I felt a hot sting on my left cheek, I was used to the noise of a hand to the face, and the sound of my fathers booming voice for all to hear. It didn't phase me anymore, I've grown old of crying even though I was nearing eight years old, what good does it make? I've tried fighting back but it gave me no use, it added insult to my already injured body. Menoetius, my father, was never a father, more of a man who can't keep his violence to himself. "By the gods Patroclus can't you do anything right?!" His voice roared. I stay silent as he gave a deep sigh then moved subject "Are you aware of what awaits you tomorrow?" He said calmly "No, I don't believe so, father." I reply
"You are to be exiled from here do you understand that son?" He proposed, not glancing at me "Yes, father" "Pack up your things and don't you even think of returning." he authorized, he was looking out the window as if what he said was an everyday occurrence. "How can I pack up? I don't have anything of value." I muttered, my voice was low, practically inaudible but the echo of the room made it so, but not comprehensive, "what was that son?" son, I wasn't his son, by blood yes, I am the son of Menoetius but certainly not by relationship. There was a long pause, he repeated the question as if I were deaf, "Nothing, father." I said clearly and louder. I could leave now.
I had known this would be the case seeing as he heard I "killed" a boy my age over dice. I didn't kill him, he was severely injured with a broken nose, a broken leg, a kick to the stomach, and a black eye. He was limping by the time I was done with him, I walked off nearly unscathed. The most I had was a cut knee, a swollen right cheek from hitting the rocks when I tackled him as well as a black eye.
I left that night and headed to wherever the wind takes me.