Pietro sat on the floor of his bathroom, contemplating the day's recent events. His dad had called. This was an unnatural occurence, Pietro had thought Magnus had forgotten him. The mere sound of his father's voice repusled him, and rightly so. For his entire life Pietro had been subjected to the ever-rising standards of his father. He hated him. Pietro closed his eyes and let his memories take hold.
He was eight, and alone at home with his father. It was raining outside. "Dad, will you play a game with me?" A young Pietro asked, grasping the box with his slender fingers. When there was no response he prompted again. "Dad?" His eyes glanced over the table and in his father's large hand lay a bottle of some strong liquor. Pietro got annoyed. His father had promised to stop drinking. He promised! "Dad!" Pietro yelled, his voice rising. His father looked up, and the look he gave Pietro nearly made the boy faint. Magnus slowly raised from his chair and dropped the empty bottle. Pietro sensed that something was wrong and began to back out of the room. Magnus pointed and the heavy metal hinges on the door caused it to slam shut. Knowing that his father had malicious intentions, Pietro dropped the game and tried to sprint to the window. When he was halfway there the oven door flew open and sent him flying. Dazed, Pietro felt himself being lifted and was then slammed face-first into a wall. "Dad-" He cried, trying to squirm free as Magnus began to pound him into the striped wallpaper. "Shut Up!" He screamed, applying more force. His ragged nails ripped open the tender flesh of his son's back, and he only stopped when he saw blood. The worst, however, wasn't over. He let his injured son sink to the cold tiled floor and with cold hands ripped off his remaining clothing. Pietro was shaking in pain and fear, too beaten to run, and lay there whimpering and crying while his father entered him roughly. With every thrust Magnus pushed in farther, jamming Pietro's bruised and bloody body into the floor. His steel-like grip on Pietro's shoulders lessened when he came, and within minutes he rolled off of his son. Pietro didn't dare speak or move, partially because he wasn't able to. After what seemed like ages Magnus got up and left.
Pietro didn't notice but a tear was running down his face. The scars his father had inflicted on him then still marred his body today. His father had called to try and reconcile with his son, spend some time with him, no doubt to tell him a new plan. Pietro had angrily refused ang hung up before Magnus could protest. Pietro breathed in deeply, bringing up a stifling sob as he pressed a razor into his skin. Not deep this time, just enough to make him bleed. He watched as his blood flowed out of his wrists, oblivious to te pain. Ever since that episode with his father he had felt dirty-in need of cleansing. This was the only relief he ever got from real life, demented as it was.
He was eight, and alone at home with his father. It was raining outside. "Dad, will you play a game with me?" A young Pietro asked, grasping the box with his slender fingers. When there was no response he prompted again. "Dad?" His eyes glanced over the table and in his father's large hand lay a bottle of some strong liquor. Pietro got annoyed. His father had promised to stop drinking. He promised! "Dad!" Pietro yelled, his voice rising. His father looked up, and the look he gave Pietro nearly made the boy faint. Magnus slowly raised from his chair and dropped the empty bottle. Pietro sensed that something was wrong and began to back out of the room. Magnus pointed and the heavy metal hinges on the door caused it to slam shut. Knowing that his father had malicious intentions, Pietro dropped the game and tried to sprint to the window. When he was halfway there the oven door flew open and sent him flying. Dazed, Pietro felt himself being lifted and was then slammed face-first into a wall. "Dad-" He cried, trying to squirm free as Magnus began to pound him into the striped wallpaper. "Shut Up!" He screamed, applying more force. His ragged nails ripped open the tender flesh of his son's back, and he only stopped when he saw blood. The worst, however, wasn't over. He let his injured son sink to the cold tiled floor and with cold hands ripped off his remaining clothing. Pietro was shaking in pain and fear, too beaten to run, and lay there whimpering and crying while his father entered him roughly. With every thrust Magnus pushed in farther, jamming Pietro's bruised and bloody body into the floor. His steel-like grip on Pietro's shoulders lessened when he came, and within minutes he rolled off of his son. Pietro didn't dare speak or move, partially because he wasn't able to. After what seemed like ages Magnus got up and left.
Pietro didn't notice but a tear was running down his face. The scars his father had inflicted on him then still marred his body today. His father had called to try and reconcile with his son, spend some time with him, no doubt to tell him a new plan. Pietro had angrily refused ang hung up before Magnus could protest. Pietro breathed in deeply, bringing up a stifling sob as he pressed a razor into his skin. Not deep this time, just enough to make him bleed. He watched as his blood flowed out of his wrists, oblivious to te pain. Ever since that episode with his father he had felt dirty-in need of cleansing. This was the only relief he ever got from real life, demented as it was.