Note: This is the first time I've written something like this, constructive criticism will be much appreciated :)
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Father…
The word makes my stomach turn. The very sight of that man makes my body shudder in disgust. I hate him. I hate him for what he did to me, for how he manipulated and tainted me. And I hate him for how he threatened to do the same to my brother if I did not comply.
"Daddy loves you."
I detest him.
"Daddy loves you so much!"
Liar!
"Let us play a game. You like games, do you not?"
No.
"You don't want to play? Would you like me to play with your brother instead?"
No!
The voice of my childhood still haunts me. "Denethor's Favorite Son", a title I have grown to loathe. Even now it sickens me.
My brother is fortunate. He was never the favorite, never given the 'love and attention' our father reserved especially for me. For that I envy my sibling.
My brother was innocent, five years my junior. He did not know the truth. He only knew that I was the favorite, that I got more of Daddy Dearest's affections. Affections he longed for. Naive little Faramir, striving for Denethor's approval. Foolish little Faramir! Lucky little Faramir…
I was only 8 years old when he first came to me. Silently he crept into the bedroom that my brother and I shared. He nudged me awake and whispered, "Wake up Boromir. Come outside, Daddy has a secret new game especially for you!"
What child could say no to a secret game? If only I had known…
A gag of cotton muffled my screams and sobs as pain ripped through my young body. Its torturous intensity unrivaled by anything else I had ever imagined.
"Daddy loves you so much Boromir. Don't you want daddy to feel good? Make me feel good, boy! You know how, spread your legs!"
Until my thirteenth year these 'games' continued in such a manner, with me being gagged and pushed face forward against any available surface. But they did not stop after that. They only changed slightly.
"Suck harder boy! Make sure your teeth do not injure me."
But my teeth did injure him on more than one occasion. And each time I was rewarded with a harsh blow dealt upon any available part of my body.
"You are useless Boromir! How many times do I have to teach you? Would you like me to teach Faramir instead?"
Faramir… I never wanted my brother to suffer the way I did. Never wanted him to own the title "Denethor's favorite son". So I complied. I did everything that man wanted me to, for the sake of my brother. Yes, for my brother's sake only…
Many-a-times I wanted to reveal my predicament, but I did not. To this day I do not know why. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was my lack of credibility. Or perhaps it was the fact that it had been going on for so long that I began to think it normal. Who knows really?
I hate him. I hate him, yet I never tried to stop him. I do not want to think about him yet I still do. And when I do, I begin to loathe myself.
"How could you? He is our father! Have you no morals?" Hysterically Faramir screamed as his strong hands grasped my shoulders and shook me with violent force. Tears of anger and disgust streamed down his youthful face as he stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief. I did not reply. Only silently I studied his features, taking in the depths of his teary blue eyes, his quivering pink lips, and his pale furrowed brows. He looked more and more like our mother every day. Mother… how I missed her. Wordlessly I raised my hand and caressed my brother's cheek to wipe his tears away. But he grew frustrated and released me with a jerk so he could rush to Denethor's side. Foolish boy.
I looked down at the dagger on the floor, the one I had been holding just moments ago. Some of the blood on it was beginning to dry. Then I looked over to the fresh orifice it had carved in the old man's side. Unfortunately gash would not stay for very long as my foolish brother had already summoned a team of healers who were frantically working to fix it.
"It is not too deep," one of the healers said, "only a flesh-wound. No vital organs have been damaged."
Relief was evident on Faramir's face as he clasped one of his father's hands in his own. Whether my brother was purposely ignoring me at that moment or he genuinely forgot my presence in the room, I did not know. I just walked out quietly, hoping no one would notice.
Denethor never came to me after that. I could only imagine what went through his mind whenever he saw me since. I stopped worrying about my brother's safety from then as well, for at 15 he was old and strong enough to defend himself from the old man. But what he could not defend himself from was the one question that plagued him. "You are a sensible man Boromir, you would not do such a thing without reason. Will you not tell me what it was?"
No.
For years Faramir asked me in vain. Finally he gave up, only to be satisfied with the statement "Be grateful you were not his favorite." Whether or not he figured out what I meant by that, I do not know. He never spoke on that again. But for his sake I hope he did not understand.
Denethor never spoke of it either. He began to pretend that it never happened. Yet my hatred for him still blazes. And though I do not want to think of him, I always do, resulting in the familiar inner burn of self-loathing. He may have left my body alone, but he still rapes my thoughts. He rapes them when I pleasure myself, to remind me of how he used to touch me and make me touch him. Images fill my mind of the times he took me outside and pinned me against the tree, or of the times he forced me into his bedchambers and locked the door behind us. And these thoughts plague me until I reach my climax.
