"I'm doing this for your own good!" my father muddles under his breath, as the leather belt makes contact with my fragile skin. I try not to cry. Not to scream. Even though the pain feels like a thousand pointy needles being slashed across my welting skin. I should learn to expect this behaviour from him. There is no stopping him. After all,he's being doing this since my mother died, when I was young. "You are weak, just like her!" my father shouts with malice, as he lifts up the blood covert belt and strikes me again. I whimper, trying to over my sobs but it's useless, just like me. "You are no better than her. I'm trying to make you stronger, Tobias!" my father spits with venom, as the bone chilling crack of the belt echoes through the dark, filthy bedroom. The world around me starts to become a blur. I hear nothing. All I see is darkness.
I was young when my father started to beat me. At first, it was slaps, and calling me names. Then he introduced the belt, and later the closet. I guess it was hard on him when my mother passed. I mean, it was hard on everyone in our community. I was young, I didn't really understand the concept of death. But I knew, deep down that a father who is a leader, an idol to others isn't supposed to treat his son this way. His son who looks up to him, helps, and only wants to make him proud. I don't know any more. when I woke up, I felt weak. My father was gone, so I guessed he went out to a meeting of some sort. He is the leader of Dauntless after all. The faction that I chose, Again, to try make my father proud. But as expected, it led to more bruises. I stand, leaning on the walls for support as I make my way up the steep stairs. I grab a bag of ice, and some bandages, as I hobble over to my room. Tomorrow is the first day of training initiates, where I will meet new people, and teach them how to be brave. I just hope, tomorrow is a better day. Who am I kidding, it's never a good day in Dauntless.
I'm woken up by the screeching sound of the alarm at 3 in the morning. My head is pounding, my lips cracked and swollen. Bruises and cuts trailing down my back and arms, but I will myself to stand up, and get dressed. Black shorts and singlet, with some running shoes I brought yesterday. I limp over to the small, cracked mirror that's hanging on my bedroom door. Staring back at me is the sad reflection of a boy who is not yet a man. A boy who does not stand up to his father, even though he knows what he's doing is wrong. A boy who doesn't deserve to live. I wash my face, and style my hair, hoping that when I go downstairs my father, Murcus, would be gone. "Father, are you home?!" I yell from my bedroom, anxiety building up inside. When I get no response, I creep downstairs, grab my backpack and advance towards the wooden door. Before I leave, I remember who I am, and what my job is. I cannot let others see me as weak. I will not. When I close the door, it feels like I'm shutting out a piece inside of me. Leaving behind he boy who cries, and wishes he wasn't alive. Finally, I feel strong, I feel brave. I shut the door behind be with force, and hopefully, that chapter of my life.