Freaks: Year Two

Sometimes You Just Had To Wait

Descriptions of child abuse and suicidal thoughts.

Toby truly hated the house he lived in.

He didn't hate it all the time – or at least not the extent that he sometimes did. Some days were fine, others were tolerable. He was used to hearing his parents fight all the time. He had learned to tune it out and comfort his little brothers if they needed it. He loved his siblings to death despite how much work they were to take care of sometimes – if not all the time.

But he really wished that his parents were actually his parents, and not people that he was scared of. He wished he had a Mum that took care of them and didn't just be there, and he wished his Dad actually loved them. If he did love them, he had the worst way of showing it.

His Father had come home drunk. Again, but this time Toby had just been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. He had gotten in his way and his Father had screamed at him, and started to hit him. Really hard. When Toby was being hit, his Dad ridiculed him about how stupid and useless he was. About how he wished Toby had not been born. About how he should know better by now to stay out of his way and to not put up a fight when his Father was punishing him. That was what his Dad called beating him.

Toby had started to cry because with each hit it brought a sting to his skin and that stinging feeling would then turn into a burning sensation and when he felt a sharp kick to the side of his stomach, he let out a sound that sounded like he was choking. He was choking. On his own tears.

When his Dad had finally noticed that he was crying, it just made his Father worse. "Crying? What are you? A baby?" his Father had spat. "Last time I checked, only little babies cry. Stop being a fucking baby, and grow up."

Another hard kick. It was his leg this time.

Toby had begged him to stop but he didn't. He never did if you begged. That just made him go on for longer. Toby knew that – that begging didn't work; Jasper had told him that. But it hurt in more ways than one and he just kept hoping that maybe this time, his Father would stop if he asked him to. Pleaded. Begged. Screamed.

Maybe this time he could look down, and see what he was doing to his own son.

"Maybe this will teach you to stay out of my way."

Toby had only been telling his siblings to go upstairs as he knew their Father was drunk and in a horrible mood. He was about to go upstairs and attempt to keep his little brothers calm.

Toby was about to stay out of his way.

His Dad eventually stopped. Toby didn't know when. All he knew was the feeling of the belt his Father had been using to strike him had stopped, the kicking and hitting had stopped, and his screaming had too.

The stinging, burning feeling had not stopped though.

He was now laying against one of the walls of the living room, not even bothering to move. It hurt too much to move. When he tried to, he felt pain shoot through his leg and tears sprung to his eyes. Don't start crying, he scolded himself. You're not a baby. Don't be a baby.

He stayed there for who knows how long. Minutes could have gone by, hours, but he didn't care. He just lay there, staring at nothing. Not that he could see much of anything right now with the tears blurring his vision. His whole body hurt. Just a dull ache. He hoped nothing had been broken and he didn't want to move to find out.

Well, something had been broken, but it had nothing to do with his body. It had been broken a long time ago.

He closed his eyes, wondering what would happen if he had just stopped breathing. Sometimes his Father's beatings got so horrible he thought he would die during them. This was one of them. The feeling that every hit would be your last. The brief wonder if the next one would be the one to make your heart stop. It all depended on how drunk and how angry his father was – how much would it hurt today? Will I make it? And today was one of those days where his rage overtook him that led him to take it all out on his child.