A little bit of a different take on this. From our "favorite" Dad. ;)


sheltered

It's different with him.

With Darry.

I don't mean to hit him.

I promise I don't; I just get angry, or sad, or depressed,

and everything comes out.

But it's different.

I can see him.

I'm not blinded by my anger, my lack of compassion.

I can see him.

In his entirety.

In his small, meek, and innocent form, and yet I still rag on him.

I can see the tears.

The pain.

The anger.

The sorrow.

I can see everything.

His mother was never this weak, this defeated, this pitiful.

His mother was never this broken.

He falls apart in my hands, like watered down clay.

Completely in my control.

He falls to my every command; something his mother never did.

Something she should've done if she wanted him that badly.

He falls to me, begs to me to stop, to let the pain stop.

I don't.

It's too late for that.

He screams as I enter him.

It's like music to my ears.

Strong, beautiful, yet agonizing music.

He cries to me; his pain is bright, like the sun has trapped itself in his gaze.

His eyes bore into mine.

"Stop, Dad, please-"

I can see it.

The anger.

The conflict in his eyes.

"Stop."

A broken soul.

My broken son.

He screams again.

My beautiful, tragically broken, limp as a wet ragdoll, son.

His lips move in another complaint, another beg.

I hear nothing but the screams.

I slowly leave his body, watching him.

Watching the heat of agony rip through him, watching the tears that fall down his face.

I stroke his hair with one hand, brushing the tears with the other.

He flinches into my touch.

I smile and kiss his forehead.