"She's a strange one, isn't she?"
Throughout time, there's been a certain.. tradition, if you will, that occurred to everyone from a famous dynasty. It passes down from grandparents to parents, parents to children, and the cycle continues for eterni...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I heard screams coming from farther down the hallway. The sound of my fragile mother being brutally hit over, and over, and over again with either my fathers fists and feet, or a nearby item that could be used as a weapon. Whichever he deemed necessary. I sit on the floor snuggled up against the crease of a wall to protect me. Why was he like this? Why did he always beat on my mother and I? What had we done that angered him so?
The screams of pain get louder each passing minute, and I begin to break down in actual tears. Me crying for the sake of my mother wasn't anything out of the ordinary. It had become a daily ritual to begin crying whenever she was struck. My father would scream at me,
"Stop cryin' fore I hit yer too, boy!"
But that would only cause me to cry more.
I would scream out for my mama, but she would never respond. My father would come to me up in the corner and stare me straight in my eyes, fury well written on his face.
I'm next.
"Did'nt I tell yer behind to stop crying, child?" He asks with a scowl.
I wipe my tears and nod grimly, "Yes sir, you did."
"So why are yer still crying?"
I shake my head. "You are beating on my mother, sir. That's why I am crying. She's going to die if you don't stop."
My father doesn't respond for the longest time. He only continues to stare at me.
"Son, you think yer ma was a' crying when she was ruttin on another man?"
I shake my head.
"Exactly. She asked for it." And with that, he leaves. I was surprised he didn't hit me. I dried my tears on the velvet shirt I wore. I stand up, about to just leave the home. I couldn't handle the sounds of my mother screaming in agony any longer. I needed to breathe for a moment.
I want to see (Y/N).
"Papa, mama, I'm leaving." My mother doesn't respond. I hear my father groan and the sound of his heels once more hitting the ground, getting louder each step he took.
"Where are ya goin'?" He asks.
"I'm going to go see (Y/N). Her mama is making stew." I said.
"Now, I don't like that (Y/N) Lady. She seems...off. I don't want you going near her. You're a man, you need to hang out with men." He finally says.
My father grabs me tightly by my hair and pulls me towards the room my mother was held captive in. She was so badly beaten. Her left eye was purple and her right eye was black. Her lips were busted and she had bruises all over her fair skin. Even her long brown hair. It was long no more. He had cut it. It was uneven in all sections, and a perfectly clean bald spot directly in the center.
