Muted.

Chapter 1 Nathan

Dedicated to all the kids that think things but never say them, this book is for you, you're not alone and you're not the only one.

I received another black eye, but this time, it was on my right. My knuckles to both my fist were tinted red, my bloody nose staining my gray hoodie and I was angry. Using the tip of my thumb to wipe off the blood, but the more I wiped, the more it spilled. That only made me even angrier. He laid hands on my mother again, and me being the good son that I am, jumped right into the middle of it. He wasn't gonna get away with hitting my mother and without me socking him back. Which resulted in another physical fight. He pushed her, so I pushed him back. He punched me, and I punched back. He shoved me to the drywall, I beated him to the ground.

I placed my hood over my face so nobody could see me. Hands in my pockets as my curly blonde hair hanged over my face. My phone in my right pocket kept buzzing, I ignored it. I needed a peace of mind, although I probably shouldn't have walked out, God I'm so fucking pathetic. Shaking my head side to side in my own embarrassment as I let out a heavy sigh. Letting the bitter autumn wind brush against me. Not even my favorite hoodie was enough to protect me.

"Tch." I clicked my tongue in annoyance, and started running. I'm not sure from what, but, I kept on running until my pent up anger ran out of fuel, which was never.

But, in life, there will always come a time when we're forced to face with the things we're most afraid of. That you could run as fast and as far as you wanted to, but that you'll never run away from who you are and what you are. And that's fine. Just as long as you can get away from who you were, and in my case, who I was. Because when under the influence of anger, rage, or fear. We do things that hurt the people we love the most. Sometimes we use violence and aggression as our only option. It's another way of coping. Or maybe, you just don't even know your own strength.

            They say that  'with the healing of time, it'll get better, but that phrase makes me want to laugh more than anything. Because time only made things worse from here on out. If only life was as easy as getting fat. One great example of metamorphism would be my father. A monster. Living hell. And Satan himself. I'd light a match and burn every memory to the ground, but for some reason, these memories just won't burn down. Because when you burn something, it disappears with the rest of the remains of its leftover ashes. Crisp, grey, and forever to be forgotten. But what happens when you put out the fire with more gasoline? Funny isn't, how you're mind can recall the things you want to forget, but forget about the things you want to remember? Life is pretty funny.

            Crawling from the back of my mind, I was seven when my dad first laid hands on my mother. He boozed out on relief as the burning, alcoholic sensation trickled down the back of his throat. Taking one, last final gulp before he sat his second empty bottle of beer down. I was sitting on the couch as the TV was turned on, with Satan sitting on my right. I had my back slumped deep into the couch. All vulnerable and carefree with a stupid grin on my face, "Dinner is ready," was all it took as I was at the table in seconds. It was burger night, which we had every Friday. I was especially excited since mom promised to make my mac and cheese as well. My smile was so bright, I probably could've been able to light up the whole town.

            As I helped mom set the plates on the table, as well as all the needed silverware and cups, my father groaned in annoyance as he slowly made his way to the table before me and my mom could sit down and dig in. "This again," he sarcastically snorted as he looked up at my mom. She squinted her dark brown eyes in confusion as she answered back.

             "What do you mean—"

            "I mean, you cook the same shit every single time" he groaned as he gripped onto fork and tapped onto his plate in a impatient rhythm.

"You don't have to eat it then."

Growing more annoyed, he snapped as he grabbed the glass cup from the table and threw it at her, missing as she covered face with both of her arms.

            The whole cup shattered into smaller pieces from its original form. Kissing the kitchen floor and parts of the living room carpet as well. The carpet that mom just cleaned not too long ago was now dirty again with broken, sharp fragments. I was no longer smiling, and neither was mom.

            Midway into having my burger already into my mouth, I stopped chewing completely. The room was silenced with soft hushes, and shaky breathes. We were quiet for a split second, too scared to even make a sudden move at all. With my mom turning her attention towards my dad, she had that concerned look on her face as she always does. The one where she tilted her head to the side as she squints her eyes in confusion as if she was trying to puzzle something altogether.

Her eyes were watery as her chest puffed up and down frantically—"Richard, what the fuck is wrong with you. You didn't have to be so damn reckless—"

            "Oh shut up Lily. You're just a blood sucking whore who goes around behind my back while I pretended nothing was happening, least you could do is do a better job at cooking at the very least."

            Slap.

            An infuriated hand met my father's left cheek, enforcing him to turn his look of direction of the right. She wore a painted red face, and eyes that read with the word 'anger' with eyebrows that took a mold of a very scary expression. In conclusion in any state-of-matter-all moms are very scary. I looked at my mom and switched in between looking at my dad and back to my mom again. Not knowing what to do or even say, I sucked myself back into my chair out of the tension that has been created. Because I would've never been prepared for what was about to happen next.

            My dad must've been so angry because he got up from his chair and lunged at my mom as he pushed her up against the wall, followed by having a tight grip around  her throat. He had his other hand gripping the roots of her long, brunette hair. He was breathing heavily, pressing his weight onto her even more. He looked down on her with his icy, blue eyes in such rage, such hatred. He overtowered her like a mountain as if his "dominance" was his way of showing power. That whatever he says, goes.

            He gripped her throat even more as her body begin to quiver. With every second, his grip grew tighter, so did his rage. She winced as she could barely looked up directly into his eyes, his blonde hair waving in, with every last bit of strength she had left, she spat in his face and kneed him between the thighs. In hope that he'd let go and fought her way for a gasp of air. To which he did, throwing her in the process as he groaned in pain.

            But I just sat there and did nothing. My whole body was shaking as I balled both my hands into a fist, griping and holding them into place. A panic sensation began to surface, adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and so was rage. Yet, despite all that. Why couldn't I move? Why did I  just stand there like an idiot? Why couldn't my body move? As if my feet were glued to the floor like cement.

            I gritted my teeth as the only thing that filled the back of my mind was 'why'.

            If only would've moved my body and did something, I could've been able to protect her.

            Wet droplets formed around the corners of my eyes and rolled down quickly, trickling down my bright, pink cheeks. A sense of guilt and inflicting pain that'll soon turn into fiery rage and an emotional scar. Because my body couldn't stop shaking violently. What I didn't know, was that things would get worse from here on out, and that my father would any get more violent from there.

The place that I could feel safe, that I could once call my home—was only bleeding out of the heavenly foundation of safety and profound love. One thing I can say is that things would never and could never go back to the way they were.

            Because as I got older, both my parents started to undergo a sudden change, and so did I, if I wanted to survive that is. Sharpening my teeth. And turning my heart cold was the only way out. The only thing that was left were broken memories and broken trust.