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Brady Beckham was the perfect sculpture his mother ever created with her sharp unwavering hands.
His mother had tossed him into an ice rink before he could even walk. He learned how to skate before he learned how to speak.
He was raised on the ice with his mothers harsh words and her claw-like hands that would leave marks on his cheeks for days and lips busted.
Her voice, her words, her threats were permanently engraved in Brady's mind. Every little mistake he made, her voice would echo in his mind and he pushed himself harder to perfect himself. Every little miss he made, he could feel her nails already scratching against his pale skin, could feel the blood sliding down his cheeks but nonetheless, he continued. He didn't stop not even when he was exhausted, bruised and bleeding.
His mother didn't care if the ice was turning red, why should he?
He needed to be perfect. No mistakes.
He made none.
No matter what it took. No matter how far he pushed his body, he made no mistakes. He was always first.
Always.
He couldn't afford coming in second. Being in second was not an option - it wasn't even his choice.
His mother continued to sculpt him in ways she wanted him to be. She didn't care about the pieces she was ripping off him. She didn't care to see him as her son but as art.
