Absent

Twenty Five

Scott's P.O.V(Some years ago)
Warning: Neglect and Abuse, homophobia
I opened my eyes and sighed. Same view I had had every morning for almost two years, and I still wasn't used to it.

I used to have a nice bedroom with a large window, which I would stare out for hours, lost in my own little world.

I had developed this when I was about seven. That's when my parents started fighting.

I remembered the first time it happened.

"So, Scott, how was your day?" My mom asked as she speared a piece of chicken with her fork, looking at me.

"Oh, God. Seriously, Connie?" My dad snorted, taking another swallow of his beer. "You are so stupid. Can't even ask a meaningful question. God. I wonder sometimes why I even married you."

My gaze shifted to my father, eyes wide. He had never spoken this way to my mother.

She seemed shocked herself, but just waved it off. "Yes. You are right, dear. I should have thought of a better question."

I sat there and stared at them. Both were acting uncharacteristic. Dad never spoke ill to or of my mother, and my mother, well she never just admitted she was wrong.

"Mommy?" I asked, looking at her. "You don't have to apologize. It wasn't a stupid question. I like when you-" My father cut me off, slamming his beer bottle down.

"Shut your mouth, boy, this doesn't concern you." He snarled.

"Richard! I will not let you speak to my son that way!" My mother stood up and I shrunk down in my seat. She looked and me and smiled sweetly. "Why don't you go play in your room?" She suggested and I scampered away, ignoring my father as he ordered me to stay. Sorry. Mom spoke first.

I shut the door and ran to the window looking out. I tried to ignore the screaming downstairs, but the moment there was the sound of breaking glass, followed by crying, I cracked open my door and leaned out cautiously. My dad was stomping up the stairs and I hid my head until his door shut. The moment it did, I opened my and scurried down to the kitchen.

There was my mother, on her hands and knees, blood mixing with beer. There was beer all over the counters, and glass was spread as far as where I stood.

"Mommy?" I asked, going to take a step towards her.

She turned, eyes red, cheeks wet. "Scotty buckets, please stay out. Wouldn't want you to cut your feet now, would we?" I looked at her hands, seeing the cuts and stayed where I was, watching my mother. I didn't see the bruise on her neck, where my father chocked her.

I didn't know that six short months later, my mother would disappear without even a word.

The morning of my mother's disappearance, my father woke me up to tell me to get all of my stuff out of my room and into the basement by that night. Anything left would be thrown out.

I, a small boy of now eight, moved from the top floor the the dank basement in one day, all in my own.

The first things I took were the pictures of before, as well as all stuffed animals I could carry. After a few trips, I found a basket and used that to take more stuff down. The only thing my father didn't let me take was my clothes.

"Only good boys get clothes." He snarled. Both of my sisters stood there, shocked, ordered to not help.

From that day, my place in the house was made clear.