I watched as his gloved fist collided harshly with the flesh of his cheeks, which had not quite thinned with maturity just yet, displacing it. Spit flew from his mouth, and I saw that it was mingled with blood and a tooth; I think his mother did as well, because her fair skin grew paler still and her shrieks heightened. The boy cried as well, but the sound paled in comparison to those of his beautiful mother, and it was unsurprising—after all, the sight of her son being beaten by his own father must have looked more painful then it actually felt. I made sure of that.
His lanky body was thrown into their wall, where several pictures of their so-called family hung, dressed in clothes that were disgusting to the eyes in their blandness and donning smiles that were so painfully staged it made this encounter now seem fitting, and that was good; after all, in the end I want to expose Jack Fenton for the hate-filled home-wrecker he is, want to publicize his abuse so he can never again steal the wife and son that should be mine. He collapsed onto the couch, slumping heavily, and a blood dribbled lightly down his pointy chin and onto his now blood-stained white t-shirt. Around the ankle of his baggy jeans, there was a bloody hand print, for the boy's father had dragged him into their below-par lab where he would beat him with one of the parts for an unfinished ghost hunting weapon. As they descended the stairs, I heard his little body thump with each step, and my heart ached.
As Jack snatched him by the collar of his t-shirt, his mother shrieked again, and continued in her useless begging to spare her son, so undeserving of the punishment. She said what she thought would please him, because she knew doing so was the only way to save her son who'd begun to slip away from the man she thought she knew. However, what my poor Maddie does not know is that Jack will not stop now, and as long as she and her beautiful son remain there he will not. I'll see to it that he doesn't.
Jack hissed something about the boy's sister, a red haired girl named Jasmine (who had left for college oh-so coincidentally a few days before her father finally snapped). It was something to the degree of his love for the girl over his for the boy, and then something about the boy's failing grades which I had seen earlier that week compared to his sister's, which had earned her a scholarship to Harvard. I saw the boy's face droop in something that resembled hopelessness, and I could tell that he was struggling to contain the tears that threatened to leave his eyes. His mother simply wept harder, and rushed to Daniel's side to assure him that the accusations were not true, taking him into her arms.
With some difficulty, I grabbed her with bulky hands, like those of an ape, and threw her to the ground. I told her in a voice that was not my own to stay down and not to interfere—I would kill her if she did, but of course I would not. She moaned and wept loudly, but I had scared her sufficiently and it became apparent that she was trying to remain quiet in hopes of appeasing the man in his disgusting orange jumpsuit.
I shook Daniel violently, and I heard him moan softly; I knew that he was in pain, of course, but I saw no intention in this boy to use the powers our vengeful god has instilled in us both on the man he is forced to call his father. It was obvious that he was going to take this silently and do absolutely nothing to counter my assault, but that was good.
It was better if he didn't look into Jack Fenton's eyes now; they would not be blue as they'd always been, been when they'd taken their family portrait or when he'd taken the boy fishing—been when Danny thought he loved him.
They'd be red, like mine, but I could not change this.