Helloooooooo readers! Welcome to chapter three of The Unwanted Son! Please let me know of any errors or inconsistencies I make, all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Thank you for reading this far!
A special thanks to J.E. Foxina for being my first reviewer on my first story! Thank you very much for your feedback! It is nice to know that the story is off to a good start!
Last time I checked, I never wrote down a chapter of a story on a napkin while riding a train. Yup, I'm still not J.K. Rowling, and do not own Harry Potter.
And without further ado... CHAPTER THREE: The Love of Father! ENJOY!
"FREAAKKKKKK!" A loud clattering sound jolts me awake as Father bellows and spews profanities. I sit up suddenly, wincing as the movement jostles my injuries and causes my head to spin. Father throws open my cupboard door as I stand, arms behind my back and eyes averted.
"G-good morning father. How was your trip?"
"YOU WRETCHED, STUPID, RETARDED BRAT! PETUNIA SAYS YOU HAVE BEEN BAD!"
I know what he expects of me. Father likes it when I tell him of my misdeeds myself, so he can be sure that I know how much punishment I deserve. I know better than to lie, because Mother will have already told him about everything I did. I must be careful; if I tell him too little and miss something, I will be in severe trouble. On the other hand, if I elaborate too much or mention something that Mother did not notice, it could makes my punishment worse. Swallowing hard, I begin.
"Father, I was a terrible, good-for-nothing freak. I neglected to provide proper breakfast for Mother and Dudley. I resisted punishment from Mother. I returned home late after school. I did not complete my chores. I apologize."
"Anything else?" Father sneers at me.
"I-I defiled your floor, Father."
"Defiled? How?" I can tell Father knows exactly what I did. I know what he is doing. I am to tell him exactly what happened myself, for further humiliation.
"F-father, I urinated on your floor while standing in the corner as punishment". Father's smile widens.
"Boy, you are such a pathetic waste of life, you can not even properly obey instructions. When we tell you to stand in to corner because you refuse to listen, you are not able to even do that. Instead, you wet your pants like a baby. You have the gall to then not even clean up after yourself, instead lazing about in your cupboard until I return home. I think you know what you need to do."
Yes. I do know what comes next. I slowly walk to my cupboard and retrieve one of my few possessions, a thick leather belt with a shiny silver buckle. I use my thumb to scratch off a little patch of blood - Father likes the belt to be clean. I walk over and hand him the belt, turning around, pulling off my baggy and torn shirt, and placing my hands on the wall.
I take a deep breath and have just begun to let it out when- "CRACK!" The belt lashes against my back. I feel as though Father has painted a stripe of fire across my back. Mercilessly, Father builds up a rhythm, giving me enough time to feel the acute pain of each stroke, but not enough to feel any relief before the belt strikes me again. After about eight strokes, a hiss of pain escapes through my gritted teeth. My legs quiver, and I collapse to my knees, crying out in pain.
"BOY! STAY IN POSITION YOU WORTHLESS FREAK!" Father turns the belt around and whips me again, the buckle wrapping around my thin frame and lashing me in the stomach, leaving bleeding scratches and a raised welt. He then grabs my upper arm in a bruisingly tight grip and drags me to the shed, shoving me inside. I whimper as I fall and twist my ankle. "You better mow the lawn and weed the garden NOW! No slacking off! And NO DINNER!"
As Father stalks back inside the house, I limp over to the lawnmover. As the hot sun beats down on me, I trudge back and forth across the line, fighting to remain standing. My stomach feels hollow with hunger, and I press my arm against my abdomen to quell the stabbing pangs of starvation. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. My face is pale and gaunt, and my oversized rags hand off of my painfully thin body. My arms shake as I push through the pain, and my back burns with pain with every step I take. I can feel trickles of blood leaking out of some deeper lashes, running down my back. Finally, I have finished all of the gardening as the sun begins to set.
"M-mother? May I please have some food? Please?" I beseech Mother, knowing that I need to eat food soon. I will not survive much longer in this house without food.
"Food? FOOD? You heard your father, you disobedient brat! No food today!"
"Please, Mother, please? I need food!" I can feel blood trickling out of my parched, cracked lips as I beg Mother. She throws half a bottle of tepid water at my head. My arm streaks up and catches it before it makes contact with my face. I whisper a quick "thank you, Mother" before slinking back to my cupboard. I mean to save some of the water, but as soon as I take a sip, my thirst intensifies, and the rest of the bottle dissapears in a few quick sips. I then lay back in my small cot, trying to find a position that does not pull or press on too many of my injuries, before I drift off to a restless and uneasy slumber.
Thank you very much for reading! As always, please review and let me know what you liked, what you hated, and what I can do better! Cookies for everyone :)