The morning air was thick and hazy, suffocating the child as he laid beside his mother, weak and shaky breaths the only sign that the life hadn't been drained from her, that, and the loose shudder that racked her body as her hand, dotted with crimson milk, cradled an open wound. The youth's young eyes could only see so much, take in so much; between the instinctual need to aid her, the maternal, and the take cover from the dark shadow that loomed just beyond his view, he was torn.
His voice, small and weak, made little difference as he turned around, trying his hardest to ward away the beast in his midst, though it only came out a mess of whimpers and snivels, the mucous and phlegm in his throat so thick that all he could manage was a pitiful gurgle as a reply. No matter what, he could not find his voice; not when he was alone like this. Yet all of the same, the boy huddled closer, tighter, ignoring the feeling of the woman he'd sworn to protect pulling away from him, cradling her with his tired arms, despite his very soul screaming, begging for him to get away, and out of the way, of the rough, calloused hand that reached from above.
He was afraid, but he had to try.
'No', the boy stood firm within himself, and in turn, where he sat, unmoving, 'I have to protect Mama. I won't leave…' An affirmation so primal, so intrinsic that even when he felt himself being lifted from his rooted place, his safety and sanctity of the murky, muddled carpet, and even when his feet dangled in the air, he wouldn't relent; trying his hardest to harden his expression. Heart thrumming wildly in his chest, his small body quivering with such renewed fear and anxiety that its tangible.
There was no other choice but to.
In that same moment, that man, no, that monster, was before him, fist stock still and firm with his tattered shirt in his grasp, and through all of that, that was some more that made the child's blood run as cold as ice, even having seen them many moons ago: his eyes. Behind the vacant, black abysses of those inky pools was an animal that waited, that prowled, amongst the dark corners of his irises, and deep down, the child knew it would have to feed. He just wished it would not have to be them to satiate its hunger.
Who else would do it? There was only him, now and forever.
Alcohol and tobacco wafted along, flooding his senses, and despite himself, he reeled back, squinting his eyes to avoid the pungent mist that filtered through his every pore, his every orifice, permeating through that man's very body; it made the young boy feel ill. That stench, one that clouded his mind and body, made it difficult to filter his thoughts, as it always seemed to be in the older man's presence. Eyes watering, stinging the corners of his eyes with a tempting pull that made them want to fall, but he refused to let them go. Not here, not in-front of him, but as that crooked smirk tore at his worn features, wrinkling them into a horrific grin that pulled his skin ear-to-ear, he knew that looked all-too-well, filling him with a barbaric, almost animalistic sensation that was his normal, his default.
Fear.
Just him against the world…against himself.
"Now…I thought I done told 'chu not to touch my shit. Didn't I, boy?" The drag he took from the cigarette in his grasp was strong and as if waiting for an answer he idled, but the boy knew better, learned better, seeing his demise in his words. Knowing that if he so much as uttered a word, his fate would be sealed. Time after time, he'd been given this lesson yet, time and time again, it was the same lesson, the same test. The older man would repeat himself, even after so many times, after so many of the same threats, the same outcomes; though the child would never admit it, it was never any less terrifying.
What other choice did he have but to try, to fight?
Eying the boy, the older man chortled, each thunderous cackle causing his thick, burly arm to shake, throttling the boy to and fro. Abruptlly, he stopped, bringing him closer to his face, their eyes, azure blue to pitch black, meeting so closely that the child could see the slightest of yellow tints permeating what was once his normal sclera.
Even when it was a losing battle, he pushed, he pulled, anything to find his way.
"I see whatcha tryin' ta do here. Wizened up, huh? Or are 'ya just tryin' to act all big for that stupid bitch over there? Don't look like she appreciate that too much, do she now?" Dismissively, he grunts, and another drag was taken in, and like a kettle on a stove, spews out the miasmic fumes, the morning glow from the clouded windows appearing more and more unfocused and hazy, and for the child, the air more smothering; the sensation of his lungs clogging, gagging, was far too great for him to the resist the deep, bellowing cough that ripped its way from his chest. Behind him, he heard shuffling, coughing, and with a quick, bated turn of his head, craning his tiny neck as far as he could, the boy met his mother's soft, weary eyes.
Despite everything, he felt something.
Despite this, he was safe when she was there…right?
Yet even so, his effort was for naught.
"A-Allen, please…don't hurt 'em. I-It's my fault. I shouldn't have…I shouldn't have told 'em to g-get it. I should have gotten it for you, so just…don't hurt 'em, okay?" At this point, however long it had been, his neck was beginning hurt, the fabric of his shirt, as tattered and worn as it was, it was the only thing really keeping him off of the ground, and dangling several feet in the air was hard on his fragile body, trying his best to use his grip to keep himself off of the ground.
There was nothing he could do to change his fate.
The child would have been relieved to have been released had he not been thrown back to the earth below him, landing with a crude thud upon his back so suddenly that the air was ripped from his lungs, waves of pain silencing him with every attempt to right himself again. Above him was his mother, and regardless of the seemingly endless ache, he felt at ease, her tender, hands lifting him into her lap, rubbing his back soothingly.
With all of that effort, no fruit were bore.
"Breathe, sweetheart. It's okay-" For a moment, things seemed alright, and he hadn't noticed the former break the distance between them until there was another thud behind him once more, and a shrill cry that made his heart stop in his chest, whilst in that same moment, the child, winded and disoriented, was flung from her hold. Shoved aside, his soft head collided with the leg of a chair just out of reach, it was a moment before he could gather himself again, and through a blurred, fazed vision he spotted them, and through his ears, rushing with fluid, she could hear her…screaming.
