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Hi, my name is Pegasus
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 | The Harsh Facts of Life [00] |
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 4.88 with 8 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-07-01 08:56:25 |
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[As I promised you, so very long ago, I will be posting the new series of 'The Harsh Facts of Life'. I wasn't sure whether I would do this, as you see, I'm turning it into a school projects. I'm still leaving an opening for characters, although, male child abuse, female drug addiction, and female self infliction have been fulled by my own characters. If you have any advice, notice any errors, or would like to send me hate mail - please do. Anyways, I would like you all to know that Randy Stevens has been already image-a-trized, using Orii's dollmaker, and he will appear in my 'good copy', my completed project. I got my permission first hand from Orii, of course. If you'd like to see how I imagine him, send me a DM, and I'll show you the doll. Also, I do not own the lyrics.]
- The Harsh Facts of Life; part 00, Child Abuse [male]
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They cry in the dark, so you can't see their tears
They hide in the light, so you can't see their fears
Forgive and forget, all the while
Love and pain become one and the same
In the eyes of a wounded child
- Hell Is For Children, Pat Benatar
Snap. He hadn't seen the first blow coming. Snap. But he'd felt it. Snap. Uselessly, Randy Stevens lifted his arms, winding them aimlessly about his chest. Snap. A soft cry left his throat as his mother's fists rained down on him, intent on hurting every last inch of his pale porcelain skin. Snap. He bowed his head, trying to ignore to feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he was ready to hurl. Snap. He felt her nails then, tearing as the flesh of his arms. Snap. Blood trickled lazily down his arms, coating them in sticky crimson. Snap. He cried out this time, hunching his shoulders forward and spinning to present her with his back. Snap. The back of his head felt the fury of her anger now. Snap.
The sickening sound of connecting flesh had alerted his father to his mother's brutal rage, but he did nothing but look on as his fifteen-year-old son protected his face from the worst of the damage. Snap. Once before, Elliot Stevens might have intervened to save his son from his wife's attack, but not any more. Snap. They both knew, Randy more so than him, that it was pointless for him to step in. Snap. It'd never done any good before, so it most definiately wouldn't now. Snap. He closed his eyes to the soft cries that left his son's lips, taking a swig of the beer in his clenched fist. Snap. Maybe, if Randy had looked more masculine, Coral Stevens wouldn't attack him so. Snap.
As the last of the abuse drew to a close, Elliot felt a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. Coral couldn't truly have finished the onslaught already, not when she'd already had so much to drink, and the boy was still standing. But as Randy fled to his room, away from his mother's vicious fists, Elliot realised that the night was still young. The would be worse to come, and of course, Randy would be at the heart of it all. It had always been so, even since Randy was a toddler and his wife was fired. Of course, none of it had been Randy's fault, but Coral failed to see that side of it. As Coral Stevens sat heavily beside him, Elliot took another swig of his beer and prepared for the crazy rambling that always followed.
xxxx
Randy Stevens sat in silence, listening to the sound of his mother's raised voice. The walls were close to being as thin as paper and, like paper, they did nothing much to muffle the sound escaping his parents' bedroom. They had been at it for well over an hour. If he were to be entirely truthful, his mother had been at if for over an hour. Berating his father, screaming abuse at the man who sat forever silent. As much as Randy loved his father, there was a part of him that knew what Elliot Stevens really was. A coward. A pathetic excuse for a human being, the kind who let himself get walked on time and time again. The kind of man who let his only child suffer at the hands of his wife.
As soon as he was sure his parents were asleep, long after his mother had finally fallen silent, Randy rose from the bed and timidly approached his mirror. It wasn't a very special piece, just something some uncle had given his father, and his father had given him. It was boring, really, but Randy liked to stare into it sometimes, looking for things that his mother couldn't see. Things he so hoped might appear, before his eyes, just to spare him further torment beneath his mother's hardened fists. Slowly, trying as best as he could not to touch any of his bruises, Randy eased himself out of his jeans.
In only a pair of tatty boxers, Randy stood before the mirror, quivering as the chill of the evening seeped around him. He looked terrible. Almost every inch of his body was covered in bruises, ranging from anywhere between deep purple to a horrible looking yellow. He wrinkled his nose distastefully as he stared at his petite frame. He looked more like his mother than his father. He had her slim, straight body and slight shoulders, with a swan-like neck holding his head upright. He did have his father's eyes, though, and he wasn't sure whether he ought to be glad about this. His father had pretty eyes, a shade of blue so light they reminded Randy of summer.
With a sigh, knowing he looked no more masculine than he did any other day, Randy turned slowly to face his bed. With his skinny arms wound about his bruised chest, he approached the bed, slipping warily beneath the covers. Tomorrow, he knew, would be just as today had been. It would start out violently, and it would end violently. It was life, he knew, and he simply had to face it. Unless he ran away, nothing would change. And then, there was still the worry that he might be stuck in a situation just as bad, if not worse. Here, he had food and shelter, clothes that fit, and a bed to sleep in. If he ran, would he still have all of that?
Slowly, Randy sunk beneath the covers and began to tremble as the tears fell. He rolled onto his side, hugging himself tightly as his body trembled. He shivered as he felt the tears cool against the scratchy material of his pillowcase, prickling the skin on his cheeks in response to the lowered tempreture. He felt cold. Very slowly, to keep from bumping his bruises, Randy sat up, staring about his lightly illuminated bedroom. It was hard to believe that he lived here. There was nothing personal about this room. It was like a guest room. A dresser, a bed, and a mirror, but no personal pieces. No photographs, no posters, no mess on the floor. Nothing to suggest a fifteen-year-old boy lived here, he noted miserably.
No one would even notice if Randy Stevens vanished, he thought as he drew his knees to his chest. No one would notice if his mother beat him to death and then hid him somewhere. No one would even think anything of it, they'd simply assume he'd fallen ill. At least, the school would, because he'd always been a sickly boy. Well, that's what his father told them, whenever he was too bruises to make an appearance. Randy quivered as he stared around. It was a horrible thought, knowing no one would miss him if he were to die. He was alone. Completely and utterly alone. There was no one, anywhere, that would care if he just... vanished.
Randy Stevens wouldn't be missed. Ever. |
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