Trigger warning: This chapter talks about abuse to sone degree. If you atent comofrtable with that, skip over it.
_____
John was surprised when his father sat him down in the dining room and offered him Danish sugar cookies. His mother bought them every once in awhile, and how he loved them.

It seemed a trap, but the eight year old boy didn't think of the purpose behind the cookies, but rather the cookies in themselves. With a thankful smile, the boy reached for the pretzel shaped cookie, before receiving a slap to the wrist.

His father, whom had seemed slightly happy today, what with the faint smile on his lips and the offering of cookies, held onto John's hand firmly. His face was painted red with anger, and his eyebrows furrowed.

John hated being on this side of his father. Unfortunately, he found himself on that side way too often.

"Only good boys get to eat cookies." His father reprimanded, with a firm slap to his face.

John yelped and tried to yank his father's arm off his own, but only recieved an even worse slap.

"What a pretty boy you are!" His father scolded, letting go of his arm. "Yet you're so stupid. And expensive too."

He gulped, shaking as he looked at father with eyes as wide as the China in his mother's sacred glass shelf.

His father was the depiction of godly, with a chiseled jaw and beautiful tanned skin. Not a single gray hair was on his head, interesting considering he was 'constantly stressed out, due to the insolence of his children.'

In contrast, people thought John looked a lot like his father, but John despised that fact. No man could be pretty if his attitude was ugly

Of course, that ideal didn't occur to him until much, much later.

Now, under the wrath of the much older, much more capable man, he felt weak and deserving of punishment. He shouldn't have struck out.

Perhaps, he deserved this for not coming to his mother's aid, all those times before. She was too frail and weak to be taking those slaps the way he did.

There was a sick laugh emanating from the mouth of his father, and he shook his head. "You never fail to dissapoint me, kid."

"I'm sorry," He whimpered, his lip quivering as he shrank into himself.

"Sorry? Sorry?! That's all you have to say?" His father's hands moved down to his pants, undoing the buckle on his belt and slipping it of its holes. "It's time you learn a lesson."

John supposed he deserved it, but that didn't mean he sucked up and took the pain. Still wearing his coat he tried to defend his bare skin from the lashes of the belt. It didn't work, as the man quickly ripped the blanket away from his grasp.

Like the way the bow struck the violin, that was the way the belt hit his skin. He was the instrument, his father the performer. With joy, wit, precision and expertise did the performer play.

When his father had gotten in a good amount of lashes, he collapsed in his chair and tsked. "Look what you made me do! Now I have to fix the window, and buy you new clothes."

Yes, it was, in fact, most definetly John's fault. The child, lying on the ground as far away from his father as he could possibly get, whimpered and shook. He was fighting back tears but all he could was sob and cry. John's chest rose with each deep sob and breath he took.

"Stand up, get your ass to your room, and don't you let me hear a sound. Don't even touch that goddamned doll of yours." His father commanded, glaring at him.

John obliged gratefully, but obviously, he was too slow getting a his feet and moving, because his father wapped him in the side of the head before telling him to get a move on. Whizzer sprinted up stairs as fast as he could.

When John arrived upstairs, his brother was indulged in a game of Atari Breakout, smirking as he beat another level. Upon hearing John's sniffles, he chuckled and focused back on his attention. "You did it, John Brown." He chuckled.

"Did what?" He mumbled and fell onto his bed. "Don't you have bandaids?" He was stuttering as he spoke, wincing at any contact that was by his wounds.

"Why do you need bandaids, hmm?" James scoffed. "You deserve what you got. That's what you get for hitting it into our own window, nonetheless."

"What does...nonetheless mean?"

"Get a dictionary- and hey- You arent supposed to be making a sound, right?"

John nodded.

"So shut up."

John figured he deserved the abuse of everyone in his home. He didn't quite understand the love his mother gave him, because it had been drilled into his skull that he was disobedient, and undeserving of any love whatsoever.

So he laid there, wallowing in his pain, for tomorrow the wounds would be scabs, and then they'd become scars. As was the way the body healed. It was not the way the mind did.
____
Like this story? Give it a vote.

-M.