BROKEN VOWS

Chapter Seven. (We could pretend...I guess?) part 3

Ben's POV.

As fate would have it, Father stopped asking Mum for cash as he had discovered another means of lining his pockets, rendering Mother's financial contributions unnecessary. This meant that after grocery shopping, Mother had only a few precious dollars left to spend on me, her beloved child - her precious baby.

Today was different, though. Today was my birthday, and Mother had lovingly prepared my favorite dish - spaghetti with meatballs. This was a rare treat, reserved for special occasions, and the savory aroma wafting from the kitchen had my stomach growling with anticipation. Little did I know, this birthday would be one I'd never forget.

Father had brought his "friends" home again, and I was summoned to indulge in their twisted games. By now, I'd resigned myself to my fate, my spirit crushed by the weight of Father's sadistic threats. He vowed to slaughter my mother, forcing me to witness her brutal demise, and then end my life as well. The terror of his words had suffocated my resistance, leaving me a shell of my former self.

I'd grown numb to the pain, my emotions cauterized by the repetitive abuse. I'd learned to disassociate, to escape into a world where the horrors unfolding around me weren't my reality. But today was different. Today, there were two of them, their lecherous eyes crawling over me like vermin.

What Father hadn't anticipated, however, was my mother's unexpected return home. The sound of the door opening, the rustle of her keys, and the soft murmur of her voice as she called out to me, "Benji, I'm home!" - it all seemed to unfold in slow motion, a sense of trepidation hanging in the air like a guillotine.

Mother had been secretly saving up for the perfect birthday gift, her eyes shining with excitement at the thought of granting my heart's desire - a brand-new bicycle. But instead, she walked through the door to a scene that shattered her world. Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the unspeakable acts being committed against her child.

Her screams pierced the air, a raw, anguished cry that shook the very foundations of our home. "How long?" she demanded, her voice cracking with rage and grief. "How long has this been going on behind my back?" The room seemed to tremble with her fury.

Father's response was brutal, his fists slamming into her, sending her crashing onto the table. The sound of her body hitting the wood was like a crack of thunder, a stark reminder of the evil that lurked within our own home.

I recall Mama's desperate plea for me to fetch help, her voice laced with urgency and fear. I grabbed my brand-new bicycle, its shiny surface now a blur, as I pedaled furiously toward the Smiths' household. My screams echoed through the streets, "Help! Help! Help!" a chilling refrain that seemed to freeze time itself.

Racing back with the Smiths mere minutes later, we were met with an inferno. My childhood home, once filled with laughter and warmth, was now a blazing pyre, its flames devouring every last secret. Four charred bodies were all that remained, their identities forever shrouded in mystery.

The cacophony of sirens, the strobe of police lights, and the acrid smell of smoke and ash overwhelmed my senses. Child welfare services and investigators swarmed the scene, their questions and concerns a jarring contrast to the numbness that had settled within me.

A month passed, and the truth remained locked behind my lips, unable to escape. The authorities ruled it an accident, a tragic confluence of circumstances. I was left alone, an orphan at twelve, with only my memories to cling to. My parents were laid to rest together, their secrets buried with them, leaving me to navigate a world forever changed.

Destined for the foster care system, my life was about to take another drastic turn. But fate intervened, and the Smiths, our longtime family friends, opened their hearts and homes to me. They became my guardians, raising me as one of their own.