"Wounds heal and become scars, but scars grow with us."
~Stanislaw Lec~
"You son of a bitch." The full weight of his twelve year old, undernourished body slammed into the drunkard midsection, sending both of them sprawling to the rough plank floor.
The larger, inebriated man shook off the frontal assault easily, the boy getting in his way once more, as he went for the bitch. How dare she nag at him about how he spent his goddamn money. The kid was weak, just like his mother. She couldn't even have dinner ready on time when he got off from work. He was the breadwinner in this house, he shouldn't have to put up with this shit when he came home.
The scraggly kid had a small trickle of blood trailing down his face from where he had connect with the table earlier. Now his entire side was bruised from tackling the old man. His vibrant blue eyes burned with a steely hatred as he struggled to get between the s.o.b. and his mother.
The woman watched in horror as his husband shattered the bottom of the beer bottle he was holding by the neck and held it out, his arm outstretched in her direction. She shrank back in fear, praying her little boy would have the sense to stay out of his way.
He jumped up just as the soused old man took a swipe at his mother and felt the cruel prick of the broken glass pentrate his skin, gouging a deep wound in his bony shoulder. Dazed, he sank to the floor in agony as blood gushed from the injury in copious amounts. He tried to wave his mom off as she screamed shrilly, torn between running for help and her maternal instinct for her only son. He watched her helplessly as he was dragged down the dark narrow hall to his parent's bedroom, his mother following, powerless to stop the stranger her husband had become.
He took a heavy rope and tied the brat to the radiator, unmindful of the burns which the young boy would be very likely to receive if allowed to remain there too long. He turned on the bitch, who looked horrible, her dress in disarray, her makeup smeared like a whore's. That's all she really was - no boy of his would ever turn on his father that way. The kid was yelling bloody murder as he struggled to free himself from his bonds. No sense in waking the neighbors, so he thrust one booted foot directly in the boy's ribs.
He went limp, the pain that ravaged his body was excruciating. He could only see dimly his mother slowly back into the corner, then the old man backhanding her across the face. In a moment out of time, he recalled how pretty his mother was, he was so proud of her, even the other guys at school commented on her. Now all he could see was gore marring her creamy complexion, the light traces of the welts that were sure to appear.
She could feel herself flying through the air, landing with a crack between the dresser and the wrought iron bedframe. She sagged, her head lolling as she felt her energy draining into the floor. He picked her up again, with those big hands she had so always admired. She couldn't remember the day or the moment exactly when his caress had changed into hurt, but she couldn't even summon enough strenght to help her son. What kind of mother was she....to not be able to protect her child?
He ripped the bodice of her dress, hastily fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. He didn't care that an innocent was in the room with them. He took his pocket knife, used on so many jobs before - each one of them he couldn't keep because of the damn union bosses, or the Negroes, or whatever excuse came into his mind. He slit the rest of her dress, along with her underdrawers until they exposed the bare skin beneath. He thrust into her, and relished in the moans of the wrenching pain produced by his body on hers. A drunken, maniacal gurgle of laughter bubbled from his throat as he put the bitch through the paces.
The heat from the radiator was becoming extremely uncomfortable against his bare skin. He was able to nudge his shoes off, but in the position he was tied, he could not seem to get his socks to his hands. He needed something desperately to protect his arms and hands from the searing metal. His shoulder burned, not only from the wound but from the kneeling position he had been forced into. Oblivious to his mother's screams now, he sought only for a way out of the pain.
Goddamn it, the whore tried to get away. How dare she!
As she tried to crawl from the bed, towards her injured son, her eyes swollen from the multiple blows to the head, he grabbed her foot and pulled her backwards. Still she fought to be with her son, to release him from the Hell that had become their lives. She had crawled far enough to barely touch his thin arm when the world began to dim around her. A warm wetness flowed over her shoulder and down the side of her face as she leaned towards him. The blood spattered a random pattern on the wooden floor as she slowly recognized the cold seeping over her. The last image she beheld was that of anguished and hurting azure eyes. Her head lolled forward, the knife buried hilt-deep between her shoulder blades.
He watched her die......and he couldn't do anything to stop it. The challenge, the scream of denial,....NO.....wouldn't come. His hands and wrists were burned raw from rope and radiator, his ribs bruised and broken by booted feet, his shoulder seeping, his control gone.....All he wanted to do was follow her.
He woke up, his sheets drenched in sweat. Tonight was the same as most nights, he only got a few hours sleep before the dreams would come. Usually they weren't quite so vivid though. He crawled out of the rumpled bed and stumbled to the bathroom. He stared at the mirror, at the young face and cold blue eyes....he had seen more in his life that most men twice his age should.
He got dressed quickly, knowing he had to get out of the stuffy apartment and off to work. Work was the only thing for him anymore. He stuffed his wallet and badge in his pocket, his pistol in the shoulder holster, and walked out into the early Los Angeles morning.
But he was a survivor, and he would survive another day.....