Cold-Hearted

Chapter 2

CW: light descriptions of abuse

My father, Wilhem, was a calloused man, and I do not believe he was capable of being anything other than a hell-spawn. He was a nightmare to my entire family and I, and never did I dare bring my childhood friends around the house when he was home.

Well, my entire family, with the exception of my sister. Her name was Margaret Marie Richtofen, the perfect golden child. I was freshly ten years old when she was born into this cruel world, but she seemed to prevail almost immediately.

As soon as she was born, I was forced to be included in activities I had moved past when I became a toddler. My mothers attention was focused on her.

Be careful with her.

But I was not.

Because she was so small, I truly felt it would be inappropriate to inflict physical harm upon her, (even I have morals), but I found other ways.
I had broken her toys, made a mess of the blanket she was given as a newborn. My Mother was not a fan of that, and neither was my father.

His actions toward me took a turn for the worst around the time she was born, though I am not saying there was an absence of violence before her birth. It had just escalated toward me in particular.

I never understood how he could love her and not me. I was much less loved, and treated much more cruelly. And as she developed her personality, it stayed the same. She was treated so much differently than I was, and it did not take long for me to notice. I suppose I have always had a resentment for her.

My father wanted a son, and there I was. But he did not want a son for the purpose of the bonding experience of throwing a ball into a gloved hand, no, that was the very last thing he would want from me.

He wanted a son to discipline. To smack around at any inconvenience, to bully, to get a rise out of. And that he did.
He had traditional beliefs, and believed that men should man up. That men should be able to take a beating without a whimper to be heard.

My sister on the other hand, had grown up with life handed to her on a silver platter. My father would return from work with a new play toy for her, and a new belt to beat me over the back with. She was his priority, I was the punching bag for him after a stressful day at work.

My dear mother would come running as soon as she heard my wails of confusion and pain, only to watch her be treated with the same violence. I would consider hers to be worse than mine, because she would fight back, and he did not like that.

My mother certainly took many undeserved beatings, but he never got away in the condition he was when he'd gotten home. She would always leave a mark.

The same nails that so lovingly ran through my hair as a child, had also broken my own fathers skin. They had left scars. I always found it quite ironic that something I considered to be an act of love, could also be used as an act of violence.

I realize I have been using 'was' instead of 'is' to refer to my father. He is not dead, but he will not step foot outside as a free man another day in his life. He will rot inside a cell, unloved. Knowing he has not a person in the world.

Maybe he will be beaten to death! Last I heard the other inmates were not treating him with kindness.

I hope he feels what my mother felt as she died, if he is to be beaten. I want him to know how it feels.

He handled her like a rag doll.

I will not forget what he did to my darling mother, Eliza. And I don't think anyone who knew my family will. The news of it was shocking, disturbing. The state in which her corpse was in was even worse.