I'm warning you now guys, this is not a happy story, not in the slightest. It is extremely depressing and sad and twisted and totally fucked up. If you like that sort of thing, great. If you don't, I wouldn't read any further. To name but a few, this story contains warnings such as emotional, physical and psychological abuse on a minor, rape, racism, violence, mind-fuckery, general nastiness and no happy endings for not one of the characters involved.
That aside, enjoy :)
My name is Scorpius Malfoy and although mine is not an easy story to tell, I feel that in order to save myself and save the lives of others, I simply must tell it.
I put the plug in the bath and then turn the hot water tap on to start running it. There's a debate going on in my head whether I should add bubbles or not. Do I afford myself that luxury? Do I deserve that luxury? Probably not, but I add them anyway. My eyes wander to the dent in the wall. I made that dent. Well, my skull ricocheting off the wall made that dent, I should say. I suppose it would help if I started from the beginning…
Seven years ago, when I was five years old, my mother and father had an almighty row. The day had started off so well and I remember smiling and skipping down the road on that sunny afternoon, an ice cream in one hand and a bag of sweets in the other. My father and I had returned from a fete of some sort, that was being held in Hogsmeade. I wasn't normally allowed ice cream let alone sweets as well so naturally I was in my childish element. Looking back, even at five years old, I knew that there was something wrong with father that day. He didn't walk with his usual arrogance and his eyes seemed to dart about everywhere suspiciously. I knew better than to ask what was wrong with him. My father had never been afraid to strike me if I spoke out of line. And I suppose that by keeping quiet I was hoping to get more goodies from him. If only I'd spoken up, the day might have gone differently. My life might have gone differently…
So we returned home and my father sent me up to my room straight away. I hugged mother as I passed her and I remember she held me so tightly that I almost dropped my bag of sweets on the floor. Mother and I always hugged lots but never for this long and the hugs never seemed this desperate. A wave of icy terror ran all up and down my little body then and I remember feeling frightened of something I knew was coming, but of which I wasn't sure what. I complied with father's order but left my bedroom door open and stood at it, trying to listen through the open crack. There was suddenly shouting and screaming and crying and I was trembling so hard my knees were knocking together slightly. I didn't dare go downstairs so I just stood there, whispering to myself that everything was going to be alright. And then I grabbed my favourite teddy bear, Loran, and started reassuring him that everything was going to be alright too. The sounds got louder and I put Loran to bed, before getting in as well and pulling the covers right over our heads so we were plunged into black silence. I fell asleep then.
When I awoke I was hot and sweating. I pulled the covers back and looked out of the window. It was dark. I wasn't supposed to get out of bed if it was dark but it seemed a long time since I'd had those sweets so I shuffled my feet into my slippers and padded down the hallway to my parents room. I pushed the door open quietly and, after my eyes got adjusted to the dark, I saw my mothers sleeping form on her bed. She was asleep but there were tears drying on her face from when she'd been crying earlier. I wiped them away gently. She was freezing cold. She was lying on the duvet so I couldn't get it from under her without waking her up, so I got a blanket from the foot of the bed, lay down on it and pulled it over us, snuggling up to her to keep her warm. I forgot all about my hunger as I fell asleep once more…
The next few days were a blur. Mother was dead and I was being asked loads of questions by some big, important looking men who were making notes of everything I was saying. What time did I go into the room? What were your parents arguing about? Did daddy ever hit mummy? I didn't know anything and I was so scared and all I could manage in reply were choked sobs. If I'd gone into the room sooner maybe I could have warmed her up more? If I hadn't fallen to sleep in the first place I would have heard her come to bed and tried to comfort her. Father came home then and I ran straight into his arms as he picked me up and hugged me tightly. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he pulled me in closer and stroked my hair as I bawled and bawled.
I had never been to a funeral before but a week later I attended my first one. I don't think at five years old I should have. I will never forgot everyone dressed in black and crying, even the men, and I'd never seen a man cry before. I was holding grandfather's and grandmother's hands and they were crying too. Father wasn't allowed to come. I thought this was unfair, especially as he was so upset and couldn't stop crying either, but he waved me away with one hand and was clutching his bottle of brandy with another. Father drank brandy before, but only a little bit and always out of a glass. He said only tramps and low lives drank out of bottles and now he seemed to do nothing but that.
