Page 115 of Promises in the Dark

“You’re gonna learn to be a man, goddammit,” he spat, his words a cruel mockery of everything I held dear. “No son of mine’s gonna be a fucking fairy.”

I felt the sharp sting of his blows as they rained down upon me, each one driving home the truth that I was nothing to him. Just a punching bag. Fucking worthless.

I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself, but it was useless. The hits kept coming, each one more vicious than the last. And through it all, I could hear my mom’s sobs, begging him to stop, but it was like shouting into the void.

Eventually, he seemed to get bored, or maybe he just ran out of steam. The blows slowed, then stopped. He staggered back, breathing heavily, like the goddamn animal he was. I laid there, my whole body throbbing in agony, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Remember this, boy,” he hissed, a look of disgust on his face. “Men don’t fucking draw.”

My mom was still on the ground too, clutching her side where he’d shoved her. The kitchen was a mess—my crayons scattered everywhere, my drawing torn to shreds.

He stood over us, breathing like a fucking bull, his eyes cold and empty.

“Clean this shit up,” he grunted at her. “And get dinner on the table. I’m fucking starving.”

He turned and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving me and my mom in a broken heap on the floor. She crawled over to me, her face bruised and swollen, and pulled me into her arms.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispered, her voice trembling with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

But no amount of her guilt could drown out the pain. And honestly, the worst part wasn’t even the pain—it was the fucking shame. Shame of being too weak to protect her. Shame of letting that monster, the one who called himself my father, make me feel like less of a man. Every fucking day.

The shame of knowing that no matter how much I tried to be strong, it was never enough.Never fucking enough.

My mother’s soft, soothing tone morphed with my father’s rough, commanding one, creating a strange blend that was ringing in my ears. The sound built, growing louder and louder until it was all I could hear.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Men don’t fucking draw.”

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Men don’t fucking draw.”

My eyes snapped open and I woke up gasping for air as if I’d been drowning. I sat up, dragging a hand through my hair, feeling the dampness at my temples and my fingers trembling with residual adrenaline.

Outside, the world was silent, but inside my head, it was a riot.

Goddamn it, it never fucking ended.

I rubbed my face, trying to scrub away the remnants of the nightmare, but those memories—they stuck. They clung to me like a hangover you can’t shake.

Men didn’t fucking draw.

The images of that fucking kitchen, my old man’s rage, my mom’s tears had a way of worming their way into my head, even after all these years—it was all still too fucking vivid, too goddamn real.

After that night, I never drew again. I tossed my crayons in the trash, hoping against hope that maybe if I stopped drawing, my old man would fucking stop too. But surprise, surprise, nothing ever fucking worked.

No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, the bastard just kept coming. Drawing or not, he always found a reason to take out his anger on me and mom.

She’d tried to protect me, to shield me from his wrath, but in the end, she couldn’t take it anymore. Shortly after, she packed her shit and walked out the door, leaving me alone with that monster. I watched her go, too numb and broken to even ask her to stay. Before she left, she'd promised me she'd come back, swore she'd get out and find a way to pull me out too. Said she needed to get away first so she could actually fight him, that she'd come back for me once she was safe. I wanted to believe her. I clung to it, hoping it meant I wouldn't be stuck with him forever.

But with her gone, the beatings? They got worse. Unchecked. No more buffer. No more protection. Every fucking day turned into a survival game. It was me against him, and most days, I barely kept my head above water.

So, I buried myself in the only thing I had left: my anger. I learned to hide my pain, hoping that if I ignored it long enough, it would just fucking disappear. There was no room for weakness, no time for self-pity. I had to be strong, had to endure. Because there was no one else left to protect me.

I dragged my ass out of bed, pulled on my gear, lacing up my boots, strapping on my vest—going through the motions like a goddamn robot. Today was a training day, and I needed the distraction. I needed something to stop my brain from tearing itself apart.

When I got to the training area, the setup was pretty fucking obvious—twelve barrels, each filled to the brim withwater. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what we were in for today. Raven stood tall, barking orders like she was running a fucking boot camp.

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