It's a pretty small house, poorly taken care of. There are weeds everywhere, growing up the white shingles that haven't been white for a long time. The inside is worse. Empty bottles of different types of alcohol are everywhere- some have been there for months. It's only ever cleaned when people come over, which is rare. Boxes of takeout are littering the table sitting in front of the ratted, old couch.
In front of the couch is a kid- Gavin. He's small, thin. Six, maybe seven. He's in crappy clothes that are too big for him, stained, old, ripped, dirty. He's on his bottom, lip wobbling and tears quickly building in his eyes as he desperately tries to crawl backwards, away from the man towering over him and stumbling closer. The man holds a half-empty bottle in his hand. There's a drunken rage in his eyes as he screams at the boy. The kid whimpers as his ears ring from the harsh yelling, stuttering out terrified apologies, but nothing seems to placate the man.
"-weak faggot, not in my house-" he hadn't meant to do anything wrong, really. He'd just held hands with a boy in his class, cause they were sitting outside next to each other. His only mistake was not dropping it when his father's car pulled up to bring him home.
"Get in the fucking car," he had growled through gritted teeth, and Gavin had had no choice but to obey, despite his quickly growing fears.
"Sorry, Caleb. I gotta go," he'd mumbled, taking his time climbing into the car, though he'd scrambled in when his father turned to glare at him. He wished now that he'd turned back, begged Caleb not to let him go, not to let the man take him, but he hadn't. He never did.
"I-I'm so-orry, da-daddy, I-I-I-" the kid forces out through the scared sobs that wrack through his small body, but he can't breathe and the words can't make their way past his tight chest. Maybe the apologies would be enough one day, but that day isn't today. His arm aches from struggling in the man's bruising grip, from trying to get out of the hand that had crushed him as it dragged him into the house, leaving the plastic store bag that held his school supplies in the car.
The man had already been drunk when he'd gotten into the car to pick Gavin up, and had been drinking the whole way back, and that was the bottle he held in his hand as Gavin finally managed to slip out of his grasp, only to fall on his ass. It was the same bottle he held when he turned on Gavin, chest heaving with anger, it was the same bottle he held when Gavin had started crying in fear, and it was the same bottle he smashed down onto Gavin's face a moment later in a blinding fit of fury.
The child screams out, hand flying to his face in pain and panic. At least the man seemed satisfied enough now that he'd caused irreparable damage. He held the neck of the bottle in his hand, keeping his fingers away from the broken end of it as he stumbled away, mumbling darkly to himself about 'the bitch leaving a fucking faggot with him, can't believe her'. The kid is wailing, able to feel the slash running across his nose and down his face. That'd leave a scar.
He's covered in beer now, and he'd have to make his way to the shower eventually to wash the alcohol and the blood and the tears off of himself, but he can't find the energy in himself to do so. His cries eventually quiet down.
Sniffling quietly, he laid there, still holding his face. He couldn't stop shaking, and he hated it, he hated being weak. He hated crying. Maybe his daddy wouldn't hate him so much if he were less weak. Maybe his daddy wouldn't hate him if he hadn't held that boy's hand. Maybe.. he doesn't know.
But the child, laying there, shaking, crying, holding his face, swore to himself that he'd never show weakness again. For his own sake.