…
He closed his eyes. If they were closed, it wouldn't hurt. (He liked to tell himself things like that; even if they weren't true, they made him feel a little better.)
Right on cue, Dad's fist slammed into his side. This was followed up by a series of kicks, increasing in intensity as he dropped to the floor and covered his head. Dad was taunting him, screaming that a real man would put his head up and fight. That he was a coward and a disappointment. That no one could prove that they were related. (He knew better than to respond to any of it. There was a difference between being a moron and being stupid.)
Finally, the kicks stopped. He waited a few moments, and then looked up. Much to his surprise, his father was staring down at him. The man didn't even look angry anymore, just sort of sad and dazed.
"You look just like your mother," the man said. Instantly, he tensed. (Dad didn't like to talk about Mary. She was a whore, she had left Dad, she had left him.)
His father reached towards him and he closed his eyes, anticipating another beating. Instead, he was surprised to feel Dad's large, callused hands rubbing him. There was a strange look in the older man's eyes, and an even stranger smile on his face. Suddenly the boy felt cold. (This part was new, and new things tended to be bad.)
"You're very pretty, you know," Dad was saying. "So pretty, like a girl. Maybe you should have been one." Then he was reaching for the boy's shirt and he began to scream.
What's going on-why is he hurting me-please stop please
WHEET! WHEET!
…
Plas looked up, still bleary-eyed. Confused for a moment, he glanced around the small metal room atop the JLA Watchtower.
Oh right. A dream. That's all.
Then he realized that the sound he had heard was the Watchtower's alarm. He dragged himself out of bed and began to prepare himself for work.