(tw : ptsd)
Lullaby, and good night, in the skies stars are bright
May the moon's silvery beams, bring you sweet dreams
Close your eyes, now and rest, may these hours be blessed
Till the sky's bright with dawn, when you wake with a yawn
Lullaby, and good night, you are mother's delight
I'll protect you from harm, and you'll wake in my arms
Sleepyhead, close your eyes, for I'm right beside you
Guardian angels are near, so sleep without fear
Lullaby, and good night, with roses bedight
Lilies o'er spread, lay thee down in thy bed
Lullaby, and good night, you are mother's delight
I'll protect you from harm, and you'll wake in my arms
Lullaby, and sleep tight, my darling sleeping
On sheets white as cream, with a head full of dreams
Sleepyhead, close your eyes, I'm right beside you
Lay thee down now and rest, may your slumber be blessed
...
A lullaby he had heard countless times— yet never grew tired of. A woman's gentle voice sang it, soft and soothing, coaxing the small child to close his eyes and rest his head on her lap.
Her fingers, tender and delicate, combed through his hair in rhythm with the song that played on repeat. The familiar scent of his mother— warm, comforting, though tinged faintly with medicine— wrapped around him. But the child didn't mind that.
These moments were rare. Precious. And he wanted to savor every second.
The boy tried his hardest not to move, not even to open his eyes to blink. He stayed still, not wanting to break the spell.
Even as sleep tugged at him, he fought to stay awake.
Because—
Moments like this could vanish in an instant. Without warning. Without reason.
'Niel.'
The sound of his name, spoken aloud, froze his blood.
It wasn't his mother's voice.
Before he could even think, his eyes flew open. Standing before him was a boy— younger than him, expression blank, as if his face had forgotten how to move.
'Nathaniel. Nathaniel...'
The younger boy murmured his name over and over, his red eyes locked onto Nathaniel, who still had his head resting in his mother's lap.
And then, it happened.
The thing he feared.
The slender, fragile fingers that had been gently brushing his hair— fingers that had made him feel like the most loved child in the world— suddenly stopped. Those same hands shifted. Twisted. Turned against their owner. His mother's face drained of color. Her hands began clawing at her own hair with a violence that made her scream in a voice that didn't seem human.
Panicked, the boy grabbed at her wrists, trying desperately to stop her from hurting herself. But what he received instead was a hard shove— his mother's strength sending him tumbling to the floor.
He stared up at her, trembling.
'Those eyes ... Those scary green eyes ... You... you make me dirty... you make me... you are... you make me like this.'
Her piercing blue eyes blazed with hatred.
That look— it was for him. Only him, the boy with green eyes she despised the most.
And the boy, staggering to his feet, ran as quick as he could.
Before she could lash out again, before she could destroy more of herself, he rushed toward the door. But then he remembered— he wasn't alone.
The younger boy.
The one with the red eyes.
He hadn't moved, hadn't looked away once.
And just as the boy reached for the door, a hand caught him by the wrist. Precisely.
And then, he saw it.
That smile.
The fear that had just begun to subside now surged back with a vengeance as the younger boy smiled at him.
'Nathaniel...'
He said the boy's name again, slowly, softly. But the boy could barely hear it, not over the sound of his mother screaming behind him.
He turned, just in time to see her raking her nails across her skin. Again and again. As if she were trying to scrub something off of her— something invisible, something shameful. No matter how hard she scratched, it wouldn't come off. Her blunt nails dragged so hard against her skin, they left it raw, red, and bleeding.
And still, she didn't stop.
I need to call Dad. Only Dad can calm Mom down… only Dad knows where the medicine is, the one that can make her stop hurting herself.
The boy yanked at his arm, desperate to break free from the grasp of the younger boy. But no matter how hard he struggled, the grip only tightened— clamping down on his wrist with a strength that made him wince and hiss through his teeth.
'Let me go! Logan!'
His voice broke with panic, but the younger boy just stared at him coldly. He didn't say a word. Didn't budge. It was like the younger boy was holding on deliberately, refusing to let go.
Then, the younger boy opened his mouth—but what came out was a language the boy didn't understand. Foreign words, unfamiliar syllables.
