IV

Days passed in a blurry fog, so that every memory became erased in the face of cruelty. The little boy shoved his toys under his bed and threw away his teddy bears after his parents ripped them. His best friend visited often, but only to entertain his parents, who steadily ignored the little boy. Screams sometimes escalated into riots, and during these times of chaos, the little boy couldn't stop himself from locking himself in his closet and praying for a memory to occupy him.

It hurt. But the little boy didn't have time to complain or whine. He didn't have the luxury of acting like a little kid, not when bruises constantly littered his side and not when the other kids at school kept far away from him.

But sometimes, sometimes.. He'd dream. And those dreams were the only possession he had.

Dreams of getting sunburned in the sun, because he had played too long outside. Dreams of love, angels, girls. Dreams of his father fixing the sink or his mother twirling him. But most of all, he had dreams about his best friend. About traveling all around the world with him, or laughing over their favorite comics.

But then he'd wake up with only the faint taste of ice cream to remind him of those dreams. It was all make-believe, but it felt so good. It was like heaven, a beautiful heaven.

One day, the little boy woke up and he could almost smell the ocean, the lovely perfume of his mother, and the sunset. He forgot – that was all he did. With a smile on his face, he leaped from his bed and ran downstairs, ignoring the night sky outside and the darkness lingering in the hallway.

Even after all this, he loved them. He loved his parents, because they were his own parents.

But he froze when he got down to the living room. He didn't see parents – he saw two weak human beings, too fragile to break the marriage they were trapped in. He saw two beasts, two monsters with sick skin and manipulating hearts.

His father, once so handsome and proud, was a big mass of beer and shoddiness on a couch. And hovering above, like a vulture, was his mother who was screaming, forever screaming about inferiority and a worthless son.

If the boy looked harder, he would have seen the faded tears on his father's face and the dull, lifeless eyes of his mother. He would have seen how far they had fallen, how much they had suffered. Maybe, just maybe, the little, beautiful boy would have seen that the only ill people in the room were his parents.

But he couldn't, because the boy had sloughed off perfection a very long time ago. He crossed his fingers and hoped that they hadn't seen him, but too late, always late.

He was instantly spotted and grabbed by his mother's pinching nails.

"Just stop it! Stop scaring the little boy, you monster. You filthy, disgusting creature! I'm so sick of you that I can't even look at you anymore. What kind of husband..."

And on and on it went. Time made its parabolic circle around the boy's head, but the boy was too slow to catch it and make it his own. He watched as his father advanced towards his mother, rage on his drunken face. The little boy didn't know what was going on, why his mother had spoken for him. But he guessed that these two people were playing a game, a ferocious, terrible game with a language that only adults could understand.

"Look at our son. Look at how he trembles, because of your fat, stupid face. Did you know that he hates you? He told me so himself. He wants you dead, rotting in your grave."

A lump welled up in the little boy's throat, preventing him from defending himself. He loved his father! He loved them both! Why, why was his mother doing this? Didn't his mother remember how the little boy would pick flowers for her and how she'd put them in her hair for the rest of the day? Didn't his father know that the little boy cried himself to sleep every time he was ignored in favor of beer and television?

His father stumbled, almost as if his wife's words had attacked him, and slowly stared at the boy. The little boy could have sworn that there was a flash of recognition in those bloody eyes, but it was soon replaced by a look of drunken anger. His father shuffled closer to the boy, words spilling like the alcohol on his lips.

"You-you think you can stop me, boy? I'll do what I damn will. You.. you can't... you can't stop me."

The little boy's mother was speaking again, a cruel mirth hiding in her tone. "Son, help me. I'm your mother. Look at him, he's going to kill me. You must stop him."

And the boy couldn't say anything to this, because it was true. This woman was his mother. The clock's hands stopped moving and the silence deafened the boy's ears. He trembled as he slowly clenched his little hands into fists and brought them out to his sides. All the while, he knew that he would never hurt his father, because his father would never hurt him.

One punch. Pain. Betrayal.

That was all it took for the little boy to crumple to his knees, cradling his broken head in his hands. His father, in a fit of drunken stupor, stepped back and watched as the mother scooped up the child, smothering with her wicked scent and coos and pets. But the little boy could hear the fake tears, because he knew that he was just a tool.

In the end, that's all he ever would be.


AN: So I'm pretty sure that I suck because I haven't updated in a while. :( I've been busy with SATs and college stuff – but I'll have more time to update!

Please review! :)