Prince from Paradise | ✔

X. For the Love of a Son

Adar

A rattling noise from the corner of his mind rang bells throughout his body. Cold fingers squeezed his shoulders, shaking Adar from a night of sanguine slumbers where he imagined his brown-eyed beauty safe away from the viallagers' torments. Alas, his dreams of peace were pierced with his father's raspy voice. 

"Wake up, Adar," he commanded. 

Adar blinked, adjusting his eyes to the flames outside his bedroom window. At the smell of smoke, his body immediately tensed, suddenly startled by the change in environment. "What's going on?" he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Shut up," rushed his father. "We have to go. Get dressed quickly."

The tone his father used was one that Adar knew meant no jesting. From his early childhood, he knew his father had a heart of stone, a man of laconic speech but brutal actions, a tortured soul that found enjoyment in the agony of others. His father was no saint.

Yet Adar could not stop himself from desperately wanting to please him. 

With every slap, with every shout, with every venom Adar struggled through his family suffocation, drying the damp eyes that cried tears almost every night for the lack of love his father showed him. His father never touched any of his sisters, never once yelled at them, but Adar was always trampled on. 

There were times where the flame to his heart seemed so close within his reach where the horizon became a mixture of blended hues of red and orange, yet the thundering storm managed to push all progress out the door, a lock and key settling back into the black heart of a man who refused to love his son.

"Adar," snapped his father, looking over his shoulder at the door behind them. "I told you to hurry. Now."

Sighing, he quickly peeled the covers off his body, ignoring the sharp pang in his chest from the cold voice of his father. As a languid Adar slipped on his wrinkled white button up, leaving the top few unbuttoned, his mind began to wander to his Lord, Adar's only savior in his time of inexplicable distress. 

Allah, what did I do wrong? What must I do to gain his love?

Glancing back at the man in the corner of his room, Adar felt the burning sting of disappointment. Only at night did haunting memories of abuse come flying back to him whether it be emotional or physical. He remembered every harsh imprint on his cheeks, every  busted lip oozing blood, every scream that rang like a broken symphony in his head. 

His father did not love him. There was no denying it. 

Forcefully pushing the anguish from his thoughts, Adar straightened, trying his best to ignore the desperate yearning to belong. A metal rod was suddenly flung into the air, swiping through like a blade and straight into Adar's palm. He stumbled a little from the weight before frowning. 

"Why am I holding this?" he questioned, suspicious of his father's intentions. 

His father stayed silent, not bothering to even cast a glance towards his son. 

Adar exhaled slowly. "Why am I," he seethed, pronunciating every word, "holding this?"

Pushing himself off the door, his father angled his head at the door, gesturing for Adar to follow him. The murderous look in the dark abyss of his father's eyes forced Adar's frozen body to walk out the door, obediently following direct orders like a soldier to his general. Adar knew far too well how the night would end if he disobeyed. 

An inkling of regret pooled at the pit of his stomach, churning tornadoes and hurricanes inside as the world around him began to glow in flames. Torches, he thought, the entire village is holding sticks and torches.