My first fanfiction on this site. Criticism is appreciated. Feel free to point out any mistakes or thing that aren't so clear
Peter sat on his bed huddled into a corner. The cold words from his mother kept replaying themselves in his mind and wracking his brain completely against his will. His mother's shouting echoed from the kitchen, no doubt aimed towards his father, who had yet to say a word. Though it was unlikely he would
The bitter winter air from the open window just added harshness to the already cold atmosphere. He stared out the window and into the street. Green wreaths with red ribbons and bells were hung on doors, with icicles hanging from window panes and snow covering the rooftops.
Christmas Eve, Peter mused ruefully, and here I am, hiding in my bedroom from my mother.
He thought about what his friends would be doing with their families. Would they be watching Christmas classics with their siblings? Or sitting in front of a fire with their parents, drinking hot chocolate to keep themselves warm?
That's what normal families did at Christmas right? Peter wouldn't know. It had been so long since they'd celebrated Christmas-or anything else really-that he could barely remember what it was like. His last proper Christmas must have been at least six years ago, before his mother changed.
From the little he could remember, Peter recalled getting a toy he'd wanted for months. The glee he'd felt at the time as he'd tore away at the red wrapping paper to reveal a box with the word 'Scalextric' in bold letters. He remembered squealing with delight when he'd seen the flashy racing cars on the race track, drawn to give the impression of a race.
That day his mother had smiled. Not the fake kind of smiles she gives to the world, to fool them into thinking they were a happy family, but a genuine, happy smile. Even his father had been happy.
That was before his father had a mental breakdown and started to struggle through depression.
The box of his old Christmas present caught Peter's eye where it sat winking at him from the corner of the room, mocking his situation and his ability to do nothing.
Oh, the irony
The shouting from downstairs had turned into screaming and three certain words stood out to him.
"I hate you!"
A phrase frequently used in this household, whether it be the exact wording or similar variants.
Which brought Peter to his earlier train of thought.
When he had come home after giving Christmas cards to various people, Peter had found his mother in the kitchen with a bottle of wine in front of her, staring passively at the wall, violet eyes empty and dead. Knowing this was the calm before the storm, Peter had attempted to sneak to his room unnoticed.
It didn't go quite to plan.
Before he could register what was happening his mother had burst with a fit of rage and he was on the floor, subjected to a range of kicks and blows.
"Useless"
A slap.
"You ruined my life"
A punch.
"I hate you"
A kick.
"Stupid piece of shit"
A punch.
"I hate you"
The sound of a door opening from the hall captured Peter's attention but it did nothing to deter his mother from her destructive path. As an empty voice called out for his mother she snapped her head up and sharply replied.
"What?"
Appearing in the doorway was a tall man with glasses. He looked towards his wife with blank eyes, devoid of any positive emotion.
"What do you want?" an impatient voice snapped for a second time.
"I wanted to know if you were home." His father's voice was devoid of feeling as he mumbled but his eyes filling with fear as he assessed the situation.
An almost empty bottle of wine, Peter cowering on the floor and a furious Tino standing above him with eyes filled with hot fury. Things weren't looking good.
Peter watched as his mother's anger, directed towards him only seconds ago, find a new victim in the man standing before them.
His mother started shouting things like "you're a useless husband" and "you're a lousy excuse for a father". All Peter could do was watch his father crumble beneath the weight of the words.
Sensing the opportunity, he scrambled up from the floor and clumsily bolted for the stairs as if his life depended on it. But then again, for all he knew, it could do.
His mother spared him no glance or any sort of attention as he fled, far too focused on verbally beating her husband. But his father did.
His eyes said a million things at once as they locked with Peter's.
Run.
Help me.
Hide.
Don't leave.
But despite his conflicted emotions, Peter fled to the stairs as quickly as he could, taking them two at a time and hiding himself in his bedroom, wishing that his door had a lock.
But no, mother had seen to that.
And now sitting on his bed in the dark, Peter found tears rolling down his cheeks as he grimaced at the memory, recalling the way his mother beat him without a second thought and the way his father had looked so lost and broken.
But what could they do? They were both trapped. Trapped by the fear and horror and dread, knowing there was no way out.
Beneath his clothes, Peter felt bruises forming, cracking his delicate skin that should've been unmarked but instead was covered with scars.
Exhaustion finally made its way into the child's body and he collapsed into his mattress and single pillow. His head was pounding and it hurt to move, the adrenaline and fear that gave him the strength to escape finally ebbing away, making room for other emotions to eat away at him until he fell asleep.
As he thought one thing crossed his mind.
It must be true, mustn't it? All those things his Mother said. If they weren't, why would she say them? Mothers were supposed to love their children, weren't they? So why didn't she love Peter?
The only answer he could piece together from the mess in his created by his mother was one that had been staring him in the face all along.
He was just so utterly useless that he didn't deserve his mother's love.
But that didn't make any sense. All children deserved their mother's love. Why shouldn't they, no matter how useless or completely stupid they were.
But then why?
As Peter felt the comforting darkness of sleep begin to embrace him, he fell into its arms and let it steal him away into unconsciousness.
But before he could truly escape, Peter could've sworn that he'd seen his door crack open-just a fraction.
The last words he heard before falling into slumber, echoed around his head, even while sleeping.
Barely a whisper.
So quiet he wasn't sure he'd it, but there all the same.
"Mother hates you"