Aged 9 years old
Dad came home smelling of cheap lager and peanuts. Mum was not pleased at this. But nevertheless she made sure it was all okay for him to get to his room. Mycroft and I were having an intellectual game of scrabble in which I was winning. Well, he would say he was winning but he was my brother, he always had to win even if it was fictional. Dad shouted lazily at mum to go make him a cup of coffee. Mum obliged.
Dad leaned over and said something inaudible to Mycroft before turning to me. "What the fuck are you still doing up at this hour?" He bellowed. I jumped and got up, ready to go to bed. He grabbed me by the shoulder and threw me down to the ground. The first kick in the stomach came as no surprise, it was customary for him to greet me in this way. Kicking and kicking and punching me till I was a bloody mess on the floor didn't stop him from kicking and punching.
It was fruitless to plead with him and his relentless torture. Kicking and punching, kicking and punching.
Mycroft jumped onto dad's back. "Get off of him!" He shouted. Dad threw my brother to one side knocking over the table where the scrabble sat but he made no attempt to beat my brother up. Kicking and punching again and again.
"ROBERT!" mother's voice screamed as she saw the carnage. He continued as if she hadn't spoken. She leapt forward and threw the coffee over him. He shouted in pain running out of the house. Mum helped Mycroft up before rushing over to check me.
Summary: Three cracked ribs, a broken nose four cuts and a bruised cheek. Not that bad, it could have been worse. Mycroft helped me to my feet and we made our way to our room before mum came in with a stock load of bandages and such.
She sang a lullaby as she wiped us down. Crying softly as she did so. After about an hour or so, mother checked outside. Dad had passed out in the snow. Tiredly she went outside with Mycroft and dragged the drunk into the warmth.
She too cooed at his scald wounds. Tears falling thick and fast down her cheeks. Mycroft stayed in the room with me, leaning on the doorframe watching mother and father together in the front room. He looked too and from our room across the hall into the living room.
"Mycroft," I muttered a little drowsy from the dose of calpol mum had given me. He looked over at me.
"Don't try and talk," He said coldly. He didn't mean to be cold. It was just the way he was. "Just go to sleep."
…
I woke in the morning feeling sore and uncomfortable. I rolled over and looked at the clock. It was early. Mycroft was snoring heavily beside me. Sighing I got up and made my way through to the kitchen. Dad was up already though he must have had a sweltering hangover and his burn wounds must be smarting some. They were mostly around his hands which had been bound up tightly; by mother I assumed.
He smiled over at me. "Here's my lad," He said happily. "How about some breakfast?" He showed me the pan with some sizzling bacon in it. I stared at him, hatred boiling deep inside me.