Pacific Bell High

> XIX <

Martin walked through the large double doors that led him to the huge waiting area. The chandelier shone brightly and the grand staircase's white marble was polished. To the left of the entrance was the doorway to the living room and one for the library. On the other, the dining room and the kitchen; the quarters for some of the house maids and the entry to the backyard.

Upstairs were the rooms in which Martin and his parents resided in and each room had their own bathroom. There was a guest room and a full bathroom right next to it. The only other room that wasn't one to sleep in, was his father's study.

"Welcome home, Mr. Martin." Ronald, the headmaster of the home, greeted as he held out his hand. A grim expression was on the elder man's face.

Ronald worked in the house ever since Martin was born, so he also knew what happened behind closed doors. Which meant. . .

"Where is she?" Martin demanded as he handed Ronald his book bag.

"In the master room, sir." Ronald answered. Martin gritted his teeth and rushed away from Ronald and rushed up the stairs.

He knocked twice on the first door next to the staircase. He barged into the room and stood at the doorway, looking at the back of his mother — who had turned her face away from the vanity mirror before her, but not enough for Martin to see.

The room was spacious. The king bed looked more majestic with the dark oak canopy and sheer gold sheets. The theme of the room was red, gold, and dark oak.

The walls were a rich creme white and the large windows behind the bed brought sunshine into the room, lighting up and exaggerating the beauty in it.

A room made for a queen.

Unfortunately, she shared it with a monster.

Martin swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and rushed up to his mother.

"Martin, don't—"

He laid on the wall and looked down at his mother, who hung her head in shame, then looked at what she had before her: makeup products.

"Where is he?" Martin spat out, the anger quickly rising to his boiling point.

"Martin, it's OK. It was an ac—"

"Where is he?" Martin repeated as he breathed deeply through his nose. It was shaky. He was angry.

"He left." She told him, her voice barely above a whisper.

"But he left something, didn't he?" Martin said, his tone snappy. He hated him. He hated him so much.

Camille blinked her eyes and turned her head more away from her son, but he already saw the deep blue — almost purple mark on the highest point of her cheekbone.

Martin's fists clenched and he urged to punch something. He wanted to punch the wall, punch anything until his knuckles were bruised and bloody.

Punch his father repeatedly in the face.

He looked at his mother and walked up to her, kneeled down until he was at eyes level with her and wrapped his arms around her.