No matter how he screamed, cried, and begged…
On frail arms, he propped himself up, watching with wide eyes, motionless as each punch from firm, merciless hands, each kick from his steel boots, coated his mother's body, breaking her sobs with every impact until they devolved into stifled whimpers as the moments wore on.
It did nothing to stave off the terror in his heart.
"P-Papa…no, don't hurt her. Don't h-hit…Mama." Honestly, he wasn't sure if he'd heard him, or if he wanted him to at all, the fear, the anxiety, the terror, weighing so heavily on his mind, his body, that he was left trapped, trembling violently as he tried his hardest to pull himself from the ground; he had to do something, anything, to get him to stop.
The fear and anxiety that settled so deeply into his bones, it threatened to devour him whole.
Anything to make him look away from her, anything at all, and with his strength, as small as it was, the child found himself lifting himself from the ground, standing with wobbly legs and stumbling forward clumsily; there was no plan, no thoughts, just movement, action. Picking up a piece of a broken wooden chair, old and mottled from age and insects, the child, in all of his shaking, tears, and anguish, began to close the small distance between them, as silent as he could muster, even as the carpet complained with each step that he took.
And had that child known that it would in due time, was there any point at all in trying?
He didn't want to look at her, look at what he was doing, keeping his eyes on the back of his legs even as they swung wildly, a few times coming far too close for the young boy's comfort, the dirtied sole of his father's boot winding back so far that it had practically grazed his chest. If he could just get close enough, just within his reach, he could get his attention.
If he could just get him angry enough at him, then maybe, just this one time, he could save her.
Would he have risked his life to propagate change? To feel the world hold him, to comfort him.
Her cries were soft, barely audible over the careful rage of the man who was so much larger than him, so much stronger than him, and still, even in the midst of all of this, his cigarette remained lit, unfettered by the activity its owner committed below. Every so often he would take a drag, deliver a kick, take another drag, then punch, take another drag, rain down with stomp after stomp; it seemed more and more like it was a game. A process, a ritual, something so familiar that regardless of the anger and vitriol that the child knew his father felt, it was methodical to him, the same as he had always done.
Or would the opposite happen?
All the same, the ritual rang true for the boy as well, as with one weak swing at the back of his legs, it stopped, just like that.
The same moment was spent gazing up at overcast eyes and plumes of velvet smoke.
To be fair, Allen appeared amused, endeared, even, for as he kneeled beside the boy, taking in a handful of his golden locks, the older man almost seemed, crazy as it may sound, proud of his son, and yet, it was with the moment dead and gone that the child felt his world twist and warp, realizing that he was being sent into the adjacent wall, thrown as a child would a doll they no longer cared for. Tossed away so suddenly that by the time he had heard the resounding pop from his arm, the child could hardly process it, nor the way that his arm hung loosely from his shoulder, limp, useless.
That child, knowing that the world hated him, would he finally give in?
"You done gotten bold huh, Mikey? You really want me to fuck you up 'dis badly, boy? 'Cause you know I don't mind none, since you wanna go pickin' fights and shit. Ain't that right, Mira?" Placing a firm, filthy sole upon the woman's face, relishing in the disjointed groan that slithered from her gullet, he focused his attention on the Mike, one of which was just peeling himself from the floor, wracked with aches and pains. He had his attention now, it was working.
Allowing the demons to feast on his weary, worn soul?
It was better him than Mama.
"No, I just…s-stop hurting Mama! It was me who broke your bottle. She was c-cooking, so I went to get it for her, f-for you. I didn't mean it, I promise-" An object was thrown at him, just narrowly missing his head before he could duck from the impact, the shock of the moment so jarring that he barely had time to defend himself from the first blow to his cranium, tossing the child to the ground so sharply that his head collided with it. Through the fog of his senses, Dash could feel it, the burning, searing sting of a cigarette butt to his fragile skin, leaving a fresh reminder that stained his cheek. At this, the tears that pricked his eyes had finally fallen, the pain too great for him to resist the pull of defeat. Leaning down, he yanked the boy up by his arm, he pulled him close, just by his ear so that he could whisper.
What could he do? What could be done?
"You think I give a flying fuck what ya were trying to do, huh? You think I wanna hear your goddamn excuses, boy?! 'Cause I don't think I do, but you knew that already, didn't you?" Using all of his strength, he jerked his hand downward, throwing the battered child back onto the ground, and the onslaught of kicks and punches began, all the while ranting over and over, his face cherry red and sweaty, and in those swirling, inky pools there was only rage.
He would wish on a star, pray to a god, but in the end…
"What have I told you about touching my stash, huh?! You think 'dis is a game? You think I won't fuck you up, huh?! You done tested my goddamn patience enough already, you stupid little prick, and now you think that because your dumb cunt of a mother told 'chu to do somethin' that gives you the right-"A kick was sent into his ribs,"…to touch-"A punch to his side,"…my shit?!" All the while, he was silent, unable to speak; it hurt so much, and he just wanted him to stop.
Why wouldn't he stop? Why did he hurt him, hurt Mama?
He didn't mean it, he really didn't. It slipped from his fingers; he was too small, too clumsy.
He didn't mean it.
He didn't mean it.
He didn't mean for this to happen.
He just wanted this to stop, and after what seemed like forever, it did.
He couldn't tell whether he'd passed out or if he'd stopped abruptly, but above him, through the rushing of blood through his ears, he heard his father sigh, and felt the warm sliminess of saliva dribbling down his cheek, the jostling feeling of a broken rib, and warmth the trickled from his nose.
Beyond him, he could hear grunting, muffled cries, and like that, he'd fallen away.
He was damned, and he knew that all too well.