Proud (Sins Of The Father, 1)

by ReinikSociety

Harry Osborn's life was never perfect, but until recently, he never knew how imperfect it really was. Family can be a dangerous thing. WARNING! Adult Content! (May Contain: Violence, Language, Sexual Content, etc.) Read At Your Own Risk. Minor OC. No Pairings. A Two Part Series (1 of 2).

Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Okay, so this was the first full-length FF I'd ever done. It took me a while to do. Now, I know there a lot of mistakes in this one. Send me a PM if there are any mistakes you'd like me to change. (By the way, there is a lot of OOCness. Harry cries a lot, for example. There maaay be some inconsistencies. But what the hey?) I'd love for you to R&R. Not a requirement, but much appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

P.S.

PM me if you have any questions about this story. Or any of my stories.

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Flash slams me into the lockers and I bite my tongue because of it. He punches me in the mouth, spits "DWEEB" at me and walks away with his lackeys. I place a hand where he punched me and sigh. I pick up my backpack and head down the hallway to leave, but I spot Peter before I can head out.

"Hey, Pete."

I give a weak smile, but he's talking to a girl and doesn't hear me. So I call again.

"Hey, Peter!"

"Oh, hey, Harry. Sorry, I can't talk right now. Kinda busy. See ya."

He doesn't even turn around.

"Oh... Okay. Bye."

I sigh again and look down to the ground. I walk out to my limo and head home. When I get home, everything is quiet. I place my backpack down and take my shoes off. I look over at the TV and see a new game console sitting on the coffee table.

I bet he didn't pick that up himself.

I call out to Dad.

"Dad, I'm home! Dad?"

I walk over to his office and knock on the door.

"What is it?"

I open the door to see him writing on pieces of paper I assume are agreements and contracts. Or whatever.

"Hey."

"What do you want, Harry? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"I was just wondering... if you'd like to watch some TV..."

"No. I don't have time for that. Go play your video games. I got you that new system you wanted."

"You mean you got somebody else to get that system for me..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"If it's nothing, then why are you still here?"

"Sorry..."

I quietly shut the door and head into my room. I wanted to tell him about Flash bullying me and Peter ignoring me, but... I look in the mirror and realize my lip was bleeding from where Flash punched me. I also taste blood in my mouth from where I bit my tongue. I go to my bathroom and splash water on my face. I smell the blood and cringe a little.

I hate the smell of blood.

I go back to my room, change into some loose sweatpants and a light sweater, and fall backwards onto my bed. I look up at the ceiling and yawn. I jerk a bit because my back hurts from when it hit the lockers. I cover my face with my hands and sigh. I get up and take my phone out of my pocket. I open Peter's number and send him a text.

hey Pete you busy?

No response. I wait five minutes and send another.

Pete its Harry

I wait a little longer and still no response.

"Agh!"

I get up and throw my phone against the wall in frustration.

Stupid Peter! Why don't you want to talk to me?! What did I do!

I start crying and sit back on my bed. I cry for awhile then calm down a little. I get a headache and go into my bathroom to get some ibuprofen. I look all around the bathroom, to no avail. I decide to look in the kitchen for some. I try to swing around the handrail, but fail and fall right into the coffee table, making a loud thud. I hear Dad yell out to me.

"Harry! Keep it down!"

"Sorry!"

My headache increases and I get up with pain. I realize I cut the front of my hip on the coffee table. I touch my fingers to the wound and jerk my hand a bit from the pain. I notice there's blood on my sweater when I arrive at the sink. I close my eyes and exhale.

It's okay, Harry. You can get a new sweater. God knows Dad won't be bothered to get one for you...

I shake my head and look in the cabinet for the spare medical kit. I find it, open it, take out the antiseptic and fix up my wound. The ache leaves my head before I can take any medicine, so I leave it be. I get a cup out and pour some water for myself. My mind wanders as I drink.

What was I thinking? "Do you want to watch some TV?" Why would he want to watch TV with me? Of course he's too busy... I'm such an idiot!

I take a drink and look over at the cutlery.

Why do we even have cutlery? Nobody cooks around here. Not even on Thanksgiving. Sometimes I'll make sandwiches for us, but he never eats them with me... I usually just order a pizza for myself.

I place the cup of water down and walk over to the cutlery. I take out a chopping knife and stare at it.

I wonder why people hurt themselves with these? I mean, what's so good about hurting yourself? Life hurts so much already... Maybe...

I pull up my sleeve and lower the knife to my arm. My heart starts to race and I exhale softly.

Just once. Just to see why people like it so much.

I put the knife to my arm and start to cut slowly. I jerk away when I feel my skin start to tear.

"Okay, okay."

I lower it again and finish the cut I started. I shut my eyes and groan in pain.

"Ow."

I open my eyes and look down at my arm. I bring my arm closer to my face and just stare at the wound. I squeeze the cut and see blood start rising from it.

What was I thinking?

I turn on the tap and put my arm under it. It stings and I cringe. I grab a paper towel and wipe the water from my arm. The blood starts to rise again, so I quickly disinfect the cut and bandage it. I pull my sleeve down and put the stuff back in the cabinet. I quickly head back upstairs to spot my phone on the floor.

Crap... I hope it still works.

I turn it on and see that it does, in fact, still work. I check my inbox and see that its empty.

Stupid phone.

I throw it on my dresser and sit on the edge of my bed. I watch the clock tick and I get bored. I turn on the TV to some station babbling on about celebrities and baby bumps. I could care less. I look down at my arm after awhile of mindless watching, and lift my sleeve up. I carefully remove the bandage from my arm and stare at the cut. I run my fingers over it and it kind of feels good, the sting. I shakily get up and turn off the TV, head out to the kitchen and to the knife. I stop before I pick it up.

I can't keep using the cutlery. Though I'm sure he wouldn't notice, I don't want to take the chance. But where am I going to get a knife? I mean, I could get one from a kid at school, but who knows where they've been... And I know I can't buy one, I'm too young.

