The Surface

Chapter 5

~Image not mine~

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Nico ran through the dusty attic, an old doll of Bianca's in his hands. He played airplanes until he was too tired, then laying on the ground to stare up above him at the wooden beams. They looked strong, strong enough to hang something from. Maybe he could use those for another game...

"Nico!" Hades' voice echoed throughout the house. "Where are you?!"

The other game would have to wait for another day. As Nico hid the doll behind a support column, he felt himself shaking. When was the last time Hades had hit him? Was he going to hit him again? It had hurt so bad last time...

"I'm coming!" Nico climbed down the ladder leading up to the attic before running out of his closet and bedroom. "I was cleaning my room!"

He should have known not to yell in the house.

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Seven years old. Nico liked to play with Bianca's doll but it was getting even dirtier than him. He kept trying to sneak it downstairs to wash, but Hades always caught him. It always ended with a beating that left him purple and blue.

Meals were hard to come by, as well as new clothes or clean undergarments. As he grew, he turned more into a ragamuffin. His hair got longer, his eyes grew darker, he took on a starving look that should never be seen on a child.

Seven years old. Who knew that he'd only have ten years to go?

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On his eighth birthday, Nico sat in the attic with his knees brought to his chest. A pile of hair was around him, him having finally cut it off with a knife he had gotten out of the kitchen. Yet with the knife, he had also cut himself on accident. He bled rust red, bled over the wooden floorboards. He cried for hours, but the pain never went away.

"Happy birthday to me..." Nico kept his bleeding hand close to himself. "Happy birthday to me..."

No one sang with him, nobody sang to him. Not even the shadows called his name. How long had it been since anyone said his name? Even his father didn't seem to remember it.

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Nine years old. Barely having grown, barely having eaten. As he wandered around the third floor and the attic, he felt pieces of himself dying. How could anyone survive being so lonely? Dolls didn't talk back, nor did the stars when he spoke to the night sky.

He missed his momma, missed his sister, but he knew they weren't coming back. They couldn't, not in this life. His time with them was up.

Nine years old, mature beyond his years. What had happened to the once happy child? Why couldn't he smile or laugh anymore?

Nine years old. Already halfway through life.