The heavy door slammed, bouncing into the splintering frame. Heavy boot steps echoed down the hall, slamming on the grimy wooden floor. He was home.
A boy and a woman sat waiting nervously the dirty table, a naked light bulb dangling above them. Nothing else decorated the small room, aside from a refrigerator in one corner, and tiny island bar made out of peeling plywood and plastic.
The figure of the man suddenly loomed in the doorway, and they both inwardly shuddered, suppressing their fear. The hair on his forehead was plastered down with sweat, dark circles under bloodshot eyes with which he scanned the room. Dragging himself over to the table, he set the bottle down, putting his palms flat on the surface to steady himself. Both woman and child watched him nervously as he took a shuddering breath, then exhaled a vile alcoholic scent. He grunted, raising his head, rolling his eyes to look at the two smaller figures.
"So what're you bin doin'?"
The woman averted her gaze, preferring to stare at a spot on the floor. "N—Nothing, darling." She spoke quietly and as if afraid. "J—just…Waiting for you." At this, she looked up meeting his gaze.
The husband narrowed his red rimmed eyes. She swallowed. "You're not lying to me, are you?" He moved forward like a panther—it was shocking that anyone so intoxicated could move so quickly. "Because I hate to be lied to." He slapped her, sending her sprawling across the table. His wife stood up with a hand shielding the blooming red mark on the side of her face.
"Were you trying to leave me?" He yelled. Ignoring he vigorous head-shakings of "no" he yanked her hair back, screaming at her face. "Were you? I bet you were, you worthless bitch."
Suddenly he subsided, leaning forward and grasping her by the chin. "Well, guess what." The woman stopped herself from gagging on the stench of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. "Your never leaving me. Never." Swinging his fist, he knocked his wife into the table before kicking her off onto the floor.
The boy stared at his hands, hating himself for not being able to help her as the man he called father continued to beat his mother. He was too small, too weak, and if he did try to help her, he would just be hurt more. More then anything, he hated himself for being so selfish.
A tear somehow came out of the eyes he was squeezing shut, falling onto on of the fists he clenched in his lap.
"Oh, are you crying?" His voice dripped acidly with false sympathy as he looked up from the beaten woman who lay moaning on the floor.
"N—No." The son glared at his clenched fists, trying to force back the tears that threatened to coarse down his cheeks.
"But you are. What is it you're sad about? You can tell me." The fathers voice became a soft hiss and a purr.
"Nothing. The boy glared at him.
"Whatsa matter? Don't look at me like that."
The boy continued to glare.
"I hate seeing you like that. You should smile more often."
Still smoldering eyes.
The man moved forward, drawing a gleaming knife from his pocket.
"Why so serious?" He snatched the boys collar, pulling him close, the child's eyes wide with fear. "Why so serious? He caressed the boy's cheek with the knife. "Let's put a smile on that face." Holding his jaw, he dragged the knife across the corner of his son's mouth. He pushed the blade upward, separating the skin until the knife was parallel with his cheekbone, then pushing it inwards to create a spiraled affect.
The boy would've screamed if he could, screamed to relieve his suffering. But he couldn't. The only thing he could do was stare at the man who was slicing his face apart with widened eyes as the knife was withdrawn, then went to work on the other side of his face.
When he had finished his butchery, the man stepped back, grinning. Blood ran down the boys face, dripping down his chin and neck as he slid down to the floor. Putting the knife down, he started to laugh, delighted with his work.
He closed his eyes as he felt the grime underneath him, trying to block out the pain, trying to feel something else. He found nothing. Then, as he heard the laugh, something began to grow inside of him. Hate. It was stronger then anything he'd ever felt before, more powerful, more moving. Spawned out of fear and pain, it started to blossom within his chest and stomach, giving his arms and legs a new found strength. He began to push himself up from the floor with trembling arms. His father stared at him incredulously. He started walking towards him, stumbling over nothing, his arms hanging by his sides. Doing his best to aim, he rammed his elbow into his father's stomach, just above the groin, knocking him over. Kicking, punching, anything in keep him down.
Suddenly, the man reached out, grabbing his ankle and yanking him down onto the floor. The knife flew out of his hand. "You think you're so strong, don't you?!?" He shrieked, pinning him down. "I'll show you, you fucking worthless brat!!!" He wrapped his fingers around the child's throat, strangling him. The child gasped, desperate for the air that was being forced out of him. He tried to push his father of him, hearing him begin to laugh at his pathetic attempts. His arms fell back against the floor. There was a sharp pain in one of them, before everything started to go dark, hearing the mocking laughter...
The eyes shot open. His hand had fallen on the knife. He grabbed it, driving it into his father's shoulder. Suddenly, the dark was gone, and air returned to him, as the man yelped, jumping off. As the boy took deep breaths, he felt his rage surge through his veins like fire. He twisted the knife in his hand before stabbing the man in the chest. It was poorly aimed, going to far to the right. As the man screamed in agony, his son grabbed it, dragging it through the bone, the lungs, into the heart. Blood spurted, covering the child's hands, wrist, and both their chests.
Then the screaming stopped. The heavy corpse fell to the floor, blood now leaving the body through the mouth, nose, and ears, but no longer in such a violent manner. The child leaned over the body, examining the unmoving flesh, the open mouth, and the feeling of cold that was starting to steal over it. His wrapped his hands around the knife, tugging it out with a sickly squelch. Without looking down again, he pocketed the bloody knife and walked out the door of the squalid house, leaving his two former parents dead on the floor.