The moment my father had me by my throat in front of my stepmother, showing her the view I wanted for her to never see: him overpowering me.
I was really enticed to grab his throat as well, choking him to death. But I had a plan, and I would follow the plan.
While, for a long time, I just wanted to leave and run away, the alternative of ending my father personally had long haunted my thoughts.
The grudge was deep, and the beatings were painful, but it was also because he deserved it. There was just no reason for him to live; he should die along with his lifelong obsession, so that I, my mother, my grandparents and everyone else could have closure.
I had always thought that these were the thoughts of my pleasure-deprived brain, the hormones, or a twisted joke I was telling myself, but since Lesly had come into his, into my life, I understood that all this time, I really meant it.
That was the reason, aside from the crazy adrenalin trip, I was so euphoric and elated after I set a human on fire; I wanted to be caught.
I wasn't dumb enough to go to prison for killing my father, possibly getting me the death penalty, but in either case, it would just result in throwing my life away for him and being another of his victims.
It had to happen in self-defense, and there could be no record of me getting violent with him until I lunged out for the final strike. I could not raise my hand against him until it was time to kill him.
So I had to let myself be humiliated in front of her, and when I saw her looking away, I was mocking myself for feeling disappointed.
I wanted her eyes constantly on me, as mine were on her, and it seemed that this was also in a situation where I was suppressed by her husband.
Constantly, these "Look at me,", "Watch me", "Discover me"'s were raging in my mind when thinking of her. It was laughable.
Now that I went violent like my mother was, until the deep desperation had turned her into a meek and submissive shadow of the rapist she had been, and let myself be caught by my father at that, it meant that Lesly couldn't protect me today, even if she would try.
The principal and his relationship with Brunette were uncalled-for and uninteresting, as I asked myself how many whip strikes I would have to take today.
When we made our way to my punishment, I was again relishing in my favorite activity, staring at my stepmother, only at her back, and although it did not give me any satisfaction to see her going beside my father, I still continued, when suddenly, my lighter appeared in her hand.
I took it, and I had to suppress a chuckle. The little crow was so polite, even leaving me with the power to set the house on fire if I wasn't able to succumb further. The power she had to decide when I had to yield, as well as her action just now, meant she agreed to me going berserk today, didn't it?
Now, I was really hoping for her husband to go overboard, making good use of this chance and her consent.
Taking the flame, prolonging the touch, and pocketing the lighter, I was ready—again, ready for everything to end.
We took the same car, but I could neither look at her through the car mirror nor if I turned around, and that was unnerving. Her being so close to my father, to another man, while not having me watch over her—it shouldn't be like this.
When we arrived, and I exited the car, following to get my strikes, I turned to her, in a short greeting, a prolonged farewell if something went wrong, and the last goodbye ever if everything went right.
I followed him in his office, and my face fell when I saw with what calmness he went to the drawer to take his weapon.
Today was not the day; regrettably, I still had to wait. He would strike me, but he wouldn't go overboard; maybe Lesly had really managed to calm him down enough.
Sadly, she seemed to truly have a knack for swaying the Lennister men.
I threw my black suit jacket at the chair that stood in a corner before kneeling and getting ready.
Like usual. Like back then when I was a child.
I am in the picture of the crime my mother committed because when she would manage to rile my father up enough, with hitting the servants, injuring me, or turning the house upside down, he let himself fall on her level, and then he wouldn't regard her with indifference anymore; he would yell at her; he would fight back when she attacked him; and if he had drunk, or if he couldn't take her presence anymore, he would make sure to bring her to silence.
And to be honest, if I were in his situation, being punished by a crazy wife and a child who looked like her, constantly reminding me of the incidents that led to its birth, I also couldn't love such a child. Although, instead of tormenting me, my wife and the child, I would either leave them or just set them on fire.
So while I understood, and for the rest—the fascination with the blonde and blue-eyed woman—I was at least trying to understand, that didn't mean that this nightmarish childhood wouldn't have consequences, and although I understood that my mother had crafted this hell she lived in herself, that although I was liberated by my mother's death, it didn't mean that there wouldn't be consequences for her miserable life as well.
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Thomas POV
My wounds were never found, as I clothed and bathed on my own. Nobody would ever know until I let them know.
I don't dare think you care has me as its reason, and I am sure that you do this to protect her. And if you protect her, then I will protect her, never disclosing the torment she has put me through.
Now, I accompany you when you are at home alone, and we go together to get her from school. I love the time when she isn't with us.
I hope she just dies so that we can be without her.
But without her inhumanity, would you even look at me?