I stand there, shirtless, wailing. Mother sits below me on her knees,
slashing away at my chest with a knife. I don't know why she is doing this
... all I can say is that it's painful ... Oh God ...
"Damnit, brat! Stop crying!"
I feel myself sniffing back a tear. "I'm sorry, Mom, but it hurts too much."
"How do you expect to lead an organization if you can't endure this? Now smarten up. You're so pathetic that I'm embarressed you're my son."
That statement consumes my soul. I stay quiet, to reduce any further insults.
She stops, dabs my shirt against my bloodshed chest, stands, and walks away. Once she is gone, I collapse to the floor. How much longer will she abuse me? My body has been devoured with scars since age three, and I'm now seven.
It makes no sense, really. Despite the mental, physical and sexual abuse she has striken upon me, I love her. I'll never understand why. Probably because she brought me into this world. But... isn't that a bad thing? I've never wanted to be alive. I've always been in an abyss, while other children complain about broken toys and not being allowed to go to carnivals by themselves. My life is pure misery.
Why does she do this to me?
I wonder when Dad will come home. I haven't seen him for two years. Mom probably killed him; the last night I saw him they were in a major fight, and mom was weaponed. Still, though, I don't like to think of it that way. Maybe he just left? Why didn't he bring me? What have I ever done to deserve being abandoned and left to suffer with Mom?
I enter my bathroom, and lean against the shower door, locking my knees in the protection of my arms. My chest is still bleeding, but that's okay, because it'll dry up eventually, if I don't die in the process. I don't care if I die, though. Anything is better than this.
Agile footsteps softly press upon the cement floor of the corridor. I hear them edgying closer to me ... closer ... closer ... I bury my face into my knees; not willing to face another episode of abuse.
The entity is now in the room. I feel it gently feather its hand in my hair. This isn't Mom. She wouldn't do this. I look up. The woman with the purple hair and teal eyes; the agent Mom is always giving orders to.
"It's all right now. Everything is going to be okay, I promise," her compassionate voice tells me. I reach over and hug her, crying, while she strokes my back. Is this the feeling of love between a mother and child? I wouldn't know.
When she finally pulls away, she smiles. "Sakaki, even though your mother is not proud of you, I am. I will always be."
"I love you, Mom," I whisper.
She smiles once more.
"Damnit, brat! Stop crying!"
I feel myself sniffing back a tear. "I'm sorry, Mom, but it hurts too much."
"How do you expect to lead an organization if you can't endure this? Now smarten up. You're so pathetic that I'm embarressed you're my son."
That statement consumes my soul. I stay quiet, to reduce any further insults.
She stops, dabs my shirt against my bloodshed chest, stands, and walks away. Once she is gone, I collapse to the floor. How much longer will she abuse me? My body has been devoured with scars since age three, and I'm now seven.
It makes no sense, really. Despite the mental, physical and sexual abuse she has striken upon me, I love her. I'll never understand why. Probably because she brought me into this world. But... isn't that a bad thing? I've never wanted to be alive. I've always been in an abyss, while other children complain about broken toys and not being allowed to go to carnivals by themselves. My life is pure misery.
Why does she do this to me?
I wonder when Dad will come home. I haven't seen him for two years. Mom probably killed him; the last night I saw him they were in a major fight, and mom was weaponed. Still, though, I don't like to think of it that way. Maybe he just left? Why didn't he bring me? What have I ever done to deserve being abandoned and left to suffer with Mom?
I enter my bathroom, and lean against the shower door, locking my knees in the protection of my arms. My chest is still bleeding, but that's okay, because it'll dry up eventually, if I don't die in the process. I don't care if I die, though. Anything is better than this.
Agile footsteps softly press upon the cement floor of the corridor. I hear them edgying closer to me ... closer ... closer ... I bury my face into my knees; not willing to face another episode of abuse.
The entity is now in the room. I feel it gently feather its hand in my hair. This isn't Mom. She wouldn't do this. I look up. The woman with the purple hair and teal eyes; the agent Mom is always giving orders to.
"It's all right now. Everything is going to be okay, I promise," her compassionate voice tells me. I reach over and hug her, crying, while she strokes my back. Is this the feeling of love between a mother and child? I wouldn't know.
When she finally pulls away, she smiles. "Sakaki, even though your mother is not proud of you, I am. I will always be."
"I love you, Mom," I whisper.
She smiles once more.