The brilliant petals of summer flowers fade and wilt, curling into pitiful brown lumps on the ground. Their strong stems--emerald, jade, ivy, and bottle green--weaken in intensity, become lighter and less pronounced. They become stiff and lifeless, dancing together to give off a rough, hollow tune when the wind blows through their midst.
Long, untamed field grains grow brown and crispy, rattling in the breeze like some mystical spirit song. Leaves fall softly, shades of brown, auburn, burnt orange, amber, peach, brilliant reds and oranges carpeting the bare ground at the feet of majestic oaks, maples, willows and birches. The sweet, heady odor of crushed rose petals fills the air. The edges of a small, gurgling brook are coated with dainty frost patterns.
I step over a fallen, decaying log, my footsteps muffled, even in the stillness. I kick up leaves, turning over the dark, frost-soaked side to the thawing powers of the sun. The faded, unsaturated appearance of the fields and skeletal shadows cast by the trees is eerie, almost macabre in its depression. The bright carpet beneath these trees seems so out of place in the gloom. What is their secret? What gives these little, insignificant shreds of life the right to be so damned happy?
I sigh. Surely, leaves do not have arguments with their fathers. They do not deal with deceit, drugs and alcoholism. They do not see their mother wasting away to nothing under the influence of their father's will. But leaves are stepped on, crushed, and forgotten. They are left outside in the dark, left to rot and decay and freeze in the bitter chill of the world.
Just like me.
I sneer with contempt. Every family has its problems, and every child thinks theirs is the worst. But, you see, mine are. Every time I look upon my father's pale, deceitful face, I know this to be true. Every time I see my mother's tears—the ones she tries to hide from me, her ten-year-old son—I know. Every time my father stumbles to my room at night, drunk, I know. My family has problems any well-to-do person would shudder to contemplate.
"Draco, I'm going to teach you a game," he whispers. I can smell the firewhiskey on his breath.
"I don't want to, Daddy," I say, snuggling into my blankets. His face turns red and he wrenches me out of bed.
"We're going to play a game, and you are going to like it," he says. His voice is rough, his words slurred. He presses his hand to my cheek, runs his fingers along my young, undeveloped body, and I cringe, try to pull away.
"Daddy, stop," I say, closing my eyes, trying to block out the feelings.
His hands roam my bare, pale body, covering every inch before he reaches the place I hate for him to touch. He runs his long fingers over my small penis, and despite how I hate the man, I love the feeling, and blood rushes to the area, making my penis stand erect. Tears run down my face because I know this is wrong, I know this is bad and I hate it, but my body loves it.
"Daddy, please, stop!" I say, pushing against his broad shoulders in a futile attempt to get him off of me. His fingers probe my entrance, and I pull away, tears streaming down my face in the darkness. His liquor-filled breath wafts across my face, and I hold my breath. After all is said and done, after he's had his fun and his arousal is satisfied, he leaves me--shuddering, cold and violated--in the darkness of my bedroom. I cannot be here, in this place. It smells of him, reeks of his deceitful presence.
It's a game. It will be fun.
I dress swiftly and make my way silently to the kitchen, out the side door into the gardens. I breathe deeply, inhaling the dark, bitter winter frost, clearing my mind and body of his presence, his touch. I cry, teardrops freezing on my cheeks. I rock forward and backward, arms locked around my knees, until the tears stop and I fall into a fitful sleep. This is a routine in my home. Whenever my father has been drinking, or has had an especially horrid day, he will do this. Why he does not go to my mother's arms for comfort, I do not know. He simply has his way with me and casts me aside.
My father is sick, and he hides it from the world with his lies. He hides it from himself with the bitter taste and sweet numbness of the drink.