It was exactly ten days later that grandfather came round to see us. Grandpa (my mother's father) had already visited. I was glad to see grandpa and gave him a big hug. But when he was done he put me down and then punched my father right in the face. I screamed and began clawing at any part of grandpa's body I could and remember feeling so confused. You only hit the people you didn't like, and only if they hit you first. Father had never been anything but good to grandpa and at that moment I hated him. Father's nose was bleeding and after grandpa left I helped mop it up with some tissue as he looked around wildly for his brandy. So anyway, grandfather came round and after the business that had happened previously with grandpa I was extra glad to see him. Father wasn't. Upon seeing who it was he started shouting and pointing with his slurred speech and his staggering movements. Grandfather said he wasn't going to fund his vile lifestyle for not a second longer and that he was taking me to live with him and grandmother to live a normal life. But this was my normal life, it was all I had ever known and as grandfather took my hand I suddenly had this wave of hysteria fly over me. All I knew is that I loved my father and he loved me and I clung to his legs, begging him, begging anyone not to make me leave his side. I looked up at father and he had this weird, triumphant smirk on his face and even at five years old I wondered, just for a fleeting flash of a second, whether I was doing the right thing. But it disappeared as soon as it came and then grandfather told me that he loved me very much. He crouched down to hug me and I so wanted to hug him but I was scared it might be a trick and he would grab me as soon as I embraced him and run out of the house taking me away from my father forever so I didn't. It would be the last time that I ever saw him…
We moved out after that. We moved to a new place and father warned me that this was where muggles lived and I was not to do any sort of magic or talk about wizardry at all, or we would be run out of town or sent away and split up forever. This thought absolutely terrified me. Our old house was absolutely huge but this one was small, run down and dirty and I was itching from the moment I stepped in there. Father didn't seem to care though and pretty soon we had settled in and he started inviting friends around. They were always men, father didn't like any female friends, and he led them up to his room to play. I tried to follow once because I was bored and I wanted to play too. I used to have fun playing at school and sometimes inviting friends back afterwards or going to theirs, but I didn't see any of my old friends anymore and I didn't go to school anymore either. I didn't care what the game was, I just wanted to join in but when I pushed open the door I got the biggest shock of my life. They were naked. Both of them. I crept back downstairs and suddenly felt very sick and faint. I curled up on the sofa and shut my eyes, trying to ignore the noises from upstairs. They were having sex, I now know, but at the time I just thought it sounded wrong and at five years old, had no clue about anything sexual. By seven years old, however, I knew all the ins and outs, thanks to father's new boyfriend.
His name was Marcus Flint and I hated him from the moment he swaggered into the house. He was the biggest man I had ever seen in my life and he was so menacing. All the same I still had some manners so I held out my hand nervously and said I was pleased to meet him. He just laughed and then told me to fuck off. My mouth dropped open. He had swore. At me. I looked at father expecting him to tell him to leave but he just laughed and then Marcus grabbed at his shirt and gave him a sloppy, wet kiss, his tongue licking all over father's face and father had threw his head back and let him. I felt disgusted. He was yanking on father's hair so hard it looked like it would come out by its roots, but father seemed to love it. Maybe Marcus restrained from using all his strength on him. He certainly didn't with me, and I certainly didn't love it like father.
Marcus moved in pretty much straight away and immediately took over the whole house. He had this weird thing about everything being really clean which I remember thinking was odd, because he looked like he would go for days at a time without bathing. Even before he unpacked his things he ordered the whole house to be cleaned. Not by him, or father. Just me. So there I was, cleaning away, actually glad of the command at first because I was sick of living in dirt and squalor and my father didn't seem to care about that sort of stuff. He did when Marcus came though. He had to, because Marcus was bigger than him and I think he was as scared of him as I was. I had finished cleaning the kitchen and was starting on the living room when Marcus and father came downstairs. Marcus glared at me as he walked past. He was always glaring at me, except when he had that cruel grin on his face where his eyes glinted dangerously and I knew I was in for something twisted. He walked into the kitchen and then started bellowing.
"Get in here now you little fucker!"
I immediately did so, although I still threw a glance to my father, waiting for him to stick up for me even though I knew he wouldn't.
"What is it, dad?" Marcus made me call him dad from day one even though I hated it and in my mind, he was never dad, just Marcus.
"I told you to clean the fucking kitchen!"
"I have, dad!"
Marcus gave me a huge slap across the face that sent me sprawling into the corner of the kitchen. I remember having a red outline of that huge hand across my face for hours afterwards. It stung and was so sore that I burst into tears on contact. It seemed to infuriate Marcus even more and he kicked me, right in the ribs.
"Marcus!" It was father. He said it in the sort of tone that Marcus had just maybe teased me a little bit, or told me a scary ghost story that he shouldn't have, but it was the first time he'd remotely stuck up for me in any way and I was grateful. Marcus lunged over to father. He towered over him and I saw father swallow nervously.
"Get upstairs and wait for me, you," Marcus said with that cruel sneer on his face. Father just nodded and left. Left me alone with him. I got up, even though I was in agony, in case I had to run. Marcus turned back to me. "How's your mum, kid?" He said this in the most kindest of tones and for a moment I thought he was truly sorry for what he had just done. I would later learn that this was not the case; if anything, the kinder he seemed the more dangerous he became. I couldn't answer his question though, because my eyes started brimming up with tears again at the thought of the mother I had lost. Marcus stroked my hair affectionately. "Would you like to see her?"
I gulped and this was all it took to let the tears flow from my eyes. "I can't, dad."
"And why's that son?" he asked soothingly, still stroking my hair.
