The Oak Tree And The Shotgun.

Chapter 1

Aaron's POV

I was an ordinary kid.

A kid who wrestled with their dad and ran around the house screaming "Hands up! FREEZE or I will shoot you!"

I would try my dad's business suits on; try my best to perfect a tie exactly like his, and put shaving cream on my face. I would sit in my dads car, admiring the new car smell imprinted on the leather seats even after years.

I would read with my mom, cook with her. She taught me manners, drilling me with the ideas gentleman.

I used to know the kind of person I wanted to be, where I'd go and how I'd get there. My dad's option on a pedal, the only thing that truly mattered. Disappointing him cut me, buried me alive and left me to bleed out. It would make me so ashamed; make me feel less of man. Made me feel childish and immature.

And then one day I came home from school and heard them yelling.

"You can't be fucking serious if you think I'm dumb enough to fall for your pathetic red lips, blushed cheeks and battered lashes! I am many things Rebecca but stupid is not one of them." That was my dad, drunk and pissed. Gripping tightly onto the body of his whiskey bottle, reminding me of giant hands strangling a tiny neck.

"Excuse me? Pathetic? You're the pathetic one, looking at woman's asses, being so charming all the time. If I weren't a housewife I'd be stupid enough to think that all your generosity would be going to some goddamn orphanage and not a fucking whore house!" My mother ran to my dad for god knows what reason, and he gave her a violent smack across her face just before I dropped my school bag loudly on the ground along with my jaw, watching in shock.

My mother looked at me apologetically. Her blue eyes with holding a flood of tears as her lips trembled in silence and my dad followed her gaze to meet mine in concern and confusion.

"Go upstairs boy." My mother whispered and plastered a smile on her face to reassure me that everything would be fine if I did as she told, so I slung my bag over my shoulder and rushed upstairs.

The last thing I heard was a bottle smashing against something and I threw my door closed. Leaning against it as my chest rose due to a tight lump stuck in my throat.

I never told anyone what happened that night. I thought that was a once off thing but.. little did 6 year old me know, it never stopped. The yelling and fighting became worse, happening more often. Each time louder and harsher. The longer it went on, the bigger the tention became, slowly making the walls of our house close in on us.

It was always money or cheating, anything giving them another reason to go at each other's throats. Sometimes it was little things like misplaced items or something that was forgotten about. Something like "who left the milk on the counter?" Or "Why is my door unlocked?" Things like false assumptions and blame and.. sometimes they were even about me. But after the first fallout my father never lifted his hand to my mother again.

Even though they saw that their behaviour affected me, they came up, in some fucked up way, that they just need to have a baby so they can love it, and see how much they love each other just to end their useless, violent, petty debates.

"It would make you feel less lonely." They told me. And after I turned 7 they "gifted" me with a little brother, thinking that he was some miracle baby that would solve everyone's problems but 2 or 3 months after his birth, everything circled back. Yelling and fighting while my brother and i were stuck in the middle of their war. A war were kitchen utensils became weapons. From there I knew things would never change. They would either never talk to each other, always fight, or somehow leave each other for good. And that was what they done. They left each other. For good.

Every single time they fought I ran out to our front yard, sat on our porch with my hands over my ears and my eyelids praying that they would stay shut.

I always thought I was alone but, I never was, because opposite my house -the less fortunate block on the other side of the road- was a freckled brunette with long wavy hair, bangs and sad electric blue eyes. Her fair skin looked as soft, smooth and pure as white rose petals. Her body the most fragile thing in the universe even though it wore too many bruises, cuts and marks to count. She looked broken, tormented and cold, but I swear if I stepped closer to the fencing around my premises I could feel the heat radiating off her reddened cheeks, which I assumed was because she had always been crying when she sat there. Barefoot, alone, hurt and scared. Silently calling and reaching out for help and peace.

I wanted to call out to her, ask for her name, comfort her, tell her she wasn't alone but.. I never did. I never could.

She only ever saw me cry once, that was the first time the yelling became worse. She almost always cried but the more we came out for our secret meeting; our counselling, -our therapy session- the less she cried. It was as if she ran out of tears, she just became too drained to accumulate enough salt and water for making tears. She was always too busy doing something else, thinking of something else maybe. Then we locked eyes for a moment and I saw in her eyes what I saw in mine everytime I looked into the mirror.

Surrender.