Head spinning. Bloody nose. A tightness in my chest that made it hard to breathe—like my heart was wrapped in barbed wire. And somehow, even worse than the pain was the memory of it. All of it. A melody of screams and silence. I remember it too well.
I was only seven the first time I truly understood what fear smelled like. It wasn't sweat or blood—it was burnt rice, spilled liquor, and the sharp sting of dettol after the belt left your skin open.
Sonic hearing—that's what trauma gives you. You start hearing footsteps before they touch the ground, doors before they creak, curses before they're even spat.
Every night was a crescendo.
If I so much as sneezed in front of a guest, he'd backhand me into the next dimension. Once, I coughed during dinner. He dragged me out by the collar and broke a ceramic plate over my back.
First, it was the belt.
Then the electrical cord.
Then iron rods heated on the gas stove.
Then—whatever he could throw. Once, even a toaster.
He didn't hit to discipline. He hit because I was his punching bag. His emotional trash can. His mirror.
My father, Augustine Rain, came from dirt. The kind of poor where the only thing you own is your last name. Born in Maysburg, raised in a cracked wooden house that looked like it owed a ghost rent. His father, Kenneth Rain, was what you'd get if you bred a hyena with a drunk priest. Abusive? That word's too polite. He beat Augustine and his wife, Mary, like they were cattle. Every. Damn. Day.
Kenneth would look at you, smile with all his yellow teeth, and destroy you in the same breath. When Augustine was ten, he looked up at the sky and saw a plane, said, "One day, I'll fly one." His father chuckled and said, "Pick the damn potatoes, dreamer. You're nothing like your whore mother."
Mary—God bless that woman. She tried. She sang him lullabies when the bruises were fresh. She told him bedtime stories about ancient noble bloodlines. Said the Rains were once rulers before civil war robbed them of crowns. Lies, of course. We weren't royalty— we were just really good at drinking, fucking, and violence.
But Augustine believed it. He clung to it. Maybe that's what made him burn so bright.
And when the world still gave him nothing, he brought hell home.
I was born into his hell.
Every day, I was reminded I wasn't his son—I was his outlet. His emotional ashtray. His unfinished revenge on the world.
Some days, I'd get slapped so hard I'd taste metal for hours. Other days, he used the iron rod. One time, I wet the bed and he made me sleep in it, then poured scalding water on my back for being "a damn puppy."
But nothing compares to the nights. The nights were worse.
He'd stumble in, drunk, reeking of gin and roadside lust, and shout: "WHERE IS THAT BOY?"
I learned to hide early. Under the bed was my sanctuary. A grave without a tombstone.
But hiding didn't mean silence. No. I heard everything.
The hits.
The screams.
The sound of my mother being ripped apart—physically, emotionally, sexually.
She tried to protect me. But she had no strength left. Her body, a journal of bruises. Her voice, cracked glass. Her dignity? Gone, taken night after night by the man who claimed to be our protector.
And I—seven years old—watched.
I watched her get thrown against walls, her head cracked open like cheap fruit. I watched her sob, crawl, beg. And sometimes, I looked away. But the sounds—they never left me.
One night, I crawled out. I tried to fight him. I tried to pull him off her. I bit his arm. I screamed, clawed.
He laughed.
And then he beat me until I blacked out.
I woke up two days later. My left hand wrapped in bandages, my right eye swollen shut. I'd been burned. The water from the stove—boiling. My flesh bubbled.
No hospital. Just salt water and silence.
When I asked him why, why he did this, he looked at me—no rage, no apology—and said:
"Because you're mine." And in that moment, I knew.
I wasn't his son.
I was his inheritance.
And that meant I'd either become him…
Or destroy him.
All the torment, all the pain—it was our daily routine. His rage was a constant shadow in our lives. The yelling, the bruises, the silence that followed like a ghost—it all became so normal I stopped questioning it. Except during Christmas.
It was the only time he remembered how to be a father.
For one day, the monster put on a mask of warmth. My mother would receive a wrapped gift, her eyes wide with confusion, as if kindness had become a foreign language. I would get toys—simple, plastic things that felt like treasure in my bruised little hands. He'd play old jazz records and slow dance with her in the living room, his arms suddenly tender where fists usually lived. That music still haunts me.
But the best day—the one my memory clings to like a lifeline—was when he took us to the amusement park.
We laughed. Real laughter, the kind that feels strange when you're used to crying. We rode every swing and every ride until the sky turned orange. I remember the Ferris wheel—the way the wind hit my face as we rose above the world. Up there, I felt free. For the first time, I looked at him and saw a man I wanted to love.
We even ate meat—real meat. Juicy beef stew with rice and sweet dessert afterward. A feast. A miracle. For a few hours, I believed we were a family. A good one.
And then the sun set.
The very next day, he returned to himself. Or maybe he never changed. The gifts gathered dust, the music stopped playing, and his voice—sharp and thunderous—shattered the fragile peace like glass on tile. My mother cried again. I hid again. The bruises came back like clockwork.