I suddenly remember Dad keeps a gun in the nightstand near his bed. Maybe he keeps a pocket knife, too. I head over to Dad's room, go over to the nightstand and open the drawer. I see the gun and a couple of knives. I go to take a knife, but realize that if I take one, he might notice. He'll know if something's missing.

This was a stupid idea anyway... Wait, I think there's a box cutter in the living room closet. The movers used it when we moved in.

I go into the living room to see Dad in the kitchen talking on his phone, facing away from me. I quickly shut the door and creep over to the stairs to stand near them. He turns around and spots me.

"Harry. How was your day?"

"Not so great."

"Why?"

"Well, Flash kind of bullied me and Peter... ignored me. I don't know why he's act-"

"Oh, Harry, suck it up. You aren't going to die if Peter doesn't talk to you. And being bullied is a good thing. It teaches you to stand up for yourself. You did stand up for yourself?"

"Well..."

"Of course not."

"Why do you even bother asking me about my day if you're going to criticize me? Why can't you just ask about my day and actually listen?"

"I am listening. I'm trying to better you. Why can't you see that? If you were more like-"

"Peter. I know, okay? If I were more like Peter, maybe then you would actually give a damn."

I head towards the closet and open it, rummaging through for only a short while until I find the box cutter I was looking for.

"What are you doing, Harry?"

"Nothing."

I slam the closet door, shove the box cutter into my pocket and turn to head towards my room.

"Where are you going?"

"To my room."

"We're not done here, Harry."

"Sure looks like we're done here."

I only get up a few steps before Dad grabs my arm and yanks me down the few steps I took, closer to him.

"You are myson and you are going to listen to me!"

He grips my arm tighter and I jerk a little in pain from the cut I made earlier. He must've noticed because he loosens his grip and looks down.

"There's blood on your sweater, Harry."

I freeze and my heart speeds up. I look to where he's looking and realize he's not talking about my arm. I do a mental sigh.

"It's not blood. It's... ketchup."

"I'm not stupid, Harry."

"I just fell and cut myself on the coffee table. That's all."

"Why didn't you tell me? Does it need stitches?"

"It's nothing. I gotta go."

I yank my arm from his grip and jog up the stairs. I turn on the TV again and crank the volume up. Not too loud, but loud enough to drown out unwanted sounds and suspicions. I lock the door and take out the box cutter from my pocket. I pull up my sleeve and the cold air causes me to get goosebumps. I slide the blade out and lower it to my skin. I hold my breath and start a new cut, this time, with ease. All the words my father said come flooding back, and a new cut emerges, almost without my knowledge. I groan. Because the pain, it hurts, but it feels good, too. And I just keep cutting.

Harry, suck it up.

Cut.

Being bullied is a good thing.

Cut.

Why can't you be more like Peter?

Cut.

I stop cutting and look down at my arm, letting go of my breath. Blood is covering my arm, dripping to the floor. Breathless, I fall onto my bed, letting the blood hit the sheets.

Well... At least now I know why people hurt themselves. In more ways than one.

I get up and remove my clothing. I go into my bathroom and hit the shower. After I'm done, I put on fresh clothes. I see that the bleeding has stopped, so I don't bother putting on bandages. I go into my bedroom, remove my sheets and gather them with my used clothes. I turn off the TV, unlock my door and head out with the dirty laundry. I head over to the washing machine and start it up with my laundry.

"Harry. What are you doing?"

"Just cleaning my sheets..."

"Weren't they just cleaned?"

"Do you want something?"

"Harry, don't speak to me like that."

"What do you care how I talk to you? You've never cared."

"Because I am your father and you do not speak to me like that, understood?"

"Yes, Dad..."

"Good. Now, I have a-"

"Meeting tomorrow, I know. I'll stay out of your hair."

"Harry. Why don't you invite Peter over?"

"He won't talk to me, remember?"

"Maybe you did something wrong. You always do."

"Of course. I'm going to bed."

I wake up the next morning with my arm stinging. I look over at the alarm.

Six o'clock...

I look down at my arm and see that blood has soaked through the sleeve and has dried. I groan and prepare myself to remove my shirt. I slowly pull up my sleeve. I feel it ripping from my skin and it hurts.

"Ow, ow, ow."

I finally get it off and go into the bathroom to splash water on my face. I dry my face, put on a sweater and jeans and head down to the kitchen. I see Dad sitting at the table reading the paper and eating a piece of toast. I open the fridge and take out the jam. I grab a piece of toast Dad must've made. I start to spread the jam when I hear Dad straighten out his paper and clear his throat.

"Don't you think you could skip the spread?"

"What?"

"It's obvious you've been gaining weight."

"What?"

"You heard me."

My face heats up and I angrily throw away the toast and put away the jam. I turn around and see him continuing to read the paper, occasionally taking a bite out of his jam-covered toast. I look away and rub at my arm.

I wasn't that hungry anyway.

I head over to the door and put on my shoes. I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder.

"I'm gone."

"It's only six-thirty."

"I... promised I'd meet Peter over at his place."

"Oh, he's talking to you again."

"Yeah..."

I head out the door and take the elevator down to the first floor. I get in my limo and ask the driver to take me to Peter's place.

I might as well see if he actually is talking to me again.

I knock at the door and Ms. Parker answers it.

"Oh, hello, Harry. How nice of you to come by."

"Hey, Ms. Parker. Is Peter here?"

"Of course. Come in!"

I walk into the house, lay my backpack down and sit on the couch. Ms. Parker calls to Peter.

"Peter! Harry's here to see you!"

"Coming!"

I hear rummaging and something fall over.

"Hey, Harry. You're here early. What's up? I didn't know you were coming over."

"I wasn't going to come over, but..."

What Dad said this morning is coming back, but I shake it off and smile.

"So, I was wondering why you never respond to the texts I send you."

"Huh? Oh! Sorry, Harry. I've just been kinda busy lately."

"No, I get it..."

I get up, pick up my backpack and I head towards the door.

