Page 11 of Promises in the Dark

And I believed him. I believed that I was worthless, that I was a piece of shit, that I was the one who had fucked everything up. I believed that I deserved that brutal, dehumanizing attack, and I believed that I was nothing more than a walking mistake.

He slapped me across the face, leaving a stinging, searing pain. My cheek felt like it was on fire under his clammy, sweaty palm.

He reared back, eyes wild and manic, then brought his fist down on my head. I saw stars, literally, my vision dancing in front of me like some trippy light show at a rave, and it took me a few seconds to realize just what the hell has happened.

Then I felt something crack—maybe my skull?—and a warm gush trickled down my face. My ears were ringing, and I couldn’t really hear him anymore, just the sound of the porcelain against my head echoing in the tiny room, bouncing off the walls and the shitty old mirror that had a spiderweb of cracks running down the middle.

My father kept going, pulling my hair and bashing my head against the sink over and over again, like he was trying to carve a message into my fucking skull.

The pain was unbearable, but I was trying not to scream because that would piss him off even harder.

“Get up, boy,” he ordered, and I saw the fire in his eyes. “Get up and take your punishment like a fucking man.”

I knew if I didn’t get up, he’d only beat me worse. So, I forced myself to my feet, my legs shaking and weak from the pummeling I’d just taken.

"Dad, please, I—"

He slammed my head against that cold, hard sink, harder than any baseball pitcher ever dreamed of throwing a fastball. Blood was trickling down my face, and I could taste the coppery tang of it in my mouth.

“You’re nothing but a burden,” he sneered, but the words were lost in my head, which was ringing from the impact. “I should’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago.”

My old man always smelled like some cheap ass Old Spice aftershave, but today, the stench was stronger than ever.It was like he soaked himself in the shit before coming at me. I could barely take a breath without almost vomiting.

I fought through the dizziness caused by his stench and with all my might, I brought my knee up, aiming straight for his groin. He was a good foot taller than me, but I was fast, and I’ve got anger on my side. He tried to swat me away like some pesky fly, but I was too damn determined.

I saw it in his eyes, the shock, the realization that his little boy just threw a punch back. But it was too late for him. My knee connected, and I heard the satisfying crunch of pain.

He staggered back, clutching himself. The look on his face was priceless. He let out a high-pitched scream that would have made a banshee jealous.

“That’s what you deserve,” I growled, relishing the sweet taste of revenge. “You thought you could control me? Well, think again, you sick fuck.”

As he doubled over in pain, I wrenched myself free, ready to make a run for it.

But then, just as I was about to break free, he grabbed me by the collar, his grip like a viselike trap. He yanked me back, and I crashed into his chest, winded.

“You, ungrateful little shit,” he shouted, his spit landing on my cheek. “I feed you, clothe you, give you a roof over your head, and this is how you repay me?”

I struggled against his grip, feeling my desperation raised. Everything went dark for a second, and then I felt the pain, searing through my body, my back, my head, my fucking everything.

“Fuck you,” I snarled, digging my heels in, trying to break free.

His grip tightened even further, cutting off my breath.

“You’re mine, boy!” he bellowed, his words echoing through the room. “You’ll never escape me.”

And maybe he was right. Maybe I never fucking would.

I jolted awake, my body drenched in a layer of sweat, my heart pounding in my chest. The nightmare clung to my mind like a leech, my father’s rage still echoing, his grip suffocating me even in my sleep. I took a minute to catch my breath, scanning the dimly lit room, trying to shake off the shitstorm in my head.

That’s when I saw her—Doc, the one who patched me up. Her presence lit up the room like a fucking beacon, her flame-like hair cascading in a vivid glow against her porcelain skin. Emerald eyes locked onto me, full of that soft concern and understanding bullshit. But as she reached out a hand to comfort me, frustration shot through me, my instincts screaming for distance.

I flinched the fuck away, my body stiff as hell. I didn’t want to be touched, not after all the scars—both visible and hidden beneath the surface. Pain and betrayal had made me wary as fuck of anyone laying a hand on me. Human emotion, that soft pity in people’s eyes, it only made my skin crawl. I’d learned young that touch was never safe. My father’s fists had been the first lesson, each hit teaching me that closeness meant control, meant pain.

My mother’s soft touches hadn’t done shit to change that, barely a buffer against the fists, as if gentleness was too damn fragile to hold up against the violence. So I’d built up walls,layers thick as armor, and now, every time someone tried to break through, all it did was itch and burn, setting off alarms in every nerve.

“Easy now, Lieutenant,” she said, her voice cutting through the haze of my panic. “You’re safe here. It was just a nightmare.”

“I can handle my own demons,” I muttered, my voice sharp and detached.

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