JIMMY.
"You fucking brat!" A voice bellows as a glass landed on my already bleeding and battered head from where I sat on the ground. Both hands tried desperately to shield my face from any more bruises. They always look bad come morning. I wished my father would spare my face at least. "This is your fault, you know that?" The owner of the voice snarls and he lands a kick to the side of my stomach. Grunting I crunched lowly, my hands clasped around my burning ribs, my eyes stinging with unshed tears and I began to apologize.
I don't know why I always did that, but it happens every time the hitting gets too much... Just like now.
"I'm sorry, Daddy. I-" I started to say but another kick to the stomach cut me off.
"Don't you dare apologize! That's what happens when you get a little mouthy! You get punished, you fucking idiot!" And another kick to the face was followed by another. "Shut your fucking mouth, brat! That is all you are good at, cry and act as if you are the victim here, well you're not, you ungrateful little fool. I should have disposed of you the night your mother died!" My father shouted and punched me in the gut once again, causing me to choke on air and cough up blood.
I was wheezing now and I knew it would be painful later and I could feel my throat beginning to close up. But I refused to let go. This was my everyday life but I could never get used to it no matter how hard I tried. But, really, how does one get used to a life like this?
"Your mother never deserved death in the first place," The man said in an emotionless monotone, "You took her away from me!" And another blow came. "She loved me so much, but her love for you little brat blinded her!"
I cried in pain as I tried not to breathe too quickly but still felt like every hit delivered by my father hit me harder and harder. "-I told her it was a bad idea to have you but she wouldn't listen, I told her to get rid of you but she loved you so much and it killed her!" Another kick to the ribcage caused my body to spasm violently for only a second before settling back to a normal rate. My lungs burn, and blood drips onto the floor from my nose.
My heart pounds painfully against my chest. And another. And another. And another. Until there was no other way out but to shove my father as hard as I could muster and make a run for it. "You are worthless and you will die just like my wife did!" The man roared as I bolted from the hallway, stumbling into the kitchen where I caught sight of my stepmother mindlessly cooking away in there as if she didn't know what was going on in the house the past hour.
***
I didn't have time to stop, so I pushed the back door open and was immediately greeted by cold, pouring rain. The rain came down hard upon me, and the wind was blowing fiercely. I ran through the backyard, stumbling down the sidewalk while holding my stomach with both hands, trying my best to stay upright as pain stabbed my abdomen like swords piercing through my flesh. Raindrops fell heavily, covering me in heavy droplets, and my breath became short with the constant movement that had my stomach churning violently, but my legs carried me forward until I reached the main road. My feet found the pavement as my vision darkened and swayed slightly.
People were running down the street in the hope of finding shelter from the pouring rain. Those walking with their umbrellas passed me, casting weird and offensive glances as they walked by. Some even dared to mutter words of insults at me as I swayed past them. Name-calling, hateful glances, and shouts of disgust filled my ears, and I wanted nothing more than for them to leave me alone. They never understood me anyway, never cared, I thought bitterly as I passed them. My eyes wandered my surroundings, seeking a place to hide from the wicked storm and the many watchful, judging strangers.
Why should I care what they think? But I couldn't help these emotions striking every chord.
My thoughts continued racing. Would I be better off dead instead of alive? I hoped so; it would at least save me some suffering. I would end this torment sooner rather than later, and I just could not wait for my father's hand to reach around my neck in the darkness and squeeze tightly, not letting go until I had breathed my last. Then everything would end. And I would finally be free. The thought sent shivers down my spine, yet the cold night air was starting to make me feel uncomfortable with the lack of warmth in my body.
The water pouring down on me in rivulets was chilling, and I started shaking, hoping for something warm and comforting. A soft breeze brushed past me as I looked around and stopped at one building—an old brick house. Although dilapidated, it was the last place I could think of. My brain must have taken pity on me because as soon as I turned toward the entrance of the house, a faint light illuminated the front door, beckoning me. Looking around once more, there was no store, no shelter without people lounging underneath to protect themselves from the rain. Only the old brick house stood empty. Although there was no shield to hide under, I ran forward and sat at the foot of the door under the light bulb.