"S-She's d-dead," I managed to stammer. It makes me sick to think of how I leant into Marcus' touch then, grateful for the affection he was showing me. Nobody showed me affection anymore.
"You can still see her. There are ways around that," he said, and at that moment I knew. I just knew. And sensing this, the hand stroking my hair so softly suddenly was as tight as anything around my throat. He just kept squeezing and squeezing as my body thrashed this way and that uselessly. Using his almighty strength he actually lifted me off the ground, pinned to the wall by my throat as I struggled helplessly against his hold. I remember him laughing as casual as anything as white dots started to form in front of my eyes and I began to lose consciousness. Just as I thought I was going to pass out he released his hold causing me to drop to the floor. He left then, back to father, as I sobbed silent tears to myself wondering what I had done to make him hate me so much and why father didn't love me anymore.
This cycle of abuse continued for the next year. There was no let up, either. There wasn't, for example, weeks or days when I would be let off without some sort of battering or mistreatment going on. There were days that were better than others, but I'd never get through twenty four hours without being hit. By this point, father was almost always drunk. I thought that Marcus would get mad at father for being in this state but, as he cruelly whispered to me one morning at breakfast, my father was easier to control like this. In fact, Marcus used to order me to fetch father's brandy when he was so drunk he could hardly walk and made me lift the bottle to his lips and pour the liquid down his throat. Most times father welcomed it, but sometimes he would groan and turn his head away. So Marcus would stand behind him and hold his head in place with those strong hands of his, forcing his fingers down to father's mouth and holding it open and then made me pour it down, laughing as father choked and spluttered. I knew Marcus didn't love me but he seemed to love father so I couldn't understand in my eight year old mind why he would treat someone this way. This marked the start of the psychological abuse. It didn't, of course, mean that the physical abuse stopped, just that this was a new, unwelcome addition to the years that destroyed my life.
One day, I woke up to find Marcus in my room. Although up to this point he had a full reign of terror over the entire house, he had always left my room alone, leaving it to become my safe haven, my sanctuary from all the badness surrounding my every day life. But now he was here and he was standing over my bed, looking down at me and smiling. Then, without saying a word, he peeled back my bedcovers and undid the zip on his jeans. He freed his penis from his underwear and then let out a stream of urine all over my stomach and legs. I was in complete and utter shock and waves of humiliation were emitting from my body which I was sure he could taste and savour. When he was done, he shook the last couple of drops on me, stuffed his penis back in his underwear, did the zip up on his jeans and then hollered for father to come in. He did, after a while, stumbling and stinking of alcohol that I could smell even through the rancid stench of urine.
"Look what the dirty little cunt has done!" Marcus snarled. I remember him being so angry, so disgusted, that I wasn't sure whether he actually believed I had done it or whether it was just part of his act.
Father sighed. "Scorpius," he said wearily. "You should know better than this."
"Too fucking right he should," Marcus spat. "And I know just what to do to teach him a lesson." With that, he grabbed my arm and yanked me so hard out of bed that I stumbled into him. He gave an angry yell as my body soaked in his urine came into contact with his clothes. He pushed me onto the floor, giving me a slap across my head for good measure before stripping the bed of the urine-drenched sheets and started to wrap them across my body. I gave out little cries as I felt the cold dampness against my arms and head. Father just sighed and exited the room leaving me alone with him. Not content with what he had done, he then forced some of the sheet into my mouth. "You like pissing the bed so much? Maybe you won't after I feed it back to you the other end!" I was choking, both from the sheer force he was using to ram as much of the material in my mouth, as well as the acrid urine that came from him that I was being forced to taste. He continued to do this until my cheeks bulged obscenely with my once clean bed sheets. He laughed then, pleased with his handiwork, and with a final push that made my head bounce off the floor painfully, said, "See if you piss the bed again now you dirty little bastard." I was so scared of it happening again that sometimes I did accidentally wet the bed out of sheer fear. It didn't help that Marcus sometimes gave me cup after cup of water right before bed and refused to let me go to the toilet. And if that didn't work, he would wake before father arose from one of his drunken slumbers, come into my room and repeat the process all over again.
Father used to have these little glass ornaments. They were extremely valuable, and gifts from grandfather when father was growing up. Though he didn't speak about him at all, I knew father missed grandfather in his own weird way, and I missed him terribly too. It had been ages since I saw any of my family, it had been ages since I had seen anyone outside the house full stop. Whenever Marcus would go out, to get food or go about some business, he would ply father with so much alcohol he would vomit and promptly pass out, and then he would tie me up in my room and put a gag on my mouth so I couldn't shout out for help. So father had these glass ornaments that stood proudly on the shelf in the living room and he would look at them for hours sometimes and I would see longing in his eyes of the life he had lost. I could sense Marcus getting more and more agitated each time he did it. One day, I came down from my room to find all but one of them smashed to bits on the floor with Marcus standing over them with the biggest smile on his face ever. And at that moment I wanted to kill him. I knew father would be heartbroken at the sight of his precious ornaments destroyed, the last link to his former life broken, and even at eight years old and being for the most part a good-hearted kid, I wanted to kill him and make him suffer. Marcus then tipped the last statue onto the floor and stamped his heavy boot down onto it as hard as he could. The shattering sound it made was sickening. And then Marcus stomped over to me and grabbed me by the ear, twisting it up painfully so I had to stand on my tiptoes in case he ripped it completely off.
