A/N: This story ties in with my other stories On My Honor and By the Moon's Light. This story is a prequel though, so it's not necessary to read those ones first. Just be warned, this story is kinda dark and not friendly.
He could usually tell if it was going to be a bad day or a really bad day just based on how he was woken up. On bad days he would be woken by shouting or sharp pulling at his hair. If it was a really bad day he would be woken by a sharp kick to the chest or by getting a bowl of cold water dumped on his head.
He never had good days. He didn't deserve them. One of the first things that he had learned about his lot in life was that things like him didn't deserve anything good.
That day when he woke up the first thing he noticed was that father wasn't there to wake him up far earlier than he felt ready to. He couldn't remember a day when his father hadn't been the one to wake him.
The second thing that he noticed was that his stomach was hurting a lot, and his entire body was sore and tired, even more than usual.
He was used to stomach pains. He was hungry more often than not, and his stomach frequently felt like it was eating him from the inside out. As for sore muscles, he couldn't remember a time when he couldn't feel the creaking of his bones and the aching of his muscles. He could only dream about what it was like to not feel anything at all.
This stomach ache and soreness was different than usual. It felt like all of his muscles were protesting and complaining at the same time. It wasn't too painful, but his mind still told him that he was in agony. As for his stomach, he still felt the hunger, but there was something deeper and stronger than that. The thought of eating food made that other feeling in his stomach twist even stronger, bringing a very familiar feeling to his chest and throat.
He knew what was coming. He tried to sit up and move to find a bucket or something, but his limbs felt so heavy and refused to move. It took everything he had to just roll over on his side right as his stomach lurched and he gagged and coughed as the contents of his stomach forced its way out.
He hadn't eaten a lot yesterday, so he didn't think that he would vomit too much. He couldn't be more wrong. For several minutes he gasped and sobbed as he continued to heave until his throw-up started to look almost clear, because he didn't have anything left in his stomach. Even then he kept going. He swore that the only thing coming out of him now was what little energy he had.
At some point during all of this he managed to finish rolling over so he could get his arms under him and push himself onto all fours. It made his body hurt, but throwing up felt the slightest bit easier.
By the time he was done and nothing else was coming out he felt absolutely exhausted. His arms shook and it was so tempting to just let them fall out from under him. He would collapse face first into his own sick, but he was so tired that he very nearly didn't care about that.
It took a ridiculous amount of will for him to push himself back instead of forward, though he couldn't keep himself upright. He fell back and hit his head on the cold, hard ground. Now his head was screaming at him, but his stomach felt a little bit better.
He laid there on the ground, whimpering and groaning as he just wished that he could go back to sleep. He was tired, and sore, and he couldn't really feel pain if he was unconscious. Relief didn't come to him though, and eventually his desire to just stay put was overcome with the need to get up and get the terrible taste out of his mouth.
He pushed himself up with a groan, shivering. It was really cold in here, but that was nothing new. The Dark Kingdom was always cold, and he didn't even have the slight protection provided by clothes. His father said that clothes were for people, and while he may look like a person he definitely wasn't. He was far too fiendish and beastly.
He didn't know what he was. Sometimes his father said he was possessed by a demon, but usually he said that he was a beastly mutt. Maybe he was possessed by a dog spirit, because he definitely didn't look like other dogs he had seen.
He didn't know, and right now he didn't care. All he cared about was getting water, seeing if he could find just a blanket or cloak or something, and then going back to sleep until his father eventually woke him up.
He crawled to the door and pushed it open, almost tumbling out because of his imbalance. He wouldn't be able to go on like this for very long. He pushed himself to his feet, though he had to clutch at the counter to support himself as he did so.
He didn't really have a bedroom of his own. If he didn't deserve clothes, why would he get a bedroom? As his father had told him multiple times as he'd pushed him into the large storage cupboard, he was lucky to get this much. He could just as easily be thrown outside and chained up every night.
If he was especially bad, or if his father was in a really bad mood, he might be tossed out just so his father wouldn't have to deal with him anymore. He didn't like those nights, and he didn't want to do that all the time. He'd take his cupboard any day. It wasn't big enough to stand up in, but he didn't need to stand to sleep, and that was all his cupboard was for anyway.
Besides, sleeping in a cupboard in the kitchen brought him that much closer to water. The less he had to be out and about, the better.
He looked around the small kitchen before quickly finding a cup sitting on the table. It looked like it had water in it. Feeling very proud of himself he grabbed the water and began to guzzle it down, only to cough, gag, and spit out as much as he could. It tasted like no other water that he'd had before, but it wasn't the taste that bothered him, it was the burn. It made his throat feel like it was on fire.
He grimaced and threw the cup. He whined and rubbed his throat. It still hurt, and now he felt like he was going to be sick all over again.
The door to the kitchen opened. He immediately took a step back and lowered his head as his father entered the room. The man looked tired and annoyed, like he usually did.
"Kid, what are you doing crashing around here?" His dad asked as he rubbed his forehead. "I'm not in the mood to deal with you today."
