LUNATICS || Gotham²

03 || Just One More Day

I remember the first time Robert laid a harsh hand on my brother.

I was five.

The details of what triggered it are hazy now, lost in the blur of years filled with constant outbursts. Maybe Edward didn't clean up a mess, some of which he had made himself. I don't really remember. It could've been something smaller than that. It could've been nothing. The truth is that it hardly mattered. By that point, it had become a custom to hit us, where reason became irrelevant.

What I do remember, crystal clear, is the look on Edward's face when it happened.

One moment, we were just there, and then I watched my eleven-year-old brother backhanded across the face. The sound of the slap echoed in the room, followed by a deafening silence. The feeling of my breath getting caught in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. Edward had staggered back, lifting his head slowly as if he couldn't process what had just happened. A crimson stream trickled from his nose, mixing with the tears that streamed down his face.

He didn't cry out. He didn't scream. Just silent tears, his body rigid in shock.

And then it happened again. Harder.

The sound of that second slap still rings in my ears, the brutal, unforgiving crack that turned my world upside down. Edward cried that time, his sobs breaking through the stuffy air. Instead of comfort, our father decided to scream at him, berating him for showing emotion. "Stop crying! Be a man!" he shouted, his voice dripping with contempt.

Robert just started shouting like a sick man possessed. The insults came sharp and cutting, like a dagger thrown with precision. He ignored my desperate pleas. I cried out, "Papa, why?" He didn't care that he was breaking my little heart, shattering all that made me feel safe.

His words kept coming; he said things no child should ever hear, and they sliced through my brother until there was nothing but a shattered boy standing trembling and helpless. His tears fell silently, shoulders hunched as if he was trying to make himself disappear, to become small enough, safe from my father's gaze.

And there I was, begging, sobbing, powerless.

Even now, I can hear every vicious word, echoing like a broken record that won't shut off. Writing brings back all the helplessness and the pain; it makes me churn and die a little inside.

When it was all said and done, Robert snapped at us and told us to leave him alone as if we had started all of this. I wanted to run to my brother, hold him, and comfort him, but he wouldn't let me. He was too hurt, too upset, too broken. He didn't talk to me at all that day.

I sat outside his door that evening, listening to the sound of him sobbing as quietly as possible. It still haunts me. It didn't matter how many times I knocked, I was either met with silence or his choked-up voice telling me to go away.

I didn't.

Sadly, that one slap turned into hundreds. What started with slaps escalated, turning into punches and other forms of violence. Words and actions. Emotional.

In public, Robert made sure to twist the narrative. He did everything he could to make us look like ungrateful children while he played the role of the humble parent. If we ever dared to correct him, he'd shoot a look that told us we would get it at home.

I'm sure Robert hated me most. Growing up, I was constantly reminded how much I resembled Lucielle. There was always something about my physicality or my attitude. Sometimes, I had her same eyes or her silhouette. Other times, her stubborn attitude. I hated it. It didn't matter what way he meant it; either way, it led to trouble.