"You'll tell him you did it, you hear?" he hissed spitefully. I let out a cry of anguish, from the sheer force he was holding me by, but I guess that he thought it was a sound of protest because he grabbed it even harder. "You'll tell him you did or I will break every single bone in your fucking worthless ugly body, understand?" I knew he would and had to nod and say yes.
Father howled when he saw the sight and Marcus held him in a protective hug, stroking the back of his hair and murmuring that he'll buy him some more ornaments, ornaments they could own together and be proud of, 'without that little brat there to ruin them.' At this (and he probably said it on purpose to remind father who had broke them) father released himself from the embrace, ran over to me, pulled my trousers and underwear down, right in front of a leering Marcus, and proceeded to slap my bottom over and over again, using the full force of his hand. I screamed and cried and he just did it even more, trying to make me hurt as much as he was hurting. The next day he apologised wholeheartedly and said that he loved me but he couldn't let me get away with doing something so horrible. I cried my eyes out for hours at the injustice of it all.
Another one of his favourite things to do was mess with was my food. I did most of the cooking in the house. Father simply wasn't up to it and Marcus didn't know how. Looking back I'm not sure how I made most of the meals I did, they weren't simple meals, they were quite complicated, especially for an eight year old, but I knew that if I didn't there'd be trouble. So I would spend a couple of hours cooking for us all and then just before I served them on the table, he would take my plate and scrape the contents into the bin and then force me to tell my father that I wasn't hungry. Or worse, scrape the contents of mine onto his so I would be forced to sit at the table, starving hungry, while he smiled and winked at me after consuming mouthful after mouthful of double helpings. Or he would stand over my plate in the kitchen and then spit in it, holding one of his nostrils and blowing, so disgusting snot would land in my food. Or he'd cough up a big wad of phlegm and spit it into it, force me to mix it into my dinner and would then watch me eat every little bit, smirking to himself. I could never leave it or I'd be beaten, and, as disgusting as it sounds, there were so many periods I would go without food that I needed the substance and if that meant swallowing something that came from Marcus, then so be it.
It was just before my tenth birthday that we started getting a visitor around the house. I was never allowed to answer the front door, or even look outside the window to see who it was, so when Marcus would shut the door and then start kicking off about 'that interfering old black bitch' I never knew who he was talking about. All I knew was that after each visit, he would lay into me with a ferocity he never had done before, so I started to resent 'that interfering old bitch' too (though I was never and have never been racist, like Marcus) even if she remained a mystery to me. The visits became more frequent and Marcus always made sure father and I were upstairs and out of the way when they occurred - father passed out and me tied up as usual. Then, one day, while I was in the kitchen washing up, Marcus sidled over to me, opened one of the draws and pulled out a huge, sharp, gleaming knife. I have never felt so much terror as I did in that moment. His face was the epitome of fury and I thought he was going to kill me.
"I could so easily slash this knife across your dads throat," he said, so casually as if we were talking about something mundane like the weather. He looked at me and grinned. It was scary how his face could change so easily. To an outsider, they probably would never have known that he was a monster inside. "I could take this blade and I could slit his throat and he would be gasping for his last breath of air, knowing it would never come, and then I could plunge it into his stomach so hard all his insides would fall out. It would be bloody and gruesome and he would die in the most painful way and it would be all your fault." I let out a sob despite myself. I knew Marcus was just trying to scare me, but the thought of losing my second and last parent, for something I did again, was too much to take. And the image that Marcus had conjured up in my mind still won't leave my memories, even to this day. "We're having a visitor soon," Marcus said thoughtfully, examining the knife, turning it this way and that. "And maybe I could spare your dad if you wised up and didn't say anything to them." He locked eyes with mine again and glared. "Because if you don't, I will kill him and then you'll be left alone with me forever without anyone to protect you." I knew there was nobody here to protect me now, but all the same the thought of Marcus killing father and leaving me alone with him was too much to bare.
"I won't say anything," I pleaded. Marcus grinned.
"I know you won't."
The visit took place a week later. Marcus had gone out the day before they had arrived and bought me loads of presents, all wrapped up in shiny gleaming wrapping paper. I actually shivered with delight. Not since moving out of the old house had I received any presents; my birthday wasn't even acknowledged anymore. I don't think father remembered when it was and Marcus had previously said, "Why the fuck would anyone celebrate the birth of a cunt like you?" But the presents were here this year and although I knew it was only for the visitors benefit, I was utterly grateful. I'd been prepped by Marcus on what and what not to say, how I was to act and how I was to come across. He reminded me of this whilst holding a knife. Father was downstairs at that moment so he was just holding it and pretending to chop something up, but he would look meaningfully at father whenever his back was turned and I wholeheartedly agreed that I would do anything he asked of me.