"Wait, Harry. It's not like that."

"Sure."

I head out the door and shut it behind me. I get into my limo and ask the driver to drive me to school.

It's a little early, but who cares?

I get to school and everything is exactly the same as it always is. I fall asleep in class, teacher yells at me, I don't see Peter. I get hit in the face in Phys. Ed by a volleyball. My nose bleeds and I'm sent to the nurses office. Okay, that doesn't usually happen, but still. The nurse tells me something, but I'm not listening to her. I just can't stop thinking about what Dad said this morning. I sigh.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just a headache."

The nurse hands me a late slip and sends me on my way. I head over to the bathroom, go into a stall and lock the door.

"Am I really doing this?"

What do I care about what he says anyway?

My heart races and I actually do get a headache. I get down on my knees and lean over the toilet bowl.

Come on, Harry... What are you doing? If you're going to do it, do it.

I put my finger down my throat and gag a little. I try again and heave. Again. This time, I actually succeed. I vomit into the toilet and my eyes water from the actions. I vomit again and then get up. I'm breathing heavy as I flush the toilet. I get out of the stall and go and wash my hands. I rinse out my mouth and get out a piece of gum to chew. I head to my next class. By then, my nose has stopped bleeding and school ends uneventfully. When I get home, I lay my backpack down and I see that Dad is having dinner with one of his associates. I panic a little.

Damn. I said I'd stay out of the way.

I quickly move to the stairs to head towards my room.

"Wait, Harry. Where are you going? Come say hello to my associate, Richard. Richard, this is my son, Harry. I'm very proud of him. He's the best son a father could have."

Ha. Yeah, right.

He says hello and I say hello back.

"Come, sit."

I sit at the table, feeling really awkward. For some reason, there's a plate already made up at my chair. For a few minutes they talk about stuff: their lives (that Dad could care less about), golf, women. I stare down at my hands.

Why am I here?

After a few minutes, I notice that man staring at me, stealing glances when he thinks no one is looking. I get creeped out.

"Dad, may I be excused?"

"No, Harry, that's rude. Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

That's a blatant lie. I'm starving.

"Eat, Harry."

I sigh and shudder because, suddenly, it got cold. I start to eat with trembling hands. It's quiet for about thirty seconds.

Why does he keep staring...?

Dad notices the guy staring and starts to speak, but is cut off by him.

"By the looks of your son, good looks run in the family, don't they, Norman? Good looking..."

What the hell?

I look at Dad expectantly. He swallows his food and clears his throat.

"Yes, well, uh, all the girls love him."

"I can see why."

I shift in my chair and continue eating. Richard moves in closer with his chair.

"You know, Norman, we could strike that deal for a small... price."

I widen my eyes as he strokes my hair out of my face. I jerk my head to Dad and his brow is furrowed. Seconds go by, but they feel like hours.

"I'll think about it."

He continues to eat as that guys hand is in my face. My jaw sets as I take in his answer. I start shaking and I cough a little.

"Excuse me..."

I jolt out of my chair and practically run out of there and into my room. I slam the door and lock it, turn on the radio loud and go into the bathroom. I kneel in front of the toilet and throw up every single bite of food, every single action. Every single word. I get up and take out my box cutter. I almost rip my sleeve as I yank it up. I quickly slice my skin once, then twice. And then three more times. Each time ripping. Each time relieving. I drop the box cutter onto the floor and lean against the wall. I close my eyes and start to cry.

"Why would you even consider it, you bastard?"

I can't control my crying and it sounds like I'm hiccuping. I pick up the box cutter and lift my sweater to make three small cuts near where I accidentally cut on the coffee table.

"You bastard..."

I calm down and silently cry for a few more minutes. I finally get up, shakily, and take off my clothes to get into the shower. I take my time, get out, then put some fresh clothes on. The usual: sweater (that's pretty much all I can wear now...) and sweat pants. I gather my clothes and throw them onto my bed. I brush my teeth and then look at the clock.

It's been an hour...

I lift my sleeve and look down at my cuts.

At least the bleeding's stopped.

I start to feel sick to my stomach, so I quickly gather my clothes and head to the washing machine. I spot Dad at the end of the stairs, and I know what's coming next is inevitable.

"Harry."

"How dare you?"

"Harry... I wasn't actually going to let him-"

"Fuck me?"

"Harry. Don't test me."

"No, of course not. Wouldn't want you to go schizo and invite old men to touch your son."

He furrows his brow, sets his jaw and scowls.

That made him angry.

He opens his hand and backhands me hard across the face, a loud crack resounding. I fall backwards from the hit and hit my back on one of the steps. I groan in pain as I feel blood pool slightly in my mouth. I feel blood trickle down my mouth.

"D-Dad..."

He grabs my shoulders and pulls me to my feet. He moves the hair out of my eyes and hands me a tissue to clean my mouth. I wipe my mouth and spit the blood into the tissue, confused.

"I told you not to talk to me like that, Harry. Nothing was going to happen. End of story."

He inhales and exhales as he straightens out his suit and walks away from me, into his office. I try to breathe through my nose, but I can't because I've been crying. I walk, painfully, over to his office door and put my ear to it.

"Richard, it's Norman. You can have him, just... be gentle. I'm certain he's never done anything like that."

My eyes widen in shock and I put my hand to my mouth. My hands fall to my sides and I silently walk to the washer and start it up with the dirty laundry. I go back to my room and lock the door. I curl up on my bed with my blanket on, cold.

Maybe he's just mad. That's it. He's just mad. I'm sure nothing will happen. He said nothing will happen. He wouldn't do that to me... Right?

I get up, grab my phone and get back into bed. I dial Peter's number and wait for an answer. The phone picks up and Peter answers.

"Oh, thank God, Peter."

"Harry? Are you okay?"

"I-I was just calling to ask if I could come over t-tomorrow."

"Um... Sure. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just... cold."

"Okay... See you tomorrow."

"Yeah. Bye."

I hang up the phone and throw it next to me.