That one perfect day lives in my heart like a dream I'm not sure really happened. It's the happiest memory I have of my father.
And somehow, it's also the saddest.
Even to this day, I'll never truly understand why the monster chose to stop being scary during Christmas. Was he haunted by the ghosts of his own Christmases past? Or did something in the season genuinely soften him—stirring some buried fragment of the man he once was, or could have been?
That question still baffles me.
Every day was the same twisted routine. He'd stumble home drunk, reeking of cheap whiskey and violence, and terrorize us until we were nothing but shadows curled in corners. But one Thursday evening... something changed. My mother was peeling potatoes in the kitchen. I was at the table, trying to finish my homework through the fear-thick air.
Kenneth—the monster—had gone drinking again at the local pub, just like he always did.
He usually stayed out for three, maybe four hours.
But that night, something in my mother finally snapped.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She simply turned off the stove, wiped her hands, and said, "Pack what you can carry." Her voice was calm. Too calm. Like a woman who'd already accepted death, or something worse.
You see, she had stayed all those years not out of love—but because she had no one. An orphan with no siblings, no relatives, no safety net. Kenneth was her lifeline. Her captor. Her meal ticket. Her coffin.
They met at a pub where she used to sing—just to earn enough for bread and shelter. That's where the devil found her. Gentle, charming, pretending to be the kind of man who saves women like her. He courted her like any liar does—with sweet lies and smiles that didn't reach his eyes. And she believed him.
They married. For a moment, she believed in the fairy tale. But the first slap shattered it. It came after she spoke to a man—just a kind soul complimenting her voice, asking for another song. Kenneth saw it. Called her a whore. Accused her of selling herself with her smile. And that night, he beat her. When she showed up to work with bruises, she was told to stay home. So she did. She gave up her dream, her voice, her freedom—and gave birth to me.
But on that Thursday, something was different. She told me, "We're leaving." And we did. We grabbed what we could. Clothes. Documents. My schoolbooks. We ran like hunted animals, hearts thumping, lungs burning, the wind at our backs, fear gnawing at our heels.
We didn't know Kenneth had returned early. He'd forgotten his wallet, and the pub didn't take tabs. He noticed the silence first. Then the open drawers. The missing clothes. He checked every room. Rage exploded when he realized we were gone. He grabbed his gun. Not to stop us—but to end us. He didn't call the police. He went hunting.
We weren't his family—we were his property.
My mother had one last plan: freight-hop to Rushmoore, start over. Sing again. She said that town loved music, and her voice—God, her voice—was made of honey and thunder. I believed she could make it. She would make it.
But Kenneth found us.
How, I'll never know.
We were almost at the train yard. The moonlight kissed the tracks. We were inches from escape. Then I heard it: the crack of a gunshot. My mother screamed—not in pain, but my name. I turned.
She dropped like a sack of potatoes, blood blooming through her dress. I froze. Time slowed.
"Run, boy!" she screamed. "Don't look back!"
But I did.
I saw him—madness burning in his eyes, gun still smoking. He walked up to her—walked— and without a second's hesitation, he raised the butt of his rifle and shattered her skull like he was hammering rotten fruit. Blood sprayed the tracks. My mother's last words gurgled out as she reached toward me: "Be strong, my boy..."
Then nothing.
I ran. I ran with a torn heart, tears blinding me, knees scraping against rusted metal, ankles twisting under the weight of despair. I leapt into that train car, screaming in silence, watching him disappear into darkness—still holding the gun that took everything from me.
And I lived.
But every night since, I ask myself: Why me?
Why did I survive? Why did she have to die in pain, in fear, in the dirt like a dog?
Sometimes, I still hear the train tracks in my dreams. The sound of her voice in the wind. The weight of her blood on my soul.
And I wonder… if Kenneth ever really loved anything at all—or if he was just born to destroy
Gunshots rang out like thunder, tearing through the quiet evening air. Those closest froze. Those farther off ran. But it was the screams—raw, sharp, and primal—that made people look.
And then they saw it.
The street fell into a horrified silence, broken only by the slow build of distant sirens— howling, rising, rushing closer like wolves scenting blood. Flashing blue and red lights painted the buildings in chaos, washing over the growing crowd, illuminating the blood pooled beneath her broken body.
It didn't take long before the scene made headlines across town. "Tragedy in Maysburg." "Young boy escapes domestic horror." The media called it a heartbreak. A nightmare. A domestic disturbance turned deadly.
But they didn't see what I saw.
They didn't hear the last words she choked out between shattered teeth.
They didn't smell the iron in the air as he stood over her, satisfied.
They didn't feel the way the earth tilted under my feet as I watched the only person who ever loved me collapse like a puppet with cut strings.
Of course, the bastard was arrested—dragged away in handcuffs, still snarling, eyes wild. But even as they threw him in the back of the police van, he didn't seem afraid. No remorse. No grief. Just emptiness.
It wasn't justice. Not really.
Because justice would've brought her back.