Nathaniel

Chapter 5 [Edited]

Aidan
My head crunched against the desk as I stumbled and fell, hitting the wooden floor of my dads office. I could still feel the sharp needles on my shoulder where he'd shoved me over.
"Get up you worthless piece of shit. I barely touched you. You're so weak." My father spat.
This was nothing new. I was almost immune to the harsh words of my father now. He'd say the same thing on repeat like a broken record.

He thought I was weak.

I knew I was weak.

But there wasn't anything I could do about it. Getting punched in the gut was pain that was hard for anyone to take. Getting punched in the bruised gut, hurt even worse.
I don't think any pain compares- except maybe the pain of watching my mum leave me. I would never forget that pain.

I can understand why my mum fell for my father. He wasn't an ugly man. Even the constant abuse of alcohol did not make a dent on my fathers allure. He was young still, and was such a catch to the ladies. But none of them ever saw the repulsiveness of him that I saw.

I had barely entered the room when he attacked me. I could feel the bruises forming thick and fast as he kicked me, and black spots clouded my vision of the devil himself. My body was tired. I was tired. Just so tired...

Crap.

The impact of the sellotape dispenser hitting my leg snapped me out of my dying thoughts. The sharp metal had penetrated the skin of my thigh. I whimpered, my voice barley working due to the thriving ache in my body.
My father was raging.

"You've got school in an hour, haven't you?" I nodded, still sprawled out on the floor. I wasn't going to tell him it was the holidays. The hours where I left the house was bliss. "Get my breakfast and get dressed. I don't want to see your sorry ass until 7 tonight. You give me a fucking headache." As if to emphasise himself, my father slumped back down into his seat, rubbing his temples.

I felt his glare on the side of my face as I clutched my stomach. I wanted to throw up. I couldn't breathe.
"Are you trying to get yourself into more bother?"
I scrambled up and out the room despite the pain before my father decided he hadn't quite had enough of me.
That quick movement almost made me vomit and the room was spinning around me and it took a few moments with my head leant against the wall to gather myself and my surroundings.

Ignoring my own needs, I was quick to cook my dad's breakfast. I hated the smell of the eggs and my already queasy stomach did not thank me. I hurried over to the sink and vomited into the bowl, emptying the contents of my stomach.

God I need a break. This is torture.

The routine me and my father had was pretty regular. He'd have omelettes for breakfast most days- unless he specified otherwise- he'd fix his own lunch and I'd cook him dinner. I'm glad for this routine- I didn't have to try and read his mind everyday.
I would probably be dead if I did.

Placing the tray of omelettes and a coffee outside the office door, I knocked twice and left swiftly.
I had to move slow enough to protect my injuries but quick enough to avoid running into my dad again. It was a tricky balance, but one which I had mastered years ago.

I slammed my bedroom door shut behind me and locked it- not that the weak thing would do much. My father would find a way to breach my sanctuary. He always did.
I nearly fainted against the wood from the relief of making it to the safety of my room. I'd managed another morning without a second meeting with my father.
A mini victory.

I knew these wounds were far worse than usual. Obviously he hadn't had his fix last night. I sighed and started getting dressed, brushing over the deep, pin-like cuts on my thigh as lightly as possible.

I hated this.

I wanted to cry.

Fresh wounds were always the worst. Bruises I could deal with, cuts however hurt like hell and took weeks to heal and, often, left scars on my blemished skin. I didn't want a reminder of what that man does to me. I didn't need a reminder.

The refection in my half shattered mirror - broken since my father forced his way in and threw me against it in a fit of rage- did not shock me. I was expecting this.
My head was bleeding through my dirty blonde curls. I tried to wash the red out with a damp flannel but it made little difference.

School's gonna question that. They were all about student safety against bullying yet that was the furthest thing from my mind. They thought they were doing the right thing but the hand no idea. It was almost laughable.
I just had to hide everything from them for 3 more years.

Theres only 3 more years till I'm 18. 3 more years of this torture. Just 3 little years...