I'll just stay with Peter tomorrow. Nothing will happen, Harry...

I feel something jerk me awake. I see Dad standing in the doorway with Richard.

"Son... Richard and I made a deal. You'll just have to comply."

"No! Stay away from me!"

Richard jumps on top of me and rips my clothes off. He touches all over me and-

"Agh!"

I jerk up and awake. I'm breathing hard and sweating all over. I look around for either Dad or Richard and neither are here. I sigh as I realize it was just a dream. I close my eyes, fall back down and swallow. I wait a few minutes to let it all sink in. I look over at the alarm.

Three a.m.

I get up and head downstairs. I grab a paper towel and wipe my face with it. I exhale and throw it away. I pull up my sleeve and look at the cuts. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I scream and jump and quickly slide my sleeve down, whipping around.

"Dad?"

"Oh, Harry..."

Dad puts his fingers to my mouth, at the spot where he hit me. I flinch a little from the pain and he jerks away, but places his fingers right back.

"There's a bruise..."

He leans in closer to get a better look and I can smell the alcohol strong on his breath.

"I'm so sorry, Harry."

He brings me closer to him and hugs me, his hand on my head.

"Oh, son. I'm sorry."

I don't know what to do, so I just carefully wrap my arms around him. I get scared and start shaking, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

This isn't normal...

"Dad, let go."

He squeezes me tighter and grips my flesh. I try struggling.

"Dad. Let me go."

He slams me against the kitchen sink and I hit my head against the cabinet. He grips my head tightly in his hands.

"I already made the deal, Harry... You're just going to have to live with it. Have you ever done that type of thing, son? It's easy - let me show you."

He tries to pull down my pants.

"No!"

I jerk away from his grip and punch him square in the jaw. He holds where I hit and looks at me, eyes wet.

"Harry, I'm sorry..."

I can't believe he tried to... to...

"I wasn't going to do anything to you, Harry."

I just stand there staring at him, shaking. I hold my stomach with my hand. The hunger is getting to me. I try to go back up to my room, but he moves with me. I stop, startled.

"Just leave me alone."

"Harry..."

He comes closer to me. I have nowhere to go because I'm at the end of the stairs. My heart starts to race.

"You're drunk. You didn't know what you were thinking. I get it. Let's just forget all about this and go to bed. Okay? I won't say anything."

Suddenly, he moves quickly over to me and puts his lips up to my ear. He waits there for a few seconds, almost like he's contemplating.

"Yeah."

He walks over to his room, alarmingly calm and stable, and slams his door. I let go of the breath I didn't know I was holding. I jog up to my room and lock the door, hurriedly. I slam my back into it and slide all the way down. I close my eyes and shudder at the thought of what just happened.

My Dad was going to...

I cry into my hands and fall sideways onto the floor.

I'm so disgusting! I'm so disgusting that Dad wanted to... touch me. He said I was gaining weight. But I'm so hungry...

"Disgusting!"

I get up, out of my room and into the kitchen. I open the fridge and start pulling food out. I start stuffing my face with food: snack cakes, macaroni salad, sandwiches - anything. After I'm done, I fall backwards, crying. After a while, I wipe my mouth and put most of the food away. I shut the refrigerator door and clean the mess I made with some paper towels. I sigh and get up, feeling sick.

Well, I think it's obvious what you gotta do next, Harry."

"Yeah, yeah..."

I head back to my room, feeling guilty and stupid. I go into the bathroom and kneel over the toilet for what feels like the hundredth time today. I grab a spare toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet and stick it down my throat. I gag a couple times, then vomit. The food isn't even digested yet. I get up and flush the toilet. I brush my teeth and leave the bathroom. I hit the bed face first and close my eyes.

My hunger wakes me up and I cringe from the pain.

I haven't eaten in two days. I guess that's not so bad... Especially sense I technically ate last night.

I don't bother looking at the clock sense it's Saturday. I get up from bed and into the bathroom. I brush my teeth, wash my face, change into day clothes and go to head downstairs. But stop midway.

Damn. I don't want to face Dad. What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do? I can't do this.

I lean my head against the door.

Just act normal, remember? That's what you said you'd do last night.

I open the door and walk out, heart pounding. I slowly take each step down the stairs. I step into the kitchen to see Dad reading a newspaper.

"Um..."

"Harry."

I jump at his voice, then I straighten out.

"I... I'm going to Peter's D-Dad... So..."

I go over to my backpack and go to put on my shoes.

"Alright."

I finish putting on my shoes and head to my limo. I get to Peter's place and knock on the door. Peter answers it.

"Hey, Harry. Come on in."

I walk into the house and smell something cooking.

"What are you cooking?"

"My Aunt's making cookies. Want some?"

"Um, no, thanks."

"Suit yourself. Aunt May makes the best cookies ever! So, what do you want to do today? We could go to a movie or something."

"We could go to the arcade. Haven't been there in a while."

"Sounds fun! Let me just put my shoes on. By the way, why are you wearing a sweater? It's not that cold outside. If anything, it's kinda warm."

"Oh, uh, I just feel chilly, you know."

"Hm. Okay. Aunt May, me and Harry are going to the arcade! See ya later!"

"Bye, boys!"

We leave the house and head to the arcade. When we get in, Peter heads to the first game he sees and I go to get us drinks. When I get back, he's already lost three times and is cursing at the game. I laugh.

"Calm down, Pete. It's just a game."

"Maybe to you."

We both laugh and move on to other games. We spend an hour and a half there and decide to take a walk in the park across the street. We walk for a few minutes, sipping our drinks.

"So, what's up at home, Harry?"

I wish I could tell you everything, Pete, I really do...

"Nothing much. Just the usual, I guess."

"Haven't been over there in a while. I'll come over some time."

"Okay. What about you?"

"Hmm... 'Bout the same, I guess. Aunt May and bills, same 'ol, same 'ol."

"Oh."

"You know, you didn't sound so great on the phone last night. I can't help feeling there's something wrong. Come on, Harry, you can tell me."

