Forgotten Souls

000. 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

PROLOGUE.

WORD COUNT :
1,925

I SAT on the intolerable chair, squirming to find a more comfortable position as I stare at the math problems ahead of me. They seemed to get progressively harder each time my mother had given me the stapled stack of papers that I had always spent the day avoiding.

For a brief, brief moment, an idea crossed my mind. If I had just been done with the extra work my mother had given me, I'd be able to play with the other kids in the street for once. I couldn't remember the last time I had played tag with them, and part of me yearned for release. Release from these math problems made for students two grades above me. The numbers and multiplication signs had always blurred together as if they'd never existed apart. It'd be so much easier to not finish and just go play outside.

I shoved it to the back of my mind, knowing the consequences of preforming such a "heinous act", as my mother would call it. My mind wandered to the beating I'd received for not completing my work in the small time limit my mother had given me just a few days ago.

I had learned my lesson. It was best not to push the limits I'd been confined to.

I shook my head absently, swallowing my saliva and feeling as the substance slid down my dangerously dry throat before I stared down at the papers. The problems on the page seemed as though they had been blended together with a paintbrush in the hands of an artist, much like the painting that hung above the table I sat in front of, or the masterpieces that I'd been forced to study at the museum my mother had often taken me.

I remembered being dragged along to the museum the first time, after claiming that it would have been boring to send me somewhere just to have me take notes on the art pieces. A not-so-fond memory made itself apparent. That same day, at the museum, I had complained, and she had just told me to save it until we got home. But, alas, I didn't heed her warnings. I kept complaining.

That was the first day she had hit me, engraved in my memory like a lingering warning. After she had sent me up to my room and denied my request of being fed dinner, she came in with a remorseful look on her face. She had promised me that she deeply regretted her doings and swore to never do it again.

But she did. She did it again, and again, each time only hurting more than the last.

My father had always looked the other way - maybe it wasn't on purpose. His eyes were always glued to the television, and he was always to drunk to care, or notice.

I looked down for something, anything, to distract me from my own brutal thoughts. My eyes caught on the desktop's many indentations. The desk I sat at was made of hickory wood that was scarred with the marks of pencils and long years of use. The desktop had been a familiar sight for me, being sent here everyday at noon. I had grown accustomed to the scratches on the top of the unstable table - it reminded me that no matter how many scars you have, as long as you're strong, you can still live. You can still have a use.

I flinched when my mother placed a calloused hand on my shoulder, squeezing for what I assumed was reassurance, but the pressure she used suggested otherwise. I knew she had been here to check how far I had gotten on my work, and in all honesty, it wasn't a lot. Not nearly enough for my mother to be happy with. A loud sigh sounded from behind me, and I prepared myself for an aggressive and angry, yet also disappointed, lecture.