I finally got to meet 'the interfering old bitch' on a Saturday and she was actually rather nice. She asked me loads of questions and I answered them and she said I was a very polite little boy and my father should be proud of me. Marcus grinned at this and pulled me closer to him, wrapping his huge arm around my bony shoulder in a protective hug that couldn't have looked more genuine. My real father was upstairs, of course, but she wasn't to know that. She asked me if I was looking forward to my birthday tomorrow and I nodded vigorously. Then she turned to Marcus and started talking about this and that, until my ears pricked up when I heard the word school. I hadn't been to school since I was five and I was slowly going insane from the lack of contact with anyone. But I didn't get my hopes up. There was no way Marcus would ever allow me to go to school. But then I saw him nodding, heard him agreeing for an initial trial run and all of a sudden, just like that, I was told that I would be shown around the school on Monday, and, if it all went well, would start on Wednesday. I wanted to scream and shout and jump up and down with excitement. She left then and Marcus sneered and said, "Well fucker, thanks to that nigger bitch it looks like you're going to be starting school soon."
With that, he stomped upstairs before coming back down with my childhood teddy, Loran, in hand. It was stupid, but because there was nobody else around, I still talked to him as though he were real and we were friends. I got a feeling of dread in my gut when I saw Marcus holding him. "You think you're smart then, eh?" he snarled. "Think because you get to go to school you'll suddenly be better than me?" With one movement he ripped Loran's head clean off. I actually almost gasped but sucked my breath back in sharply, careful not to aggravate him. "That's what I'll do to your dad if you tell anyone what goes on in this house, you got it?" I nodded. "You don't think I can do it?" he pressed. "Shall we go and see?" He turned on his heel and made his way up the stairs. I started screaming and begging him to come back and even grabbed at his arm to try and pull him back, which was a huge mistake. He grabbed my entire face in one of his meaty hands and squeezed it really hard, twisting it around and contorting my features and digging his fingernails painfully into my skin. "Don't you ever touch me," he spat, but it seemed to have worked, because he flopped down onto the settee and ordered me to fetch him a beer, which I did.
My birthday rolled around the next day and I couldn't help feel crushing disappointment as I opened each box to find it empty as Marcus laughed and laughed.
I loved school more than anything. True to his word, Marcus dropped me there on Monday and I had the chance to look around and see my potential new classmates. I was to be placed in Mrs. Asher's class, who I thought was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, apart from my mother, of course. She introduced me to everyone and everyone seemed so friendly and nice that I was a bit wary at first, thinking that the moment her back was turned, they would turn into monsters like Marcus. But when we reached playtime and Mrs. Asher wasn't around, they were still as nice as anything and I began to relax and even enjoyed myself. We had lessons, of course, but even these were delightful to me; I'd not attended school for five years and welcomed the learning and discovering of new things. I couldn't help feeling a little sad and embarrassed that I was a lot less clever than the others but Mrs. Asher put a kindly arm around me and said not to worry, and that I'd soon catch up. Unfortunately she repeated this to a concerned-looking Marcus who let me have it when we got back in the house.
"Thick as fucking pig shit, you are!" He laughed. "Stupid cunt. That'll teach you for getting ideas above your station, won't it!" He took out a huge needle and my eyes widened. Seeing this, he started jabbing it at me, only missing my skin by inches as I darted this way and that. But he left me alone then and took it upstairs to father who was becoming more glazed over by the day. In fact, whereas Marcus hadn't done nearly half the terrible things he did when father wasn't usually there, he was so out of it nowadays that he could be sitting there and not even notice his own surroundings. He returned back downstairs without the needle and stared at me disdainfully. I lowered my gaze because I didn't want to be punished for defiance but he still came up and pushed me hard against the wall.
"I used to go to school with your dad." I had no idea of this and looked up in surprise but he grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked it so hard some of it was pulled out by the roots and he forced my mouth open and shoved the few strands down my throat. "Swallow it," he ordered, and I started to, knowing I didn't have a choice. "Your dad was proper scared of me," he continued. "Everyone was. I was a bully and bullies always get what they want, especially from little loser shits like you. Why do you think I can get your dad to do what I want? Why do you think I can get away with hurting you?" My mind was racing a million miles an hour and inside I was screaming. I scrunched my eyes tightly, willing the rush of blood in my ears to go away while trying my best to swallow down my hair. "This school of yours is exactly the same, you know. There'll be millions of people like me there. Bet you thought you were clever, getting an escape from here, didn't you? Well you're wrong. They'll torture you all day and when you get back home I'll torture you all night. You're going to wish you'd never been accepted to go." It was quiet for a moment and then Marcus ordered me to look at him. When I opened my eyes, I got the shock of my life. Marcus had his penis out. I'd seen it before, mostly in the mornings when he urinated on my bed, but now it was much, much bigger and he was stroking it and it was almost touching me. I had to physically stop myself from retching at the disgusting sight.
