Ahhhh! I couldn't stop myself from screaming.
"Wake up you waste of air! Guess what I have in store for you today." he said. I couldn't answer I was still trying to catch my breath from the kick to the ribs I had just received.
"Wha... What?" I managed to say through the gasps of air. Whack! He smacked me across the face. Though it didn't hurt to bad, I was quite use to this.
"Did I tell you to speak you good for nothing piece of s***!" Everything he did to me was a game. Even if he said it was okay to speak, I still would have got smacked upside the head. That's how it is, that's how he is, everything is a game.
That made me wonder, did he think if I died I'd magically come back to life with no wounds and maximum health? That if I drank a magic potion my entire body would heal and I'd be somehow stronger? I knew the answer to my own question. No he didn't think that, he was just trying to kill me in the worst possible way.
Through pain, pain, and guess what else? Pain! God how I wish I could just punch him! Show him what it feels like! I'm sick of his stupid little games, I'm sick of him, and I'm sick of this life. Everyday I wonder what I could have possibly done to deserve this, and everyday I still come up with the same damn answer, "I don't know."
I mean it's not like I don't have time to think about it. I'm alone in this dark little basement about 90% of the time. What could I have done! This angered me I had absolutely no idea what I did to deserve this. Not that I'm trying to complain, I'm not. I know things could be worse, far worse, but still my hopeful thoughts couldn't keep the doubts out of my head. I want to know and one day I will find out, even if it kills me.
See I'm not afraid of death, I invite it. Though sadly it never comes. I get so damn close though. I can see the light and I start to feel the cold creep up my body until I'm cold all over, but death never comes. He stops as if he knows one more blow will send me to a place I envy.
Up in heaven, I won't hurt, I won't have constant pain and I won't have to live in fear. Sometimes I think hell would even be a blessing. No one knows this man the way I do, no one understands what he can do.
"Stupid people" I think to myself. How can no one see the strings attached? How can no one see the secrets under those wrinkles? People can be so blind. I wonder how he acts around people. Could that be why no one knows? He puts on a mask to hide his dirty little secret, me.
I wouldn't say I hate other people, but I envy them. They don't fight for their lives everyday like me. They don't starve days upon days. They sit back and eat when they like. They... Don't even know I exist. So why should they have to fight? Why should they have to starve like someone they don't know exists?
I may be blinded by hate, but I do know the difference between right and wrong. When I get out of here, I will be nothing like this man. I will help people when they need it. I will never hit a soul, unless necessary of course. I will... I will... Never get out of here.
Sometimes I start to think that thinking positive makes everything worse. I think someday I'll get out of here. I think someday I'll be everything I dreamt of. Which isn't much because I don't know what's out there. Hell I don't know anything. I think someday I'll have a family that cares about me. One that asks if I'm okay when they see a sad face. One that feeds me and will stuff me till I can't eat another bite. One that will only touch me to comfort me, but those dreams are so far away I don't think I'll ever get my hands around them.
I can hear him coming. I hate those stupid stairs always creaking, a warning sign he was coming, a warning to wake me from my daydreams. I brace myself up against the wall. Hands clenched, eyes shut, I truly feared this man. No matter how many times I thought he could never strike more fear into me, he would.
I think it's a goal for him. How much fear can I strike into him today? Should I break his arm, punch his face in? There is just so much to choose from. God I hate him. Ugh, I wish I could tell him all of this. Tell him how much I hate him, but it would do me absolutely no good. He would take my every word and flip it around to make a complement. That, or beat me till I couldn't talk. He did it once before, I spoke out of turn I guess.
What could he possibly get from hitting me? I mean does it bring him joy when I bleed? When I pass out because of the pain? What does he get from this? What do other people think of him? Is he mean to everyone else like me?
These are the things I think about when I'm all alone down here, or while I try to pretend he can't hurt me. While I try and hold my cries of pain in, I hate it when he makes me cry out in pain. It makes me feel like I'm a wimp. Like I can feel worse then I already feel now, which I have no idea how that's possible. I feel so bad that I actually want him to kill me.
My death will set me free. No more pain, no more humiliation, nothing just me and the heavens. At least that's what I thought would happen after my death. I wasn't quite sure, but I had a feeling I'd find out sometime soon.
"He's coming" the stairs taunted me. The door opens, and I just want to die. He comes in heading straight for me.
All I can do is just sit there and wait for my beating.
He grabs my neck and starts hitting me. He throws a punch towards my face. Instantly my hands fly up to cover my face. He hits my hands, my block worked. Again he raises his hand, I cover my face once more.
"If you cover your face one more time I swear I'll chop them off to the nub!" he yells at me.
I knew he wasn't kidding. He would really chop them off, so I sat on my hands and let him beat me.
I didn't want to just let him beat me, but what choice did I have? He was bigger and stronger then me, that and I feared him deeply.
Laying there letting him hit me made me feel as weak as I ever had, I hated this. He was mainly going for my chest and stomach. By the time he was done I couldn't breathe at all. I laid there gasping for the sweet air that had just been knocked out of me.
When he was done he just left me there on the floor, bleeding and gasping for air. Before he left he threw some things toward me so I could stitch myself up. I just can't help but think to myself (well at least he's nice enough to leave me some supplies to clean myself up, what a wonderful kind person.)
I've known how to stitch up my own wounds since I was six. Six! I'm not even old enough to tie my own shoes yet! Well not the right way anyway. I had to kind of figure out how to close a wound. It took me about three times before I finally got it right.