For the first time that day he felt a little relieved. When his father said he didn't want to deal with him it meant that he probably wouldn't get hurt unless he did something really bad. He just had to keep quiet and make it easier for his father to ignore him. Maybe he'd be able to go back to sleep after all.
His father was looking at him expectantly, and it took him a long time to realize that the man was actually expecting an answer. He swallowed thickly, trying to clear the thick feeling in his throat. "I-I…water." He went to the cup that he had thrown and picked it up, both to show his father and to pick up after himself, because he wasn't supposed to make a mess. "Bad."
"Bad?" Father grabbed the cup and examined it for a second. He ran his finger inside to catch some remaining drops and licked it. He made an odd face before chuckling. "Stupid mutt, that wasn't water, it was my vodka."
The boy tilted his head, confused. He wasn't familiar with that word, even though he was sure that he heard it before. His father's laugh deepened and he reached a hand out and roughly rustled his hair, tangling it up even more than it already was. The boy cringed back at first, expecting his father to pull his hair. When no pain followed he leaned into the touch. His father rarely touched him in a way that even resembled being gentle.
His father frowned ever so slightly as his touch lingered on the boy's forehead. "You're warm."
"Cold." He said without thinking. He wasn't supposed to correct his father, because the man always knew better than him, but he couldn't help it. He felt like he was absolutely freezing. He definitely wasn't warm.
His father raised an eyebrow, but fortunately didn't yell at him. He looked like he was only half awake, and that was probably the reason behind his rare patience. "You're cold?" The boy nodded. His father sighed. "Of course you're sick too. You probably caught something and passed it off to me."
He whimpered and hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself look as small as he could. He had done something wrong. He'd been bad, and his father was probably going to punish him for it, because he always did.
His father's eyes darkened and his grip tightened on his hair, pulling it sharply before letting him go. "I'm not doing this today. I just want to sleep this off." His father gave him a small push, but it was enough to make the boy stumble and fall to all fours. His father didn't care. "I don't want to listen to your whining all day. My cloak's in my room. You can borrow it just for today if you keep quiet and out of sight."
He couldn't believe his ears. He wasn't getting hurt, and he was actually going to be given a relief from his chill. He thought this was the first time that he was allowed to wear clothes when they weren't having visitors. It felt too good to be true, but he didn't dare ask for clarification. His father didn't like it when he talked in the first place, but especially not when he had specifically been told to be quiet.
He didn't give his appreciation, or try to find water, he just scurried out of the room as much as he could. He went to the front door where his father kept his traveling cloak, long and lined with soft fur. He wrapped it tightly around his shoulders, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt the softness and the immediate warmth. He still felt cold and uncomfortable, but it made him feel better.
He did his best to stifle his coughs as he staggered to the back of the house, as far away as he could get from where his father would probably be resting. The boy found an empty corner and curled up in a tight ball, burying himself in the cloak as he covered himself as much as he could.
His stomach was still hurting, but curling up made it just a little bit better. It wasn't long before he dozed off into a restless sleep. He could have slept the day away, but far too soon he was jerked to awareness by an angry shout.
He made a sound that was a cross between a growl and a whimper as he pulled the cloak closer. His father was angry, and when he was mad it was always the boy's fault. It didn't matter if he didn't think he did nothing wrong, his father would find a way to blame him, and he was right, because he was always right.
He hoped that if his father was sick then he wouldn't have the energy or motivation to come looking for him. Those hopes were dashed when he heard his father storming this way. He forced himself to sit up just as his dad rounded the corner and stormed towards him.
"You disgusting, ungrateful, filthy little bitch." His father grabbed his hair, pulling him up. He yelped and squirmed as he was forced into a kneeling position, and then further up. He scrambled to get his feet under him, but his father kept on pulling him up. He was standing on his toes, and Father was still pulling him up.
"S-stop." He whined as he reached for his father's hands, trying to pull his grip away. His father growled and kicked harshly at his knee. There was a terrible popping sound and a burning pain. He groaned in pain as his knee was dislocated, and that groan turned into a piercing scream when his leg gave out beneath him, increasing the pressure on his head. His scalp felt like it was on fire, and it felt like his hair was going to be pulled right out, but unfortunately held firm.
"Don't tell me what to do, mutt." His father snapped. The boy was sure that he was going to get his head shoved into the wall, but instead his father began to walk down the hall, pulling him along by the hair. The pace was quick and his hurt knee had a hard time keeping up with him, but his father didn't allow him to falter or fall back.
His father didn't say anything. He just pulled him into the kitchen. His father led him towards his cupboard and pushed his head down and through the cupboard door. He immediately saw why his father was so angry. His vomit was still there on the floor, partially dried and very smelly.
Not only had he made a mess, but he'd forgotten about it and hadn't cleaned up after himself.
"You're disgusting." His father said coldly. He sounded more disgusted by him than by the mess. His father pushed his head down, closer to the mess, and he panicked when he realized what he was doing.
