"Let's play a game... a game of murder."
A young blossoming composer, Markel didn't know what to do when he was cordially invited to the last concert of a retiring pianist. But when the concert's true motive is revealed, Markel is sucked into a vort...
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Stupid, stupid.
A small, oval petal floated towards the ground, lightly bruised from the man who'd torn it off.
I told him not to tell, but I guess I pushed him too far today, huh?
Another petal floated down, this one slightly more crushed by the man, who was staring off into the distance, eyes unseeing.
There was a crash, unfamiliar swear words, and shards of broken glass. Markel stood protectively in front of his mother, eyes narrowed as he observed the raging monster in front of him.
Face red like a cherry, slightly frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog, John Huffman was on his all fours, bloodshot brown eyes fixated on the terrified woman behind Markel. In his front paw-hand, he held the bottleneck of a beer, and in his other he held a whip.
'Come on, Martha,' he rasped, playfully twirling around the beer bottle, 'let's have some fun~.'
Markel's mother only trembled and quaked in response, one arm gripping the angrily-bleeding whiplash on her shoulder, the other holding a kitchen knife. Markel tucked his hair behind an ear, away from his face, body tense.
When his stepfather made a move towards the two, Markel's fingers wrapped themselves around the bo staff next to him.
'Remember, Denzle- only strike when negotiation has become impossible.' His father's words suddenly came to his mind, the image of the smiling rear admiral in his beautiful dress uniform reminding Markel of his training.
Markel's fingers guiltily unwrapped themselves from the bo as he glared at the animal of a man in front of him. Action was not needed yet; he'd give this drunkard replacement of a father a chance to see if his brain still functioned.
'Stay away, Mister Huffman. Do not come closer.' Markel's voice came out steadier than he thought it would, with no hint of the fear threatening to overwhelm him.
'Get out of my way, lad!' Shivering when his stepfather's rabid gaze landed on him, Markel steeled himself and stared at the man in the eye.
'No. You are scaring my mother.'
Once again, Markel found his fingers creeping to his bo staff, though this time, John Huffman noticed.
'Lad, y've got guts, and I'll give you that. But back where I grew up, lads with guts turned into lads with guts spilled out onto the streets for the vultures to eat.'
Markel's knuckles tensed in anger.
'Only cause damage when you need to, Denzle. To make sure you don't get in trouble.' The 13 year old boy could've sworn that his father was standing proudly next to him, one arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders.
'Remember who you are. Remember that you come from a line of naval flag officers with pride, honour, and intelligence.'
His father's scent was stronger than ever.
Markel sent a inward prayer to his father that he'd be forgiven tonight if he struck down the Yorkshireman his mother had married, because he was truly being threatened.
The moment John Huffman lunged, Markel brought his bo staff up and bashed him square on the nose. The Englishman reared back, slightly dazed from the pain, but overall, angrier. He lashed out with his whip, but Markel had already caught its leather in one hand. With a forceful tug, he tore the whip out of the man's hand, tossing it to the side where neither of them can reach.
'I thought I told you to get out of my way!' The older man roared, standing up into his 6-foot height, staring down at the 5-foot-3 boy who was glaring at him through his rapidly-sliding glasses.
'And I thought I told you to stay away from me!' Markel yelled back, hands tightening on his bo. To his surprise, the drunk man actually chuckled, raising a meaty palm as though to strike.
'Fine. If y'wanna fight that much, I'll give it to you.'
Markel had won that day, him and his bo staff and his mother and her knife. They'd won with minimal injuries- both had the markings of a whip on them, on his mother's shoulder and on the palm of his hand.
But he couldn't say the same for the rest of the three years he'd spent in that hellhole.
Stupid, stupid man. Stupid, stupid woman.
Stupid, stupid life.
Stupid, stupid enemies.
Stupid, stupid torpedo, taking my life away with a bang.
The petals from the innocent daisy rained down like snow, landing in a small half-circle around where Markel stood.
Stupid, stupid me, always me, helpless and scared to make a move.
Stupid, stupid cowardly me. No wonder I turned into a drug addict.
I'm worse than a coward, worse than stupid.
I'm nothing.
Markel looked down at the daisy lying limply in his hand, devoid of all its pretty white petals.
I'm like this little daisy. Tormented by an unwanted foreigner.
'Markel, we named you because we want you to be a fighter against all injustices that dared to stand before you. The name 'Markel' is a form of Mars, the Roman god of war. Fight for justice. Fight because you know what justice and freedom and safety feels like.' His father's words rang in his ears, and Markel unconsciously rubbed the scar on his palm.
He'd fight, yes, and he'd stop feeling self pity.
He'd put the wrongs to right.
He'd report his abusive stepfather, and send him back to Britain.
Tucking the remains of the daisy behind his ear, Markel headed back inside to collect his notebook and keys before locking the front door.
A/N: Hope that wasn't too violent or depressing :)
Anyways, I'm pretty much halfway through the eighth chapter in terms of writing (to be honest, I was going to put Chapter VIII and VII together but hey, an adequate cliffhanger!) so... tomorrow, maybe?