He repeated them.
Again.
And again.
And even though he kept saying it, the boy still couldn't grasp a single word— because the truth was, he didn't know what that language meant at all.
Behind him, the chaotic sounds of his mother's breakdown echoed— glass shattering, a scream, something falling. It jolted him back to the present. His mother. He had to help her. He had to stop her before she hurt herself even more.
Fueled by raw panic, the boy shoved the younger boy with all his strength. The younger boy stumbled backward, and hit the edge of the wooden table where a vase stood. His head smacked the sharp corner with a sickening sound.
The boy's hands trembled as he reached out on instinct, but then froze. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. When he looked again, blood was already trailing down from the younger boy's forehead.
He hadn't meant to hurt him. He'd just wanted to get away. Sure, hitting your head on wood would hurt— but he never imagined it would actually draw blood that much.
Yet the younger boy didn't even flinch.
There was no cry of pain, no sign of fear. Just silence. His red eyes stared back at the boy, empty of emotion. He didn't look hurt. Didn't even seem to register the blood dripping down his face.
Instead, his eyes simply questioned him—
Why did you push me?
That was the only thing they seemed to ask.
The door creaked open.
Light spilled in from the hallway. A man stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping first over the boy, then across the room. His eyes found the younger boy bleeding by the table— but even then, instead of rushing to him, the man ran straight to the woman who was still caught in her hysteria.
The man's wife.
'I told you not to come into Mom's room for a while, Niel. Why didn't you listen? And how did you even find the key?'
He wrapped his arms tightly around his panicked wife, pulling her back from harming herself. But now, her fists turned on him—her fear and fury redirected to the man holding her.
The boy just stood there and watched.
Watched his father hold her close, whispering to her in a voice soft as a lullaby,
'Calm down, Lilian… it's just me. There's no one else. Calm down, my love.'
And he saw— how his father never once pulled away. Never flinched. No matter how hard she hit, no matter how wild she became— he held her with nothing but love.
It made the boy think, maybe when he grew older, when his body became stronger, he wouldn't mind if his mother hit him. That would still be better than watching her hurt herself.
'Niel, call a doctor for Logan.'
Ah— right. He had almost forgotten. As his father reminded him, the boy turned toward the spot where the younger boy had fallen.
But the moment he moved his head, he realized— the younger boy was already standing behind him. Somehow, without him noticing, the younger boy had been holding onto the hem of his shirt this whole time.
Blood had seeped down his face, but even so, he smiled. Yet it wasn't a warm smile— the kind that could bring comfort. No, the younger boy smiled like someone trying it for the first time, as if unsure of what smiling was supposed to feel like.
'Niel.'
The younger boy called his name again.
Feeling an urge to run, to escape the thick, stifling weight of the moment, the boy turned and dashed outside— just like his father had told him, to call a doctor. And so he did.
But once stillness settled back into the room, the boy's eyes landed on the mirror near the wardrobe. He caught sight of his own reflection and stared as if he didn't recognize the face.
—— Those eyes ... Those scary green eyes ... You... you make me dirty... you make me... you are... you make me like this.
No, I'm not.
I'm not.
I'm not.
He'd heard those words so many times from his mother. That's why, before he ever approached her, he always made sure to clean himself thoroughly. Again and again, he would soak in water, scrubbing every inch of his skin before facing her. And yet— she always said he made her feel dirty.
I'm not dirty. I'm not... the boy muttered unconsciously, eyes locked on the reflection of his pale, sickly face. The sight of it made him nauseous.
Then he ran.
His thoughts scrambled. He rushed into the bathroom, turned on the sink, and began scrubbing his hands beneath the running water.
Dirty? Am I really the reason why Mom always felt dirty?
Tears streamed down his cheeks, flowing as freely as the water cascading from the tap. He scrubbed harder. And harder. Until his once pale hands turned red and raw from the friction.
Knock, knock—
Someone was knocking on the door. He could hear it— yes, the sound reached him, but he didn't care. He kept scrubbing. Kept scratching at his skin. But the knocking grew more persistent, joined by a voice calling out—
"Instructor Nathaniel, sir. Instructor Nathaniel."
And only then did he open his eyes.