"Well..."

Before I can answer, my Dad's limo drives up to us and the window rolls down. Peter gives a quick wave.

"Hey, Mr. Osborn."

"Hello, Peter. How are you?"

"I'm great, thanks."

"That's good to hear. Harry, time to go."

"But Dad-"

"No. Come on."

"Yes, Dad. Bye, Peter."

"See ya. Had fun."

"I did, too"

I smile and get into the car. We start to drive.

"Why did you come pick me up, Dad?"

"You should've been back thirty minutes ago."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer and we just continue to drive to our house.

When we get there, he practically pulls me out of the car and into the building.

"Why are we in a hurry, Dad?"

We get into the elevator and he pushes the button to our floor. We enter our house.

Now I know why he was in such a hurry.

Richard is sitting on our couch, drinking some alcohol. I whisper to Dad.

"Please, Dad, no. Please! I don't want to do this. I can't."

"Of course you can, Harry. It'll be over before you know it. Richard."

Richard gets up from his seat and walks over to me.

No, no, no! No...

"So handsome... Come here."

Dad lightly pushes me towards him. Richard puts his hand on the small of my back and starts kissing my neck. I turn my head to Dad, but his head is downcast.

"D-Dad...?"

"Please, you can use my room, Richard."

"No!"

I try to struggle, but this man's grip is too strong. He starts pulling me to Dad's room.

"Dad, please! I'm sorry! I won't argue with you anymore, I swear! Dad!"

"Richard."

"Yeah?"

"Be gentle."

"Don't worry, Norman. I'll take care of him."

As I stare at Dad through the doorway, Richard slams the door in front of me. I turn to him and I can tell he wants this.

"Don't come near me!"

"Your father gave you to me to use until I'm satisfied."

"I'm not your sex toy, you bastard!"

"What a foul mouth. Let's see if we can put it to better use, hm?"

I run for the door, but he stops me and pushes me onto the bed.

"Struggle, and this will only hurt more. Co-operate, and maybe I'll get you off, too. I want to see what that pretty little face looks like when it's coming."

I start shaking and crying. He gets on top of me and removes my pants, then sweater.

"Cuts? Shame to scar that beautiful body of yours."

He gets off of me and removes his clothing, then gets back on. I can feel his erection on me.

"Open your mouth, Baby, I wanna see what you can do."

He tries to use his hand to open my mouth, but I shake my head away.

"Keep still!"

He slaps me hard across the face. I shakily open my mouth.

"Oh, and don't even think about biting it."

He starts moving inside my mouth and I feel myself get nauseas. After a few minutes, he ejaculates into my mouth and takes himself out.

"Swallow it."

I do as he says.

"Now for the main course."

He starts greedily kissing my lips and neck and down my chest, all the while I'm silently crying, eyes closed.

Why, Dad...?

"You ready?"

He laughs and, giving me no other warning, shoves himself inside of me. I shoot my eyes open and scream.

"Dad, help me!"

"Shh... Ah... You're so tight. You a virgin? I bet you are. Correction: were."

I cry harder as I hear him panting and moaning into my ear, calling me effeminate and vulgar names. He finally finishes and gets out and off of me. I'm still crying.

"Don't cry, sweetheart. You were actually pretty good."

I look down at myself and see bruises on my hips and blood and semen on my thighs and butt. I pull the blanket over myself and turn my head away from him.

Ugly...

He puts on his clothes and adjusts himself. He walks out the door and I can hear him and Dad talking.

"Nice doing business with you, Norman."

"Please leave."

"I am. Oh, and by the way, your kid's a cutter. I'll have that contract signed by Monday."

"What?"

Damn it!

I quickly shut the door and lock it. I gather my clothes and reluctantly put them on over the terrible fluids on my sore body. I turn around and look at the bed sheets. They're in no better condition.

I wish I could see you sleep on them, you bastard..

I hear knocking on the door and I can't seem to control myself. I rush over to it and open it, trying to run past whoever was knocking. It was Dad. He grabs my arm, resulting in me falling to the floor.

"Let go of me!"

I start crying again.

"Harry! Stop struggling!"

I listen to him and stop. Because that's all I feel I can do. He pulls me to my feet. My eyes never meet his, they've only ever seen his Gucci shoes.

"Harry... You must understand why this happened, right? Look at me."

I look at him.

"It wasn't so bad, was it?"

"He made me suck his cock, Dad. Tell me, is that bad?"

"Harry, you-"

"Or maybe the part where he shoved it into my ass, hm?"

"Harry-"

"Or maybe when I called for you and you didn't stop him from coming inside of me!"

I'm violently crying now.

"I'm sorry..."

"Maybe you want a turn? Well, go ahead - fuck me! Make me scream like he did!"

He slaps me across the face and hugs me, stroking my hair.

"Shh, son. You did good. I'm proud of you."

Proud... of me?

I slowly put my trembling arms around him.

"Why did you let him-"

"Go get cleaned up, Harry."

"Yes, Dad..."

I head up to my room and get into the shower. I cry for a good hour. I get out and get dressed. I force myself to vomit into the toilet, hardly anything comes out, and then I brush my teeth. I grab my box cutter and cut into my abdomen. I look into my full-body mirror and see the marks that man made. Bruises, fingernail marks, bite marks, hickeys... I cut myself for every vulgar word he said, every pet name, every moan. I have twenty tiny cuts on my abdomen. All for you.

I wake up in horrible pain. My whole body is sore and aching in every place.

Horrible dreams...

A dreaded depression falls over me and I get out of bed painfully. I get dressed into my day clothes and try to head downstairs. But I get frightened because I don't know what Dad will do next. I start to cry and I can hardly breath. I wipe my eyes and prepare myself. I walk into the living room. But then I remember.

Oh, yeah... Dad is at a meeting.

I sit down at the table and cringe from the pain. I sigh and put my head in my hand, closing my eyes from the headache developing. My thoughts start drifting into yesterday.

Don't cry, sweetheart. You were actually pretty good.

