He had been lying low, hiding in one of his houses, licking his wounds.
So to speak.
He believed he was safe in this place since this was where his father and mother had raised him, away from the prying eyes of his father's enemies.
And this was where his mother spent the remaining days of her sick life before she passed away. This place held most of his childhood memories, or the lack of having one.
He believed the only valuable memories he recalled about this place were the times he spent with his mother. Those days were the only good remembrances of his youth he held dear to his heart.
"No. I am not weak. I am not giving up." Gerald stared at his father's portrait as he imagined his father looking down on him. "I can do this."
He remembered how his father would whip him with his belt every time his old man saw tears in his eyes. The more he cried, the stronger the leather lashed on his skin.
