True Suffering

Chapter 1

        This chapter is highly emotional involving abuse and other highly contiversal situations. Reader discretion is highly advised. Please no hate comments I know somethings may be untasteful but it''s important for the story. If you have any contructive criticms of praise please comment.

        My name is Marcus; I was born on august 17, 1998. My mother never really told me anything about that day; she never really talked about anything from when my dad was around. I don’t really remember much about my childhood except for the screaming. Every day and night my drunken father would wander home from the bar ready to rip someone a new asshole. My loving mother would disappear every night to make sure she wasn’t the one getting the beating. I’d try to hide in different spots every night but it never helped, he would rip the entire house apart to find me. When he finally did find me I’d shut my eyes and sing a song.

                He’d get so mad when I hid; he’d make a mess and when he found me he’d scream and yell about how his house was never clean. The he didn’t work all day long just to come home and see a mess. He’d push me into the piles of random stuff he had thrown across the room. If I fell he’d kick me until I’d cry for mercy.

                Some nights he’d be so drunk he wouldn’t even be able to make coherent sentences. He’d just scream random word vomit at me and when I didn’t answer correctly he’d just hit me harder. Sometimes the easiest thing to do was to just hope you black out, he hated beating a limp person.

                Every morning my mother would be running around the house cleaning up the mess before my dad got up. I never knew where she went every night or when she got home but it was the same time every day. One time after my dad had gone to bed I limped out of bed and quietly went down stairs to wait for my mother. She had left that night at exactly 8:30pm like every day; she finally came home at 3:00am. The she saw I was on the coach and froze. She didn’t have the words to describe what she had seen. When I woke up in every morning my cuts had scabbed and my blood blisters had turned into bruises. That night she had to look at my blood soaked face and all the bloody marks where I had been hit so hard that every blood vessel had burst but the skin was never broken, those were the spots that would make the weird black bruises. She stammered and then broke down into tears. She couldn’t even look at me, she was ashamed of the mother she was. She took a towel and ran it under some cold water, as she tried to wash off the dried blood from under my eye she looked me in the eye and said “never again will you be alone my baby”. I smiled that night, she was actually going to stop the pain, she was going to be a mother.

                The next day I woke up and the house was clean like always, my lunch was on the counter and my dad’s coffee was made just like he liked it. She was outside gardening like every other day; she hated to be around him when he woke up with a hangover. He was never up before I had to leave so he never had to see my bruises while he was sober.

                School was always a battle. My teachers thought I was a horrible student who always got into fights; the students thought I was too violent. Even the freaks wouldn’t talk to me; I wasn’t weird enough for them. Every day I had to battle to make it through school. Kids should look forward to school not dread every moment of it. No five year old should have so many problems that not even the school councilor would deal with him. One time when I tried to tell the councilor about the abuse he took it serious. When the social service workers showed up my dad told them I was the local trouble maker and always picked fights. All my bruises and cuts were from other kids and that they should see the other kids, I was lucky the other parents didn’t press charges on me. I was five years old, that bastard. He beat me so bad that night that my mother called me in sick.