The Origins Trilogy

Prologue

"Dammit Mary, look what you made me do," I heard my father yell out followed by the sound of my mother crying. It was a sound that I had grown accustomed to over the years. I hid in my closet as my mother had always instructed, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before he found me.

"Where is he! Where's the little faggot hiding," his voice growing ever closer as I sat in the fetal position rocking back and forth mentally preparing myself for what was to come.

"John, please! Please, he was just playing- he didn't know what he was doing, please John don't," my mother cried out, her voice weak and fearful. I heard her trailing behind him skipping a step, almost as if she was trying to catch up.

It wasn't long before he burst through my bedroom door and was on his way toward the closet door. I could hear his feet slamming into the ground over and over, every single drunken thud, thud, thud, each step he took. The predator approaching the weak and defenseless prey.

The closet door swung open and I saw the monster in front of me. Stern glassy eyes searing through my being with blind rage, his square set jaw set in an angry scowl, and hooded browbones casting a dark shadow over his eyes.

He yanked me up with one hand and lifted my small body to his face, I could see my mom pulling at his other only to be met with another smack from my father.

"Look here you little shit, I didn't raise a faggot, never have, never will, I don't ever want to see that other fag at our house again, you hear me," his vodka fumed voice screamed. He was talking about my best friend Sam, he had come home from the bar earlier than I expected.

My mom was in the kitchen cooking dinner and she hadn't noticed Sam and I sneaking out to the back of the trailer to try kissing for the first time. We were just playing around, trying to experiment, but my father didn't see it that way when he came around back to find me.

"They were just playing John, please, they-they didn't know what they were doing," my mother choked out, still trying to collect herself from when he hit her the second time. It was too late, he'd already thrown me onto the bed and my body tense to prepare for the blows to come.

"I don't care if I have to beat it out of you every day, my son will not grow up to be a fag," he threatened as he landed the first blow to my back. His threats no longer frightened me, I had grown accustomed to the abuse. He landed blow after blow after blow, and just lay there. He'd been beating my mother and me for so many years, it seemed as if it was part of our daily ritual.

I had learned to no longer feel the pain anymore, trained my eyes never to release a tear, and let my mind drift into oblivion. He just kept hitting me, my mother kept crying and screaming at him to stop, it was no use, of course, when he got like this, there was never any stopping him. It wasn't until the blood from his punch to my mouth started to stain the bed covers did he finally stop.

"I don't raise fags, clean that shit up Mary, I don't want that blood all over my shit," he said breathlessly, he stumbled out of my room and I heard the front door close behind him, it was over for now.

"I'm so sorry Hartley, you-you know how your father is, you shouldn't do things like that honey, you know how angry he gets," my mother reasoned as she lifted me from the bed onto the floor and started to gather the sheets that my blood soiled.

"I have to- I have to wash these before your father gets back, he'll calm down soon, and then he'll take us out tomorrow for some ice cream, you- you would like that wouldn't you Hartley, don't- don't mind him Hartley he's just having a rough day today, just make sure you don't do that again okay," my mother rambled, she never wanted a response when she was making excuse for him to me, she just wanted someone to listen, someone who can understand.

Her mind was weak, after all these years she still believes that there is good in him, but I know there isn't, there never was. I tried to lift myself off the floor so I could go the bathroom, but my wrist was sprained along with a few other parts of my body as well. Thankfully, I tucked my left arm underneath my body, so it wasn't as badly hurt I used that arm to help myself up and I began to hobble to the bathroom down the hall.

My mother was at the kitchen sink trying to soap up the sheets by hand, I guess in her frenzied state, she'd forgotten about the washing machine we had adjacent to the dining room. I watched her as she mumbled to herself, rocking as I had in the closet, she kept shaking her head and scrubbing furiously at the red stain.

Even at age twelve, I knew that my mother wasn't right in the head, the years of abuse had affected her differently. She was trying to wash away the red stain as if it would somehow erase what had happened as if without the evidence present, she could just let it go. The stain had finally come out of the cloth and I saw her straighten up from her slumped over stance.

"Hurry up and get cleaned up Hartley, your father will be home in just a minute,  don't want him to see that you got hurt playing around now do we, he won't be pleased," just like that her entire demeanor and tone of voice went from fearful to pleasant. She had even found a way to twist a smile on her face.

I did as I was told and returned to my hobble to the bathroom, but not before I saw my mother rinse out the bedsheets and put them in the dryer. She returned to cooking the dinner as if nothing was amiss, even humming a tune as she stirred the pot of broth.

It didn't surprise me though, this was the norm in my household, these are my parents, and this is my life. I looked into the small mirror in our dank bathroom and got my washcloth from the shower. With my one good hand, I started to treat my wounds.

I let the water run until it was warm and soaped up my rag so I could clean up the dried blood from my mouth and head, I worked my way over every bloodied area on my body and looked at myself. My medium brown hair frazzled still and my left green eye clouded with blood due to the vessel in my eye that popped due to one of his blows.

I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. The pain had returned, and it was glorious, I could feel the stinging, the rawness at my open wounds, and the soreness in my chest and back. I smiled at this pain because I knew it was only temporary, one day he won't be able to hurt me like this, one day he'd die.

The thought of my father being killed, the thought of him dying warmed my heart. I couldn't wait until he tried to drive home one night drunk and his car ran off the road into a tree, or he's at the right place at the right time at the local bar and someone would shoot him in the head, stab him in his neck, maybe even torture him. I fantasized about him dying in so many different ways, so many different accidents, every single day.

People like him, evil people, shouldn't get to live, they don't deserve life. I found myself laughing in the mirror when I thought of his death, his suffering. I can't wait to outlive him, outgrow him, and be better than him. The day he dies will be the happiest day of my life.