Everlasting Scars || Ongoing

Chapter 27

Malakai's POV

Alcohol. It's the worse kind of addiction. I truly believe that. So, as I'm sitting here, downing my second bottle of rum, I actually feel sympathy for alcoholics. Not my father though. My father was the worst kind. Verbal abuse would tumble out of his mouth, always directed at my mother or me. Financial abuse was his favourite hobby, always splashing money out on casinos, strip clubs, drugs. 

The worst of his drunken traits was definitely the physical abuse. Once he reached that level of cruelty, there was no going backwards for him, no recovery in sight, no getting the professional help he needed. I hated him. With every ounce of my being. 

I had two escapes. Fighting and school. I dreaded when school ended, so much that I participated in every Goddamn after-school activity there was. I participated in every sports game, offered to tutor other students, just so I didn't have to go home.

We lived in New-York at the time, so it wasn't uncommon for underground fighting. I joined a club, got to take my anger out on others. It soothed me in a way. But it was also the beginning of my downfall. 

The euphoria that I felt from causing physical pain was addictive to me. Just like the way that alcohol was addictive to my father. I relished in it. Even after my parents died, even after I witnessed my father get blown to pieces, but I still wasn't relieved. God no. Because he took my mother with him. The selfish bastard had to take the only person who loved me away from me. Now that is someone not worthy of my forgiveness. 

I wasn't as afraid when the beatings became a regular thing. Not like I was in the beginning. The first time my father laid his hands on me, I felt fright like never before. I cried for days after it happened, became a walking prisoner in my own home. I was afraid to even look in his direction, never mind speak a word to him.

But even that wasn't the most traumatic thing he put me through. 

The sight that made my heart break in two was the day I caught him beating up my mother. My sweet, sweet Camille. The day I saw that woman take hits straight across her face, her stomach, her back was the day that I wanted him dead. I'd never wish for anyone to die at that point but I swear I could feel my nerves heighten with rage. Red, hot boiling rage. But I never stepped in. Never protected my mother. The only other feeling that overpowered my anger was my cowardice. I was still a child. A six year old child that was absolutely mortified by the actions of my father. 

I remember trembling at mention of his name. I remember locking my bedroom door the minute I heard his footsteps echo through the house. I was totally and utterly terrified. 

My mother knew this. She knew it and it broke her. It broke her so much that she promised she wouldn't let him touch me again. She kept her promise. But not without consequences. Every beating that was meant for me never happened again because she took the blame. She begged my father to not touch his own child.

So yes, as I finish off this bottle of rum in my hand, I sympathise with alcoholics. The ones who are hurting. The ones who are suffering. But the ones like my father? They deserve the absolute worst that hell can offer. 

I was ten years old when I had my first fight. I lost. The kid was three years older than me, he was your typical school bully, nothing more of a coward himself. I stumbled my way home that night, couldn't breathe through my nose, had dried blood all over my face.

The minute my mother saw me she broke down in tears. She held me all night. She kissed a million kisses to my forehead. She cleaned me up. She showed me love. 

The minute my father saw me was the most opposite of reactions to my mother. I remember him gripping the kitchen counter as he could barely walk. He took one glance at me, laughed and clapped his hands as if he were proud. "Whoever gave you that black eye deserves an award," he said to me.