I squeeze my eyes shut harder. I try shaking the thoughts away, but I can't.

You a virgin? I bet you are...

"Correction: was!"

I get up and knock over a chair in a rage. I scream.

"Fuck you, you bastard! Why?! Why do you hate me so much, Dad?! What did I do?!"

I fastly walk over to Dad's office and slam the door open. I walk over to the drawer and open it, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from it. I slide all the stuff on his desk onto the floor and sit on the desk. I open the bottle and take a sip, then I spit it out onto the floor. And then I start chugging it.

This is so disgusting...

After a little while, I start to feel lightheaded and I swing myself around to lay on the desk. I hug the bottle to my side and give a little smirk to myself.

You're so tight.

"So fucking tight..."

I bring the bottle to my mouth and take a gulp. I start choking a little and turn to my side. A picture was still on the desk from where I slid everything off. It's a picture of me, Mom and Dad.

What a happy family.

"Bitch."

I throw the picture at the wall, cracking it. I start gulping the whiskey again.

I'm drunk...

I start laughing loudly.

"God, I'm such a whore. A fucking slut."

My cuts start to itch and I scratch them until they start bleeding a little.

I hardly feel hungry anymore...

I look over at the clock on the floor.

Three p.m.

I close my eyes and then open them again. I look at the clock again.

Five p.m. What? I was asleep for two hours?

I start to feel nauseas and I sit up. I pick up the whiskey and hop off the desk. I keep drinking out of it. I still feel drunk.

What's in this stuff?

"I'm so... wasted."

I start laughing again and head into the living room. I stop in my tracks when I see Dad staring at me. Shocked, I'd say.

"Hey, Dad... Want some?"

"Harry! What are you doing?"

I go over to him and hug him. He doesn't hug back.

"What's wrong? Aren't you proud of me, Dad?"

I chuckle into his chest. I bury my face into him further, like a child.

"You're drunk."

"I love you, Daddy. Even if you did sell me to that pervert."

"Give me the bottle, Harry."

"No!"

I pull away from him and stick my tongue out like a child.

"Harry... I'm getting angry."

"Ooh... What are you gonna do, hit me?"

I laugh into my bottle and take a couple gulps.

"Or! Or! M-maybe you'll rape me? You know, for the greater good."

I squint my eyes and feign mock understanding. I smile at him and I can see he's fuming.

"Why are you getting so upset, Dad? Just ignore me. You're good at that."

He rushes over to me and I start to get scared. He raises his fist and I cower. I raise my arms to cover myself.

"No... I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry. Don't hit me."

He visibly calms down and quickly takes the whiskey away from me and places it on the floor. By then, I'm crying. I sniff and look at him.

"Harry... I know you're cutting yourself."

My heart races horribly and I quickly look away. I start to walk to the stairs, but he grabs my arm and stops me.

"Don't you walk away from me."

"What do you care?"

He says nothing, but lifts up my sleeve. He grimaces and sighs, as to indicate frustration and annoyance. I pull my arm away from him and hug myself. I sit on the stairs step and start crying again.

"Harry, stop it. Crying doesn't befit an Osborn."

I say nothing and just stare at my hands, still crying.

"I'll take you to a psychiatrist. I'll make the appointment tomorrow."

"I don't need a damn psychiatrist, Dad!"

"Then what do you need, you defiant child!"

He pulls me up from the step and holds me by the arms. I yelp as he slaps me across the face and throws me against the wall. I hit my face and I fall to the floor. I feel too weak to even move, my whole body burning. I start breathing heavy, hyperventilating. He raises his fist over me, but before he can hit me there's a knock on the door. He straightens himself out and looks down at me.

"Answer it."

I shakily get up and try to make myself look presentable despite the blood, bruises and tears. I wipe away the blood and open the door.

"Yes?"

"Hey, Harry. Woah... You don't look so good. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Look, Pete, this isn't such a good time right now."

Dad steps up behind me and I jump.

"Nonsense. Come in, Peter."

Peter walks in and Dad shuts the door. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and whispers.

"Watch it..."

I start shaking and I can't keep my teeth from chattering.

"Harry! You're face..."

"I... I- Flash beat me up."

I laugh nervously and look down at the floor. Peter looks at me like I'm lying, then looks aways. I feel tears brimming, but I blink them away.

"Come, Peter, sit. How was your day?"

"Great, thanks."

"Harry, get peter a drink."

"Yes, Dad."

I go to the kitchen and I start to feel lightheaded. I grip the sink and try to balance myself.

"You need some help, Harry?"

Peter goes to get up, but Dad stops him.

"He's quite alright, Peter. He just has a cold."

I open the fridge and pull out a can of soda. I go back to Peter and hand him the drink.

"Thanks, Harry..."

I sit down on a chair with pain. I look down at my hands and start fiddling with them.

"So. How's school, Peter?"

"It's... going good."

Peter looks over at me with obvious concern. He takes a sip of his soda. About thirty minutes pass as Dad and Peter talk about random things: school, science.

"Well, I'd better go."

No, don't, Peter. Please...

"See ya, Harry..."

"Bye, Pete..."

"Goodbye, Peter."

He leaves and Dad shuts the door behind him. Dad turns to me with a scowl on his face. I cower a little and draw my arms to my stomach, the hunger getting to me.

"Can't you keep your composer for even a little while in front of people, Harry?"

"I'm sorry-"

He walks over to me and I flinch and back away. He grabs my hair and yanks my head to one side, putting his lips next to my ear.

"Trash my office again, and I'll do worse than just strike you, Harry."

I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. He throws me to the floor, knocking the air out of me, and walks into his office. I hear the door lock. I lie there in silence, staring at a beetle crawling next to my hand. I get up and I let the bug crawl onto my hand. I walk over to the front door.

"You don't want to be here, little guy. It's not a happy place..."

