straightest nose she ever saw on anyone, not that she was particularly looking to compare.
Others it was that he was a very caring man, and very understanding, as well as humorous and thoughtful, everything her son was turning into.
You're probably confused. And I think I'm going to leave you like that for now.
Anyways, most nights, she answered with this:
"Your father, my dear little Sage, is a wonderful man. He is a very handsome, very honest man, and he is good for his work. He makes the sun seem to shine brighter, like the way you smile, and you have his eyes. Also his messy hair that I just can't ever straighten out." This is where she'd stare off into nowhere, and absentmindedly rub her stomach as she smiled softly. "You're father is a man I will never stop thinking about."
Of course, never knowing his father, Sage didn't know what else to do but to take her word for it. He didn't know that when his mother turned on music for him, calming and gentle piano; sometimes violin, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, music, that she was going to leave and close that door to meet a hand holding a bottle.
How was he supposed to know that anything and everything outside of his room was the definition of brutal, of broken, of anything but beautiful. To him, his world was his mother, and his mother was the show of perfection, of beauty, of being fine.
To Mrs. Carrie, it was painful to know that all the nights she sits outside of Sage's door, begging herself not to cry as she composed herself to enter the room the next morning, to make sure she kept him at peace and in the dark abyss of oblivion.
Truly brutal, isn't it?