I am still Denethor's favorite son.
______________________________________________________________________
Father…
The word makes my stomach turn. The very sight of that man makes my body shudder in disgust. I hate him. I hate him for what he did to me, for how he manipulated and tainted me. And I hate him for how he threatened to do the same to my brother if I did not comply.
"Daddy loves you."
I detest him.
"Daddy loves you so much!"
Liar!
"Let us play a game. You like games, do you not?"
No.
"You don't want to play? Would you like me to play with your brother instead?"
No!
The voice of my childhood still haunts me. "Denethor's Favorite Son", a title I have grown to loathe. Even now it sickens me.
My brother is fortunate. He was never the favorite, never given the 'love and attention' our father reserved especially for me. For that I envy my sibling.
My brother was innocent, five years my junior. He did not know the truth. He only knew that I was the favorite, that I got more of Daddy Dearest's affections. Affections he longed for. Naive little Faramir, striving for Denethor's approval. Foolish little Faramir! Lucky little Faramir…
I was only 8 years old when he first came to me. Silently he crept into the bedroom that my brother and I shared. He nudged me awake and whispered, "Wake up Boromir. Come outside, Daddy has a secret new game especially for you!"
What child could say no to a secret game? If only I had known…
A gag of cotton muffled my screams and sobs as pain ripped through my young body. Its torturous intensity unrivaled by anything else I had ever imagined.
"Daddy loves you so much Boromir. Don't you want daddy to feel good? Make me feel good, boy! You know how, spread your legs!"
Until my thirteenth year these 'games' continued in such a manner, with me being gagged and pushed face forward against any available surface. But they did not stop after that. They only changed slightly.
"Suck harder boy! Make sure your teeth do not injure me."
But my teeth did injure him on more than one occasion. And each time I was rewarded with a harsh blow dealt upon any available part of my body.
"You are useless Boromir! How many times do I have to teach you? Would you like me to teach Faramir instead?"
Faramir… I never wanted my brother to suffer the way I did. Never wanted him to own the title "Denethor's favorite son". So I complied. I did everything that man wanted me to, for the sake of my brother. Yes, for my brother's sake only…
Many-a-times I wanted to reveal my predicament, but I did not. To this day I do not know why. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was my lack of credibility. Or perhaps it was the fact that it had been going on for so long that I began to think it normal. Who knows really?
I hate him. I hate him, yet I never tried to stop him. I do not want to think about him yet I still do. And when I do, I begin to loathe myself.
"How could you? He is our father! Have you no morals?" Hysterically Faramir screamed as his strong hands grasped my shoulders and shook me with violent force. Tears of anger and disgust streamed down his youthful face as he stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief. I did not reply. Only silently I studied his features, taking in the depths of his teary blue eyes, his quivering pink lips, and his pale furrowed brows. He looked more and more like our mother every day. Mother… how I missed her. Wordlessly I raised my hand and caressed my brother's cheek to wipe his tears away. But he grew frustrated and released me with a jerk so he could rush to Denethor's side. Foolish boy.
I looked down at the dagger on the floor, the one I had been holding just moments ago. Some of the blood on it was beginning to dry. Then I looked over to the fresh orifice it had carved in the old man's side. Unfortunately gash would not stay for very long as my foolish brother had already summoned a team of healers who were frantically working to fix it.
"It is not too deep," one of the healers said, "only a flesh-wound. No vital organs have been damaged."
Relief was evident on Faramir's face as he clasped one of his father's hands in his own. Whether my brother was purposely ignoring me at that moment or he genuinely forgot my presence in the room, I did not know. I just walked out quietly, hoping no one would notice.
Denethor never came to me after that. I could only imagine what went through his mind whenever he saw me since. I stopped worrying about my brother's safety from then as well, for at 15 he was old and strong enough to defend himself from the old man. But what he could not defend himself from was the one question that plagued him. "You are a sensible man Boromir, you would not do such a thing without reason. Will you not tell me what it was?"
No.
For years Faramir asked me in vain. Finally he gave up, only to be satisfied with the statement "Be grateful you were not his favorite." Whether or not he figured out what I meant by that, I do not know. He never spoke on that again. But for his sake I hope he did not understand.
Denethor never spoke of it either. He began to pretend that it never happened. Yet my hatred for him still blazes. And though I do not want to think of him, I always do, resulting in the familiar inner burn of self-loathing. He may have left my body alone, but he still rapes my thoughts. He rapes them when I pleasure myself, to remind me of how he used to touch me and make me touch him. Images fill my mind of the times he took me outside and pinned me against the tree, or of the times he forced me into his bedchambers and locked the door behind us. And these thoughts plague me until I reach my climax.
I am still Denethor's favorite son.