I place the bug on the outside and shut the door. I decide to clean myself up and take a walk. I put on my jacket, even though it's not that cold outside, and head out. I spend about an hour and a half walking, then I head home. I open the door and remove my shoes and jacket. I still feel the buzz of alcohol in my head and decide to go throw up. But before I can, I spot blood on the wall where I landed when Dad hit me.

Damn it... I wonder if Pete saw it.

I get a washcloth from the closet and dampen it with bleach. I start scrubbing, which proves to be difficult when the blood has already dried up. I hear the lock to Dad's office click and Dad walks out.

"What are you doing?"

"There was some... blood on the wall. I'm cleaning it up."

"I see..."

He puts his hands behind his back and looks down. I finally finish cleaning up the blood, removing whatever stain wanted to stay, and got up. I put the things away and go to head towards my room, but Dad stops me. I look back at him.

"I... I'm sorry I hit you, Harry."

He pulls me into a hug and I don't know what to do. So I just hug back.

"It's okay, Dad."

I close my eyes and lay my head on his shoulder. My breathing is labored and painful, but I don't care. He pulls away from me, lifts my hand and places a hundred dollar bill in it. My eyes widen and I just stare at it.

"Now, make sure you don't mention any of this to Peter. Understand?"

I nod and he walks back into his office. I close my eyes and start crying, crushing the hundred dollar bill. I throw it into the garbage, grab the whiskey from the floor and slowly walk up the stairs to my room and shut the door. I look over at the clock.

Eight p.m.

I take off my shirt and start slowly cutting my hip with the box cutter. I watch the blood rise from each cut I make. I smear the blood across my chest and abdomen. I sit on the edge of my bed and start drinking from the bottle again. The buzz I have increases, and I lie back, letting the new wounds separate further. I feel the blood slowly drip sideways down my abdomen. I close my eyes, letting the buzz engulf me. I take another swig.

I'm proud of you.

I smile.

"So proud."

I fall asleep for a few minutes, but shoot up when the door is slammed open.

"Dad!"

"Harry! Are you cutting yourself again? Damn it, what did I tell you?"

I quickly get up and grab my sweater. But he yanks it out of my hand. He looks down at the cuts I made. I try to cover myself with my arms.

"Oh, come on, Harry. Maybe if you didn't do shit like this, I wouldn't have to put you in your place."

I look away, ashamed.

It's my fault... I deserve all of this.

"Are you drunk again, Harry?"

"Dad..."

"Damn it. Do I have to hide the alcohol? Or are you going to keep your filthy hands off of it?"

I don't say anything.

"Well?"

"Fuck you."

"What did you just say to me?"

I deserve this.

He angrily walks over to me and punches me in the eye. I feel shocked. I didn't expect him to punch me. I cover my eye and groan in pain.

"Get cleaned up."

I don't move and turn slightly away from him.

"Now."

He slaps me against the head and pushes me towards the bathroom. I enter the bathroom and wipe away the blood I smeared earlier. I disinfect my fresh cuts, take a deep breath, exhale and walk back out. He grabs me by the wrist and pulls me down the stairs into the living room. He pushes me over the back of the couch.

"Don't move."

I hear him undoing his belt and I know what's coming next.

"Please, Dad! Don't!"

"You like cutting yourself so much?"

"No, Dad..."

I start crying and I hide my face in the frame of the couch.

"No? Then what is this, huh?"

He points at the cuts on my arm, twisting it back.

"Ow! Stop!"

"No!"

He starts whipping me with the belt. Lash after lash, I scream out. With each lash he speaks.

"You. Fucking. Disobedient. Brat!"

He finally stops and I shudder in pain, each rise and fall of breath increasing the pain. I drop to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Dad... I know I d-deserve it."

He pants, out of breath from whipping me with the belt. I continue crying, feeling the blood drip down my back.

"Stop crying, Harry!"

I try to get up, but I feel too weak to move. I grab onto the frame of the couch, back stinging horribly. Dad sighs and puts his arm around me to help me up. I turn around slowly, trying not to make the pain worse. I look at Dad and notice there's some of my blood on his suit. I quickly avert my eyes and head upstairs. I hear Dad on the phone downstairs, but I can't make out what he's saying or who he's talking to. I carefully take out my phone and dial Peter's number. I let it ring and he answers it.

"Hey, Harry. What's up?"

I start crying.

"Hey, Pete..."

"Are you crying? What's wrong?"

"Can you come over, please?"

"Why? Is everything okay?"

"Please, Peter?"

"Okay, sure. I'll be right there."

I hang up the phone and sit on the edge of my bed. I try to take deep breaths, but I can't. My breath just keeps hitching, tears shedding quickly. I don't bother putting my sweater back on.

After a few minutes, I hear knocking on the front door and Dad answering it.

How did he get here so fast?

"Peter, what are you doing here?"

"Sorry, Mr Osborn, but I'm here to see Harry."

I hear footsteps up the stairs and then a knock on my door. I quickly get up and open the door from the back.

"Harry?"

"Pete..."

He turns around and gasps.

"Harry! What happened?"

"Shh!"

He lowers his voice.

"Did you do this to yourself?"

I'm still crying as I answer. I look down.

"Yeah..."

"Why, Harry?"

"My Dad hits me, Peter."

"What?"

"He tried to... touch me. And he let some sleazy man rape me.

Just a few minutes ago, he beat me with a belt. It's still bleeding."

"Harry... Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

He's obviously angry with me...

I sit on the bed, the smell of blood light in the air.

"Will you disinfect my back for me, Peter? Please?"

"Of course..."

He grabs the medical supplies out of the bathroom and begins to clean my wounds. I tell him everything. All about the cutting, the vomiting, not eating, rape and abuse. Everything. He finishes and I put my sweater back on.

"I don't know what to do, Pete. I'm so scared. But I deserve it. All of it."

"No, you don't! What your father is doing to you is not your fault!"

"Yes, it is! I'm nothing but a disgusting, fat, dirty whore."

"Oh, Harry... You know that's not true. Your father let that dirtbag rape you. He's disgusting, not you."

