(Not) For the Children

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” his father bellowed. “What did you just say, you stupid bitch?”

His mother tried to answer, but her words were beaten down by the back of his hand. As she hit the floor, he was upon her, yanking her up by her beautiful hair as she howled in pain.

“You don’t ever talk back to me! I’m the best fucking thing you’ve got, and you know it! Without me you wouldn’t even have this shithole: you’d be out on the goddamn streets! Don’t you ever…”

His father’s shouting grew ever louder as he struck her over and over and over; her cries pleading for help, desperately trying to touch the ears of anyone who could listen. His callous fists desecrated her delicate body, reducing her to a quivering, sobbing pile of flesh and bone without value in this civilized world.

Outside his muscles seized, his joints ossified, and he was frozen on the fire escape. The wind cut his eyes as he was forced to watch while his father destroyed his mother. Her cries became weaker and more infrequent—eventually they ceased altogether, and he stared, eyes bulging and mouth agape as his father dropped her lifeless form in the doorway.

Suddenly, his father’s body tensed; through a predatory sixth sense, the beast felt the presence of prey. He straightened and turned slowly. Their eyes locked, and his visage twisted with a monstrous rage as he began a slow march towards the window.

“What the fuck are you doing out of your room, Charles?” his father roared. His face continued its unholy contortions as it pulled colors from the walls and sucked light from the lamps. “Who the fuck told you that you could leave your room? Huh? ANSWER ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!”

His father’s voice deepened and warped into a demonic squeal that grate on his very soul. The ants were shrieking beneath his skin, consuming him from the inside while the scarabs made their way up his body, tilling his flesh with their steely limbs. He shut his eyes and ears as he tried desperately to end it. His heart pounded and left a vacuum in his tightening chest as he fell to his knees. His blood roared deafeningly, and his father’s Luciferic snarls grew in intensity. They filled his head and battled within its confines, each growing louder and louder and louder and louder until he felt his skull split apart by their feudal volume—

The noises cut off with a jarring abruptness, and his eyes snapped open as he collapsed on all fours, his fingers woven through the metal grate in a white-knuckled grip as he frantically sucked in the oxygen his father had deprived him of moments prior. His condition was deteriorating; the memories were becoming too real – becoming far too real. He didn’t have much time. He forced himself to his feet and collected the gas cans with trembling hands. He had to keep moving, no more detours, no more windows.