The Elements of Rage | ✔

• T W E N T Y • S I X •

"Sticks and stones cannot break my bones, but the knife will cut deep enough."
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William's POV
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I clear my throat and tear my eyes from Rage, knowing that I won't be able to get this out of I had to look at her. Rage has already seen so much darkness, that I know. I don't want to make things worse or scare her with my darkness, but telling her my history will tell me if she loves me by her reaction.

And I can only hope she loves me as much as I foolishly and hopelessly love her.

"I have always been an only child," I begin, speaking as if reading a book, as if I am telling someone else's story. "My parents loved me very much. But they hated each other with a burning passion.

"But I can't complain too much; that passion kept them together long enough to have me," I add drily before continuing, "Their relationship was unhealthy, to say the least. I remember hiding under my bed, in my closet, in the laundry room—anywhere I could think of to hide from the noise. I could never escape it, the shouts, the sounds of glasses and dishes shattering as they were thrown at each other.

"One night, I didn't get the chance to escape the living room so I darted behind the couch as soon as the yelling began," I tell her, my throat growing thick with emotion.

"You filthy slut!" He would yell at her. "I work every fucking day to come home to this shitty dump and you have the nerve to accuse me of cheating?!"

"You greedy asshole," Mom would hiss back. "I might not work at a damn office, but being your wife certainly isn't easy! One of these days, you're going to come home, eat the food that I make you every damn night, and die. I won't want to put up with your shut any longer. It would be so easy to poison you."

Then Dad would roar at her, "Don't you dare forget that I have a gun in my safe! I could off you in an instant and claim it was a robber!"

Without even noticing it, I begin to absentmindedly rub the long scar that runs down my forearm. I push back the memories, just enough so that I can tell the tale.

"I had my hands clamped against my ears, but I could still hear it all. After a few minutes of shouting back and forth, my mother's favorite vase was thrown against the wall—the wall that I was pressed up against while I was smooshed between the couch and wall," I recall.

I'm not telling Rage this anymore; it's more of me getting it out of my head. Kinda like a visit to a shrink.

"Shards rained down on me and one dragged down my forearm, an inch away from my head. I was covered in little cuts, but blood started dripping from the open gash on my forearm. I didn't scream until the blood started to fill the open cut and pool and drop down my arm, then I started screaming and crying," I admit. "I was six then."

Rage opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off with my own words, wanting to finish before she started asking questions or freaking out or mocking me.

"That was when I realized just how serious it all was," I say softly. "I knew my parents didn't pay too much attention to me; they never noticed my powers of even suspected. I'm pretty sure it skipped a generation of something.

"I decided that night that I hated violence and would work for peace, for resolution in every situation, starting with my parents," I voice flatly. "I certainly failed. My parents threatened each other often, but, three months later, they finally made good on those threats. My mom poisoned my dad. His final act was to retrieve his gun and shoot her. His last words were, 'Die, you fucking bitch!'"