I was so proud, it looked great to. Until he came and ripped it right back open. I think he hates to see me just a little happy. No actually, I think he just hates me. Again here I go back to wondering why he hates me. God I can never get away from this. No matter what I do, I always come back to thinking about why he hates me.
As I'm thinking about this I find myself hitting my head against the wall, not hard just soft. I always find myself doing things such as this, no reason just hitting my head or hands on the walls or ground. Maybe it was because it past the time, or I'm going crazy.
Ten years of being stuck down in this stupid little basement what else could I do besides think, punch things, maybe sleep? No, not sleep, I was to scared to sleep. Whenever I thought of sleep I think of what he does to me while I'm awake and wonder what horror he could do while I slept. Just thinking about this made my entire body ache.
I try to shut off my mind, stop the thoughts from flowing in but it was as useless as watching a broken clock tick. No matter how much time you spend staring it, it will never tick. By the time you realize that, you'll wonder how much time went by, but won't have any clue.
I finally drift off but not all the way, half of me is still awake staying alert for any sound of my torturer. Isn't sleep suppose to be a place where you can be at peace and worry about nothing? Apparently not for me, it just worries me more.
I wonder if every other kid is treated like this? Do there parents hate them like my parents hate me?
Yes, the people who torture me are my parents. Even more pathetic right? What kind of parents abuse their own kid? Especially like I'm abused, but in a way I'm kind of glad other kids aren't. I mean could they be strong like me, or would they give up? It may not seem like I have nothing to fight for, but I do. My life, I want to live. I don't want to die down here with no one knowing if my existence. People will know I'm here, I will not die down here alone and unknown.
I'm ten years old and I'm already thinking about my death. To me I think it's sad. Little boys shouldn't think about the things I do. They should be thinking about... Well honestly I don't know. I'm not a normal little boy, I can't tell you what normal little boys should think or do. I wish I could though. I wish I could see what little boys do. How they act, what they say, how they think.
"Stop." I tell myself. Your just beating yourself up. I hate doing this. It makes me think that if I can't stop beating myself up, how is he suppose to stop?
I need to get out of here, now. That's it, I will run away.
I'll start saving food and supplies, once I have enough I'll make my escape, I just hope I make it. I've never seen the outside world. I have no idea what's out there, but it has to be better then this right?
Somethings wrong, I feel, oh hell he's hovering over me.
"Well hello boy," he says with with a smirk.
"sleep well?" God please no, it's never good when he starts off with this. I swallow the lump in my throat and stutter out
"Yea... I... I.. No I didn't." 'Just go away please, I can't take this today. God if there is one please don't let him hurt me.' I cry to the sky, and that was useless.
I sit up on my elbows and start to push myself away from him, getting ready for my beating that now awaits. He punches me, pushing me down flat on my back. Now my hands were up in a defense looking pose. It seemed like a second went by and he was wrestling with me, fighting against me trying to tie my hands down. Well, he won against all my might and fighting, he got both my hands down and secure. All I could do now was struggle and hurt myself trying to break free. I always wondered why he left my feet untied, but what harm could my feet do if he's standing next to my chest. Yeah I could try to kick him, but I don't think I'd have a lot of power to do anything. Besides piss him off and get an even bigger beating. I think I'll just lay here and let whatever happens, happen. I'm use to the pain, the embarrassment, everything.
Why is it embarrassing? Well because I can't fight back, I can't do anything to protect myself, and just the things he does to me it's just well, terrible. Every beating had it's own story, a reason behind why it happened. Sometimes it was the same story over again, he was simply pissed. Others were because I was just there, or I did something wrong like breathing.
While I was thinking about this my beating began. He punched my jaw and my head went flying left. Then he punched my ribs, my body curled to the right kind of in a U-shape. He extended his arm straight out and then slammed it on my stomach. Just like that I couldn't breathe I was gasping for air.
But that still didn't stop him, he just kept going face, ribs, stomach, legs nothing was left untouched.
As he once put it, "If your gonna beat someone, beat them right. Nothing goes untouched, and something has gotta bleed." So I could always expect to bleed and usually I could guess the order of the hits I would soon received.
Isn't that sad? I know when I'll be beat and the order of how it will happen. I have learned throughout the years that he beats me until I cry, or until he gets tired of hitting me. So, I've learned to just cry, it makes the beatings go by faster, but also it makes me feel weak. He gets the satisfaction of making me cry, and me well, I get the dissatisfaction of knowing he thinks he won.
Finally he was done, and I, well I couldn't breathe. As usual he beat the air out of my lungs. Honestly I don't know how my lungs still work. I feel pain in my lungs that I'm pretty sure your not suppose to feel. I felt them giving out one time, I felt every breath leave, and the pain that followed. Yet here I am still breathing in and out with pain and envy. Sometimes, I think I'll never die and I'll be down here getting beat for the rest of my life.
God how I wish my lungs would just stop breathing, how I wish I would just bleed out from a wound, and oh how I wish I would get some food. I'm starving, he usually feeds me a cracker or something by now.
My stomach is growling so loud I hope he doesn't hear it. If he knows I'm this hungry, he'll make me do something I really won't want to do, just for some half eaten scraps. I'm his entertainment, a game, a toy, I'm nothing to him that can't be replaced. Making me cry out in pain and making me do things I'd rather never do in my life was all to fun for him, and I don't know why. Honestly did it even matter? Even if I do find out why it won't change anything. I'll still be beat, starved and embarrassed. I think I'd rather not know anymore, but the thought is always in the back of my mind.