"Touch it." The command was authoritative and even though I knew I'd be punished I couldn't bring myself to do it. Marcus flipped out then. He grabbed another fistful of my hair and dragged me across the room. I tried to keep up at first but he was going so fast I stumbled and was then on my knees, holding onto the wrist he had his hand on my hair with, just so he wouldn't rip any more of it out. He led me over to the radiator that was on full heat, grabbed my wrist, and shoved it so my hand was against the radiator. It was white hot and I screamed out in pain and tried to get it off, but of course I was no match against his strength. After the first couple of seconds I actually thought I was going to pass out from the sheer pain. My hand tingled and tried to curl up of it's own accord, had Marcus not been holding it there. Just when I thought I was going to vomit, Marcus released my hand and I bought it back into my body, curling it up into a ball while sobbing a mixture of disgusted gratitude. He didn't tell me to touch his penis again that day, but the next day he ordered me to do it again and, remembering the pain of before, I had to comply. It seemed to excite him and his thing bobbed up and down obscenely. I felt sick to my stomach. His face scrunched up all tight and his mouth dropped open and he started panting as he stroked his thing up and down and he looked so vulnerable at that moment, I had vision after vision of killing him so father and I could be free. Then his semen (which at the time I thought was some sort of thick white urine that only monsters like him could produce) spurted out of the end of it and onto my brand new school jumper, which I hadn't taken off from yesterday because it was the newest piece of clothing I'd had in a long time and I loved it. I almost let out a small cry as I saw the disgusting mess spurt onto it, ruining my favourite thing as Marcus laughed. All the same, he allowed me to wash it that night, ready for my first real day of school in the morning. After that, he would start masturbating and marking his semen pretty much anywhere. On my clothes, in my hair, in my food, my bed, my baths… one particularly disgusting thing he would do is masturbate and mark his semen onto my face which I then had to rub into my skin. This was only on the weekends, when I had no school, and the utmost shame of having to wear it like a mask, even when it was flaky and started crumbling was the most demeaning. Of course, once he knew I absolutely detested this, he started doing it every weekend. I had learned throughout the years that the best way to keep him from doing the most disgusting things was to act calm, act like it didn't bother me, but whenever he came onto my face and made me rub it in was too vile for me to act like it was nothing.
All the same, nothing could keep me from enjoying school. And Marcus hadn't been right at all, there was nothing of the sort going on there what went on at home. For the most part everyone was nice. Even the ones that weren't were nowhere near as bad as Marcus. One boy, James Sanderson, pushed me over in the playground one time while his cronies laughed. Something inside of me snapped and I picked myself up, dusted off my trousers, marched straight up to him and punched him in the face as hard as I could. I felt his nose break under my fist but all I could see was Marcus' leering face and I couldn't stop. Punch after punch after punch until finally I stopped, breathing heavily, and suddenly realised the extent of the damage I had done. I was absolutely horrified. And so was Mrs. Asher. That was the worst part; disappointing Mrs. Asher and when I got called into a meeting with her, Marcus and the headteacher, Mr. Johnstone and I saw the crushed expression on her face, I wanted to cry. And so ended my short time at school. Marcus crowed all the way back home and when the door was locked he really let me have it.
"So you want to fight, do you?" he taunted, after he had delivered father his usual needle. "Well fucking fight me, tough man." He told me to take off my shirt, which I did, while he undid his belt. Then he rained down on my naked back with blow after blow, making sure the buckle hit my vulnerable body each time causing me to howl in pain. Then he held it into a loop and pulled it over my neck, making it tighter and tighter until I couldn't breathe and I could feel my face start to go red and hot and tingle with lack of oxygen. "This is how you're going to die," Marcus whispered. "I'm going to string you up and leave you choking to death. Imagine your dad coming down and seeing you like that. He'd be so upset. I'd be all he has left. Then he'd be in real big trouble, wouldn't he? Don't you want to be around to protect him from me?" I mustered up every last bit of strength I had to nod a couple of times and Marcus grinned triumphantly before removing the belt and I took in grateful gasps of air.
About a year later, I came downstairs from my room to find father and Marcus in the kitchen. Father's eyes were still glazed over, but they were a bit brighter than usual and when he heard me come downstairs and called me in, my heart sinking, he actually realised and acknowledged I was there and smiled at me. Marcus was pacing up and down the kitchen looking absolutely livid.
"This came for you today, Scorpius," father said and handed me a letter. Marcus looked like he was ready to commit a murder. Mine. I took it from him with a shaking hand and started to read. To this day I still remember what that letter said off by heart. It was my one chance at freedom, my one chance of escape and starting a new life away from all this badness at home. It was a letter of invitation to join Hogwarts school of Wizardry for the upcoming term. What's more, it was a boarding school. A real safe haven away from this hellhole of a prison. I hadn't practiced magic for all this time, not one person in the household had, but now I had visions of what I'd be able to do with it. Perform curses on Marcus, disgusting curses that made his penis fall off and mind controlling curses that made him punch himself as hard as he could and bed wetting curses so father would get angry and roll him up in the soaking sheets. But there was one problem.
