—"You never thought your body could be anything except bruised.
Your locked door. Your haunted house.
The unlearning is taking so long."—
—Fortesa Latifi, "fingertips,"We were young.
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E L I J A H
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-The year 1998. Flashback whereas Elijah is aged thirteen.
That night was the calm before the storm. The first time that his father didn't come downstairs and beat him with his tactical weapon choice. This was the first night that a fist didn't collide with one of his eyes and gave him a black one instead of a grey one.
The young boy wrote inside of his journal, scribbling randomness inside of it with extra attention, using far more ink than ever possible. He stuck his tongue out from the side of his full lips in eager concentration, then he glanced up from behind his outgrown, jet-black bangs.
He puffed out some air from his mouth, his attention now on the problem that seemed to cover his grayish eyes as much as possible.
The boy was, only thirteen at the time and he had never been able to have a haircut. He was the one who normally shaved his hair, either with his father's machine or a pair of well-dandy scissors was enough to cut his hair when he was younger. But now, it seems as if he never even took the time and effort to cut his hair.
He pushed his deep contented thoughts aside, turning his head to the right all the while getting up from his sitting position on the floor, and uncomfortable ache on his behind due to the hard surface. Ishmael didn't have a mirror to appreciate his reflection, just a sink, a toilet that his mother took the effort to desensitize and clean, once a month that is. And then, he was the one that used chlorine to clean every day.
That's how it was clean, he shook his head, screwing up his face at the smell of, well he might not say because it was inappropriate. But everyone could take a mild guess that the bathroom may be clean, but the smell wasn't as good as it seemed.
The young boy turned to the sink, his irregularly tall but skinny body leaned over as he spread out his hands, the water colliding with the surface of his palms. Afterward, he washed his face. And after that, he brushed his hair back with his veiny, worn-out hands. The bangs slouched again over his right eye in particular after a second.
Eli huffed in disappointment.
His father had taken away his scissors so he couldn't have a do-over and cut his hair. The father didn't like his son looking, seeming more handsome and freshened up than he was himself. That was what he told the young boy, but he couldn't seem to understand why a father wouldn't want his little boy to look, pretty. Elijah huffed, his eyes taking in the countertop and a small, minuscule smile spread across his bony, masculine, skinny face as he grabbed the hair tie his little sibling had probably forgotten; playing here the other day.
Elijah knelt so he could get a reflection of himself through the metal, bandage that was stripped onto the wall, behind the sink. Grabbing the front of his bangs, he pulled them back, and seemingly but figuratively, he tied it nicely into what looked to be a man bun. The boy stood up from his kneeling position, smiling in contentment, letting out a sigh of relief at the fresh air that hit his neck for the first time in what had superficially appeared to be an eternity.
YOU ARE READING
A PAST TO FORGET ✓
Mystery / Thriller[a psychological fiction] A ruthless, heartless man was what Elijah Ishmael Vital was in the eyes of the outsiders. And that was his identity. For a man so adept at what he had done, killing and jeopardizing humans, his eyes were remarkably soft...