"I don't know why I called you, Peter. It's only going to get me in trouble. I'm sorry for causing you trouble and dragging you into this. Thanks for cleaning my wounds, but can you just leave?"

"You actually expect me to leave after what you've told me? No way."

"My Dad will beat me senseless if you don't leave now. I don't know what he'll do after that..."

"He could kill you, Harry. I'm not letting that happen."

"I want to die, Pete. At least in death, my father will finally be proud of me..."

"Listen to yourself, Harry! This isn't you. Come live with me. You can stay as long as you want. Get away from him."

"No. I know my dad loves me, Peter. You just can't see that he does. Now please leave."

He gets up, his pain and anguish obvious on his face. He slowly opens the door and heads downstairs. I follow him and watch him leave out the front door.

"I'll be back, Harry. Don't you worry."

"Harry, what did he want?"

"Nothing... We were just discussing a school project."

"I see."

I walk upstairs and into my bedroom. I finish the rest of the whiskey and lie down on my bed.

This alcohol is really getting to me... It's like I've been drunk all day.

I laugh. A few minutes pass by and I start having thoughts of Dad.

Why won't he accept me? What does he want from me? I remember... I remember. He tried to touch me.

"Maybe that... that's what he wants..."

I look over at the clock.

Ten p.m.

I get up from bed and head into the living room. I almost trip over my own feet and then lean against Dad's office door. All I hear is typing and jotting. I scoff and enter the room.

"Harry. I told you to knock before you come in. What do you want?"

I walk over to him and sit on him, a leg on each side.

"Harry! What are you doing? Get off of me!"

I put my face next to his, lips to his ear.

"I'll satisfy you... If that's what will make you love me."

I close my eyes and start slowly kissing him.

I'm so disgusting... My own father. But if he'll love me...

I unzip his pants and start to take out his member, but he stops me by grabbing my wrist.

"Harry, you're drunk. You don't know what you're doing."

I try to be as seductive as I can, despite my disgust.

"I know what I'm doing..."

I start kissing him again and actually take out his member this time. I slowly start stroking, my heart pounding. I keep my head on the side of his, as I hear him moan into my ear. I silently cry as I continue stroking, his member hardening in my hand. I whisper into his ear.

"You can f... fuck me if you want..."

Suddenly, he throws me off of him and stands up. I turn to look at him, eyes still wet with tears. He's panting, zipping his pants back up, hair disheveled.

"Harry... Get out."

"But Dad-"

"NOW!"

I quickly scramble to my feet and exit his office. He slams the door in my face and I hear clanking glasses on the other side. I start to feel extremely sick and I run to the bathroom. I kneel in front of the toilet and the alcohol makes me vomit whatever I have left in my stomach. I get up and flush the toilet. I wash my hands and brush my teeth, then head for my room.

What was I thinking?

I get to my room and lie back on my bed. I yelp immediately in pain and exhale slowly.

"I can't do this anymore."

I place my hands on my eyes, sore from the punch one of them took.

I feel so horrible, so sick. I feel like I'm about to die... Why can't I do anything right?

"Damn it! Maybe it is better if I just kill myself..."

I walk over to my window and open it. I look down the many floors of the building to the ground.

"Would you care, Dad...?"

I lean on the windowsill and take in the fresh air. The wind blows through my hair. I close my eyes.

How can I be so nonchalant? What I just did with my father is unacceptable. How can I even live with myself? I feel like I'll never get clean.

I walk away from the window and over to my box cutter. I hold it in my hand and sigh.

I don't want to do this anymore...

"But what am I supposed to do?"

I roll up my sleeve and do what seems to come naturally. I cut into my flesh, blood rising slowly from the wound. But this isn't enough anymore, it doesn't give the same rush it did a few days ago. The night has changed my flesh. It wants something more now. I walk over to my desk drawer and take out my lighter. I flick it and hold the box cutter over the fire. I let it burn for a little while, then inhale a deep breath.

You need this...

I pull the knife away from the fire and quickly apply it to my flesh. I cringe and squeeze my eyes shut, a slight sizzle emanating from my arm because of the sweat. I take it away from my arm and exhale. Sweat is starting to sprout from my forehead. I hold it over the fire again and repeat the process. After I'm done, I see brown marks in the shape of the box cutter on my arm. I lean my head back and relief washes over me. I know the marks will soon be blisters and it will hurt more than ever.

Good.

I go over to my mirror and inspect my face. The bruise on my mouth has faded a bit, but the bruise on my eye is fresh and ripe. I have a split lip and a small bruise on my brow. The lashes on my back start to sporadically sting and I arch my back in response, resulting in more pain. I lean on the edge of the desk, arms shaking.

I want to see you, Dad...

Why have things been like this lately? Or, should I say, why have things been worse lately? If I don't talk back, if I keep my mouth shut, maybe things will be different. If I had just spread my legs for that guy without complaint, maybe things would've been okay. At least on the surface.

I slowly straighten myself out and walk back over to the window. I put one leg through, then the other, sitting on the edge of the window. I lean over and reach to get my phone from my desk. I open Peter's number and start a text message to him.

Hey, Pete. Thank you for everything you've done. I know you wanted to help me, but it's too late for that now. Although, knowing you, you'll probably still try to help. You're a good guy like that. But I can't do this anymore, so I'm going to let go. I've done unimaginable things with my father and he's done worse. But I can't bring myself to hate him, no matter what he's done to me. But I do hate myself. That's why I have to go. You're the best friend a guy could have. Promise you'll remember me... - Harry.

I send the text and then open Dad's number to start a message to him, too.

I LOVE YOU. - Harry

I hit send and look at the time on my phone.

Eleven-thirty-six p.m.

I start shaking as I slide myself closer to the edge.

Tears slowly fall down my face as I look down.

I love you, Dad.

I hope I made you proud.

THE END

Inspiring Songs:

Bent - Matchbox Twenty

Do You Like It - Our Lady Peace

Paralyze - Tila Tequila

Perfect - Marianas Trench

Say Something - A Great Big World

Perfect - Simple Plan