"He ain't going." Marcus' voice was firm.
"Don't be stupid, Marcus, of course he's going," said father. I screamed as Marcus strode over to father in three huge footsteps, grabbed him by the shirt front and shoved him against the wall. He drew his fist back and punched him right in the face, then once again in the ribs. Father groaned heavily, nose bleeding profusely from Marcus' strong fist and then tried to cover himself helplessly as Marcus kicked and punched every square inch of his body, moving father's hands out of the way when father tried to block his face with them so he could hit him there over and over again. After what seemed a lifetime of punishment which I had to sickeningly endure, Marcus let up and spat on him. "Don't fucking call me stupid again, you hear?" He turned to me, eyes flashing furiously.
"It's your decision, Scorpius," said Marcus. "You gonna go to this school or are you gonna leave us here together?" And the decision was made. Because no matter how badly I wanted to go I loved my father and I couldn't leave him alone with this monster. Not now, not ever.
"No dad," I replied quietly. "I want to stay here with you."
Marcus nodded at father and then handed me the letter. "So rip it up then and we can forget this ever happened." I complied but I cried for hours in my room afterwards at the unfairness of it all. Marcus came up the stairs that night as I was in bed and I pulled the covers up to my chin, knowing that it would not do much to protect myself from him. I heard his heavy footfall getting closer and closer and my heart sank as I realised he was coming up to my room and not to bed with father. He opened the door slowly. I didn't bother to pretend to be asleep. On the contrary, I wanted my eyes wide open to be prepared for any sudden form of attack, not that I could fend myself against him, but I'd still be ready and somewhat able to brace myself. He stood leering at the doorway for a moment before he shut it behind him.
"You did well today, son." I tried my utmost hardest not to show my disgust at the way he called me his son. I hated it more than anything.
"Thanks dad." The reply was automatic. Marcus came over to my bed and kneeled down on the floor beside it and stroked my hair. The loving gesture was so repulsive that I had to grit my teeth together to stop myself from crying out. And then Marcus was full length on top of me. On top of the covers, so he wasn't actually physically touching me, but I could still feel his hardness rubbing up against my stomach and the act made me want to throw up.
"Very, very well." And then his mouth was on mine. It wasn't a bruising or forceful kiss like I'd seen him give father. If anything, that would have been more preferable than the soft, loving kisses he was giving me now, opening up my own mouth with his tongue and sliding his inside of it, invading my mouth fully and tainting it forever. I was quite sure I would never get the taste of Marcus out of my mouth for the rest of my life and I was right. After that night, he visited me for most of them. He'd been giving father up to five needles a day at this point - I still didn't know what they were for, all I know is they kept him sleepy and useless and unable to understand what Marcus was doing to me, not that I would have ever dared tell him. Father was completely dependent on Marcus and so help me if he had ever let slip to him what I had told him there would have been hell to pay for him and me both. So I kept on keeping my mouth shut and Marcus kept coming in night after night. And as the nights went on it got worse. He started to slip inside the covers with me, his clothes and my pyjamas still intact but the closer contact was still too much to bear. Then he started to remove his shirt before crawling into bed with me and made me remove mine and pulled me close to him so I could feel his rough chest hair on my smooth back. He'd sing me lullabies like he was my dad and I was three years old and the haunting voice in the dark while he stroked my hair softly was enough to bring me to near tears. Then some nights later it was the removal of the bottom half for both of us so I could feel his penis against my bum and I was so utterly frightened that he was going to slip it inside of me that I couldn't sleep a wink. He never did though, and this was what threw me even more. Because at these times he was caring and loving and I didn't know what to make of it. He would beat me and taunt me and hurt me all day and then slip quietly into my room at night and look after me like I was his most treasured possession. It was such a mind fuck I started to wonder whether it was all really happening or not.
Months had passed and one morning I was awoken at quarter past ten by the yells of Marcus to get downstairs. I immediately got out of bed and quickly dressed before running down the stairs two at a time, not wanting to make him angry by dawdling. I could have been the fastest sprinter in the whole world and still not be fast enough for Marcus and get punished by him for dawdling. I wanted to get there as fast as I could even though my heart was sinking as images came into mind of what he wanted from me. He'd now taken to raping me once in the morning and once at night. The first time had hurt like hell. The times that followed hurt even more because when he cottoned onto the fact I was getting used to it, he started being really rough, yanking at my hair and biting down on my skin so hard it would break and bleed. I ran breathlessly to the kitchen where Marcus was sat at the table, looking quite subdued. He turned to me and I noticed his eyes were red rimmed.
And then, quite simply, he said, "Son, your father is dead. Overdose."
My whole world swayed just then and Marcus leapt up from his seat to steady me. I pulled away from him angrily and that single act of defiance angered him enough to give me a sharp slap across the face with the back of his hand.