Leaning my back against the door, I let the water pour over me. Inhale the rain... Breathe the rain... Exhale it... Repeat. Until my breathing slowed down, and my vision became less blurry. People walked past me, some ignored me as always, while others stared and whispered rude comments. One or two people called me names like 'freak,' 'dunce,' and 'asshole'—I ignored them too. As long as they kept moving, I would be okay. They didn't understand anyway; they couldn't see the truth behind my blank face.
My lips pulled downwards, my expression almost bitter. Even my hair looked grey and dirty. I appeared old, tired, and broken, with dark circles beneath my red-rimmed eyes, a bruise forming on my jawline, a whiff of blood seeping from the corner of my mouth, and coughing harshly. Maybe I deserve to be seen as such. Maybe I deserved their hate. Maybe I deserved to die because that's what my father wanted. What my father has wanted since Mom died.
Why did she have to die? And why do I get the blame for her death? I was five years old?!
I sniffed and wiped a hand across my face, brushing tears away from my vision. I felt tired and miserable. I didn't want this anymore... The dark thoughts that threatened to engulf me were replaced by a loud crash, and I turned my gaze toward the window. Someone had smashed it with a stone, pieces of glass scattered about the ground, and in the center lay the stone. I took my gaze away from the glass to the other side of the road where three teenagers about my age were starting to run away. I knew they had thrown the stone, either trying to hit me or scare me away. I didn't care either way. All I wanted was a moment away from my father, a moment enough to catch my breath before I returned home because, in truth, I didn't have anywhere else to go.
My father made sure of that.
He also made sure to tell the whole school and anyone who showed even a little smile at me or got concerned for me that I was nothing but a liar, a filthy delinquent who thought I was something special, always causing trouble for attention. Nobody doubted him; instead, everyone saw me in that light, even at school. The teachers, upon seeing my bruises, immediately assumed I had gotten into a fight again, and this assumption spread. No one dared to speak a word to me to attempt to know the truth.
But how could one boy be so troubled?
How could one boy, thin, sick, malnourished, be so wickedly misunderstood?
Yet everyone seemed to agree with my father's version of me, and they all hated me. They despised me because I was a freak; they wanted to be rid of me just like my father did. I could see it in their eyes when I walked into class every morning and in the faces of the teachers when I requested an audience.
It baffles me how nobody could see the lies in my father's accusations, how easily they judged me and ignored me. I learned to keep silent, to not speak about it anymore. It was hard, but I eventually mastered the act, and now I didn't speak at all. There was no point to it. How do you speak when no one listens? How could you go ahead and speak when nobody believed you? How could you speak when even before a word left your mouth, you had been condemned a million times in their eyes, visible in their expressions? There was no point at all.
Shaking the soured thoughts from my mind, I noticed the rain had ceased completely, the sky had lost its threatening look, instead showing a clear night with stars shining brightly, though the moon was nowhere to be found amidst the thick black clouds. Now I could see clearly without having to cover my face, observing the streets in the distance.
Everything was wet; the asphalt glistened a dull grey, and the buildings in the distance seemed dimmer and older than ever before. It was like seeing a picture with a black background after being immersed in water. Nothing had changed; everything looked dull and lifeless. Then I turned my head toward the road that ran by my home, the road I would be taking in a short moment.
I watched intently, waiting for someone to come barreling down the road toward me, anyone, anything. My breathing started to become shallow, and my body began to shake uncontrollably. I stared down at my trembling, bruised hands, wondering just how badly battered I actually looked at that very moment. As I gazed intently at my hands, my focus shifted to a pair of sneakers that had suddenly appeared before my eyes.
Taking my eyes away from the ground, I began to trace those sneakers upward until my gaze landed on a young man standing before me. He wore a blue polo shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his defined forearms marked with detailed tattoos. He held a jacket in one hand while the other was lost in the pocket of his joggers. His brown hair was slightly tousled from running in such weather, and he wore a smile as he looked down at me.