Garage Story Sale

Tribulation » punk l.h. [for sale]

Description:

tribulation [trib-yuh-LEY-shuh n] noun
1. grievous trouble; severe trial or suffering

"Does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes?"

~~Pre-Written Chapters~~

Prologue

"Ugh, I can't believe you got it wrong again!" the man exclaimed in exasperation.

He ran his fingers through his hair furiously, shaking his head. Luke ignored him. He stared at the dot of blood welling on his finger. He didn't like blood. He almost had a fear of it. He could already feel his vision getting fuzzy and the bile rising in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down and stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking away the crimson liquid. He struggled not to wince at the irony taste.

"You always get it wrong," the man, Luke's father, continued to rage. He slammed the fish hooks on the small wooden table. "I try to get along with you like your mother wants, but you make it so damn difficult."

Luke still didn't say anything. He was used to these speeches, these rants. His father had them quite often, and they were always about Luke. He had never liked Luke. The young boy wasn't sure why.

His father took another swig from the glass bottle beside him. It smelled strange, but Luke liked the scent. He found it comforting, for whatever reason. Even if it did make his father a little cranky and mean sometimes.

"Why can't you ever get anything right?" Luke's father sighed. "It doesn't matter what it is, you always ruin it. I've tried my hardest with you, I really have."

He was always disappointed. Luke tried to please him, but it was hard. His average grades were disappointing, his exceptional performances in boxing and swimming were disappointing, his musical interests were disappointing. Luke was starting to think that it was impossible to satisfy his father.

"I need to teach you a lesson," the man murmured, running his finger down the side of his bottle. His words slid together, and his eyes weren't focused.

"More fishing?" Luke guessed in a small voice.

He knew that wasn't the lesson, but he wanted to divert his father's attention elsewhere. It didn't work.

His father chuckled darkly. "More fishing? No, I need to discipline you. You're a terrible child. I've been cursed with you. And I need to teach you a lesson."

Luke saw it coming. He always did. The first time had been alarming and painful and frightening, but he had grown used to it after a while. That didn't mean he had accepted the pain, though. That still hurt like a monster.

Luke's father backed him into a corner of the garage, so that he had nowhere to go. The young boy squeezed his eyes shut tight and braced himself. The first blow was in his stomach. The second was on his cheek. The third was to his groin. When he collapsed, they pounded his body. Arms, legs, torso, everything. And it hurt a lot. But Luke didn't scream or cry. If there was one thing he had learned from these lessons, it was that crying was a sign of weakness. It only led to more punishment. And screaming meant stronger blows, and possibly some choking. That last one scared Luke more than anything.

A few minutes later, his father decided that he was done. He left the garage carelessly, leaving his six-year old lying on the cold, concrete ground. Luke curled into a ball, wincing at the pain. He looked at his arms; blood trickled down them in small rivulets. He immediately looked away, suppressing the urge to be sick. He ached all over, so much so that he could hardly move. He closed his eyes, wishing that the pain would just go away.