"Don't you fucking pull away from me, you little bastard!" He snarled. But it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. I'd lost both of my parents and there was nothing left to live for.
"FUCK YOU!" I all but screamed. The look of shock on his face was priceless and at any other time I would have gotten great satisfaction out of it. "JUST FUCK YOU! YOU GREAT BIG FUCKING UGLY BASTARD!"
He raised his fist and made his way towards me but I didn't cower and even stepped forward to meet his blow. The action surprised him and he just stood there for a couple of seconds, fist still raised, not sure what to do next. "Come on hard man!" I shouted. "Do it! Fucking beat me up, a twelve year old kid! I've got nothing left. You wanna kill me?" I made my way over to the draw where the knives were kept and pulled out the biggest one. "You wanna kill me? Do it, fucking do it!" Years of bitterness and hatred were spilling out of me and I had never felt so alive than in that single moment. I turned the knife on myself and placed it on my stomach. "Push it in, Marcus." He flinched like he'd just been struck like I had been struck by him so many times.
"You don't know what you're saying, son." His voice sounded nervous.
"I am NOT your fucking son!" I snarled. "And you are not my dad, you never have been and you never will be!"
"I NEVER WANTED TO BE!" Marcus roared. I admit, that the sudden change in tack caught me by surprise and I took a small step backwards. It was small enough an action for Marcus to sneer and regain control. "Why the fuck would I want to father some fucking loser cunt like you? You're just like your father you are -"
"Don't you talk about him -"
" - Just like your father! Good for nothing waste of space! The only good thing he did in his life was end it before its time. Same goes for your whore of a mother."
And I lost it.
My name is Scorpius Malfoy and although mine was not an easy story to have told, I felt that in order to save myself and save the lives of others, I simply had to have told it.
I put the plug in the bath and then turn the hot water tap on to start running it. There's a debate going on in my head whether I should add bubbles or not. Do I afford myself that luxury? Do I deserve that luxury? Probably not, but I add them anyway. My eyes wander to the dent in the wall. I made that dent. Well, my skull ricocheting off the wall made that dent, I should say. There have been so many dents and bumps and cracks in my life I hardly notice them anymore.
Marcus is downstairs.
Dead.
I stabbed him fifteen minutes ago. Frenzied stabs in his stomach and once I started I couldn't stop. I felt the knife slice through his flesh and I twisted the handle this way and that, opening him up fully, not only for me, but for my father, for my mother, for everyone other life that monster corrupted and destroyed. I stabbed and stabbed until my arm was weak and it was only then that I stopped, panting, and realised he had stopped breathing a long time ago.
I will not let him win. He kept me prisoner for so long in this house. I have not even begun to fully tell you what I had to endure at the hands of that monster. It would take me a lifetime, a lifetime I had to live out. I turn the hot tap off. The bath is full now. I bring the knife to my wrist and then realise it is still dripping with Marcus' blood. I am ready to die, I am ready to reunite with my parents, the parents I had before all this started, back when I was a child and didn't know any better. But I will not meet my maker with his blood mixed with mine. So I go downstairs to get a clean knife. As I pass Marcus' body I do not feel bad. I do not feel bad one bit. Clean knife in hand, I make my way upstairs and see my fathers sleeping form in his bedroom. For years I was not allowed up here and now I am glad of that fact. The bedroom is horrible, even worse knowing what they got up to in here. Even worse knowing that that monster forcefully injected him day after day until he was a former shadow of the man I once knew. He does not look peaceful even in death and I resent Marcus for that. I place a kiss on his lips and allow the tears to flow.
Back in the bathroom I cut my wrists and all the years of heartache, all the years of pain come flooding out with my flowing blood and I cry bitterly at the life I could have had and didn't, the lives that we all could have had that washed away. I can not and will not let Marcus win. He kept me prisoner for so long in this house, I will not be carted off to prison to live the rest of my life in the same way, surrounded by bullies and monsters like him.
I shakily get in the bath with my bleeding wrists and allow my head to sink under the red water. It is June the fifth. My twelfth birthday.
I have beaten you, Marcus.
I have won.
And we're done. No sequel. No nothing.
I had to write this because I got called back from my holiday to find that things have been stolen from my house. Nothing big, but just little things like my phone, my ipod, various aftershaves that people had bought me as presents over the years. Some DVDs, CDs and most importantly an engraved lighter with a special inscription on from a special someone that has since passed and when I discovered that had gone I cried and immediately wrote this in about three or four hours. I don't really know where it came from. And it didn't really make me feel any better, but hey ho.
To those following my other story, "The Plan" will be updated tomorrow or Sunday. To those who don't know it, there's a link to it on my fanfiction. It is not dark or depressing at all, in fact, you might want to read it after this for some light hearted relief :)
Thanks for reading and if you made it to the end PLEASE review, even if its just to tell me what a sick fuck I am. Feel free to recommend this story to others too.
Love, Johnny.