Misfits | Stydia & Scisaac

Prologue 1

Important Author's Note: Hello, this book is currently under revision. I have already started the first two chapters. With this being said, you will see inconsistencies with the POVs. I am 18, and wrote this book when I was closer to 12 I believe. There will definitely be a difference in writing styles, grammar, etc. It is still a good book, please just excuse such inconsistencies for now. Thank you for your time. Enjoy!

Isaac: Ten Years Old

Time: Six Years Ago

Isaac stared at his plate as he ate. With every chew, the awkwardness continued to grow. He could feel his father's intense stare burning into the side of his face, but he did not dare to look up at him. Isaac already knew how his father would look. His eyes would be filled with rage and his lips would be twitching. A vein would manage to pop out of his forehead, and his face would be uncomfortably red. Yes, Isaac didn't need to look up. He knew what he was in for.

"So you've failed your math test?" his father said slowly while dragging his fork across his dinner plate. There was no food on it, for he had eaten it all. He lazily drew circles onto it to taunt his ten year old son. Isaac gulped quietly and directed his gaze elsewhere, feeling as though his eyes were no longer safe on his plate. He stared at his glass of water instead.

"I got a sixty-three on it," Isaac finally managed to whisper. His voice deceived him; it came out much quieter, and hoarser, than intended. But no matter how it came out, he knew that the results would be the same. They always were.

He waited for his father to throw a glass, a plate, or anything at all, but to his surprise, he didn't. Isaac slowly looked up at him and met his father's cruel eyes.

"You're fucking retarded, Isaac," his father finally yelled, "Why do you even bother going to school? It's not doing anything for you."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Isaac apologized. That's all he could manage to say. His throat began to tighten, and his palms began to get clammy. He was terrified.

His father didn't respond, and Isaac eventually began to calm down. After a few moments had passed, he felt safe enough to continue eating. Isaac stabbed his fork into the piece of chicken on his plate. Just as he began to put it up to his mouth, his father grabbed the fork from his hands and threw it across the room. The fork hit the wall with a thud before clanking against the floor. The chicken had bounced off in a different direction from the impact. Spaghetti sauce painted the wall where the chicken had hit.

"Well, Son," his father said as he stood from his chair, "Sorry isn't going to make you any less of a loser, now is it?"

In one swift motion, he grabbed Isaac by his ear, and pulled him out of his chair, onto his feet. Isaac began to panic.

"No! Stop! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, okay? Please don't do this!" Isaac screamed, but his father dad ignored his pleads. Isaac reached up to his father's hand to try to pull it off from him. His father slapped his hand away and whipped him across the face as punishment. Isaac's nose stung, and he smelled the familiar metallic scent of blood.

His father dragged him down the hallway, and Isaac flailed his body in hopes that his father would manage to drop him. His father's hold on him strengthened as his other hand clasped around Isaac's small wrist. His ear was now free as Isaac was pushed down the wooden stairway to the basement, but his arm was immobile.

There, at the bottom of the stairs, laid a fridge. Isaac looked up at his father through the tears in his eyes.

"Dad, I'm sorry! I'll try harder! I promise!" Isaac begged. His tears flowed out of his eyes uncontrollably; he was hysterical.

His father undid the chains that surrounded the door of the fridge and swung it open. With one swift motion, Isaac was violently thrown into the small space. Instantaneously, the door closed, and Isaac felt like he couldn't breathe. Very little light seeped in through the tiny holes that had been drilled into the cooler.

Isaac screamed at the top of his lungs, to no prevail. He heard his father retreating back to the first floor of the house, slamming the basement door shut. Isaac began to sob. It was dark, cramped, and humid. His throat began to tighten once again, and he began to choke.

Time was irrelevant when inside the fridge. When he had finally managed to calm himself down, there was no way for Isaac to know how long it had been since he had gotten thrown inside.

Isaac closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his mouth. He was alright this time, he had told himself. No damage had been done this time. His nose, whatever had been done to it, would heal. At least this time no bones had been shattered.

His eyes snapped open to the sound of rushed footsteps stomping down the stairs. Isaac wondered if it had really been the next morning already, as that was usually when he was let free -- just in time for school. The chains on the front jostled free, and the door swung open a few seconds after. A woman stood before Isaac, one he had never seen before. She extended her hand out to him, and he hesitantly took it.

"Hello, there," she said quietly and calmly, "I work for Child Protective Services. Everything's going to be okay."

Isaac nodded and buried his face into her shirt.

"Thank you," he cried.

This was the last time that Isaac had ever seen his father.