"No." He twisted and kicked, but his father was stronger than him even when he wasn't sick. "No!"
"Enough, boy." With one final push his father shoved him face-first into the vomit. He closed his eyes tight and whimpered when he felt the slimy and slightly chunky gunk on his face. His nose was assaulted with the smell, making his stomach churn.
He couldn't breathe. Every time he tried he got more of a smell than air, and he was sure that he was going to be sick all over again, but he couldn't let that happen. If he threw-up and made an even bigger mess when his father was in the middle of punishing him for doing just that, he was dead.
Finally, when he didn't think he could take any more, his father pulled him back and tossed him onto the kitchen floor. He scurried and scrambled back as much as he could with his hurt leg, only stopping when he bumped into the wall. His father was stalking towards him, looming furiously.
His punishment wasn't over. It was just getting started.
He was scared, and a little confused. He was always getting hurt, but that was his own fault. His father only punished him because he was a bad boy. If he could be good then he would be treated good. His father wouldn't have to yell at him if he just figured out how to keep himself quiet. He wouldn't be forced to sleep in the cupboard if he could stop wetting himself in his sleep, ruining the bed any time he slept in one.
He hadn't liked having his face pushed into his mess, but he knew that his father had just been teaching him a lesson. He would always remember this lesson and do his best to not make the same mistake again. But whatever his father was about to do, it wasn't for a reason that he could understand. He'd already been punished for making a mess. Was this for fighting against him? But wasn't that why his knee had been hit?
His father reached for him, and he panicked. He felt gross, tired, sore, and hurt. He'd been through a lot more, but he didn't feel like he could handle more today. When his father reached out, looking like he was going for his throat, he reacted without thinking. He growled and lunged forward, digging his teeth into his father's hand and clenching down as hard as he could.
His father screamed, and it was like music to his ears. This time he wasn't the one being hurt.
"Get off!" His father shouted. The man kicked at him, trying to pull his hand back, but he didn't let go. He kept his jaw locked as best he could. Their struggle went on for a long moment as his father grabbed at the first thing he could reach with his free hand.
The boy's eyes widened when he saw the sharp knife in his father's hand. He was thinking of letting go of his father's hand after all, but he wasn't given the chance. This wasn't a warning, it was an attack. His father slashed with the knife, cutting across his nose. He let go of his father's hand with a scream.
He cowered and covered his face, curling up in a ball as much as he could. He clenched his teeth and whimpered. He could hear his father breathing deeply and yelling, but he couldn't understand what was being said. It all just sounded like a ringing in his ears.
For a long minute the two of them just sat and stood there, catching their breath. His father recovered first. The man grabbed his arm, pulling him up and pulling him along. He didn't know where they were going, he just knew that it couldn't be anything good, because it was never anything good.
He was pulled outside, and it was even colder out here than it was inside. He shivered as he was pulled into the yard. He knew what was waiting for him, and he didn't want it, but he was too tired to resist. He couldn't do anything but let his father pull him towards the thick and short chain staked down at the edge of the yard.
He was pushed to the ground, and he couldn't find it in him to get up. He just laid there quietly as his father grabbed the too-small collar and secured it around his neck. The boy expected that to be it, that he would just be chained up back here, but his father wasn't done yet. His father planted a foot on his neck, forcing him down.
His father took the chain and wrapped it around his wrists, restraining them right near his neck and making the short leash even shorter. He didn't have enough room to even sit up. He was stuck just curled up on the ground, with the chain digging into his wrists and the collar making it hard to breathe.
His father said something to him, but he couldn't understand it. He just laid there, uncomfortable and tense. He was given a harsh kick in the stomach, and all the hard work he'd done to not be sick went out the window. He coughed and gagged as he spat out stomach bile, because he had nothing else in his stomach.
His father made a sound of disgust and stormed off back inside, leaving him alone, once again lying in his own mess.
He whined and adjusted himself to try to keep the chains from digging into his wrists too tightly, but it just made it more uncomfortable. His throat was burning, and his mouth had the lingering taste of bile combined with the blood that dripped down from the cut on his nose.
Everything hurt, and he had nobody to blame but himself. He should have kept his mouth shut. He wouldn't be out here if he hadn't talked back to and bit his father. He should know his place by now. Fighting it just made everything worse.
Sometimes he wished that his father would do what he frequently threatened and put him out of his misery. His father wouldn't have to deal with him anymore, and he wouldn't be hurt and in constant pain. They would both be happy, probably for the first time in either of their lives. It would probably be the first true kindness that his father ever did for him.
That was probably why his father didn't go that far. He didn't deserve any kindness. Beasts like him who couldn't contain themselves even for their own good shouldn't be shown mercy. All this pain he felt, he deserved every bit of it. He knew he did, but that didn't keep him from staring up at the moon and hoping that it all would end.
He didn't really care if that relief came from the release of death, or if he was shown mercy that he didn't deserve. He just wanted all of this to stop.