After that unfortunate night, when James first unleashed his rage, his life... twisted and broken as it was... gained a new, Dark and horrifying rhythm.
For the first time in years, he had felt something other than sorrow and regret... pleasure.
It was not the joy of a father nor the satisfaction of a man who had found peace.
It was the sadistic pleasure of control, the release of the rage onto someone weaker.
Like a predator is drawn to blood, James became addicted to that feeling.
From that night onward, beating Davey became his nightly ritual.
Every evening, after drinking himself into a stupor, James would stumble to home and take out all his frustration, anger, and guilt on the boy.
"Come here, you little parasite!" he'd growl while pulling Davey by his arm.
"Father, please... please stop!" the boy would cry, his small voice echoing through the barren house.
James never listened.
His fists landed again and again, each blow getting heavier than the last.
Davey's screams filled the night, but the walls of their home kept the agony locked within.
Davey's fragile body bore the brunt of his father's torment.
His skin was covered in bruises... dark patches that never had the chance to heal before new ones appeared.
Cuts and welts lined his arms, legs, and back.
At first, the pain was unbearable.
Each strike felt like fire coursing through his veins, each bruise would remind him of his father's hatred.
But over time, something changed.
The pain began to fade.
As Davey's young body hardened to the abuse, his mind retreated.
He stopped crying as much, though not out of courage... out of exhaustion.
Crying never stopped the beatings, and his voice was too hoarse to scream.
But James noticed.
One night, after another drunken tirade, James delivered blow after blow.
Yet Davey didn't scream.
He didn't cry.
He simply stared at his father, his dark eyes were hollow, his lips trembling but silent.
"You think you're tough now, huh?" James snarled, his face red with fury.
"You think you can just take it?"
Davey shook his head, terrified.
"No, father… I—I didn't mean—"
Before he could finish, James' gaze landed on a hammer lying by the doorway.
His lips curled into a twisted smile.
"Let's see how tough you really are."
Davey's small body trembled as James grabbed the hammer.
"F-Father… please…" he stammered as he backed away.
James ignored him, his steps were heavy and unsteady.
With a roar, he raised the hammer high and brought it down on Davey's right arm.
A sickening crack filled the air.
Davey's scream pierced the night, louder and more desperate than ever before.
He clutched his arm, writhing on the floor as tears streamed down his face.
"Now you know." James spat, his voice venomous.
"You'll never forget who's in charge."
From that day on, the violence escalated.
James no longer limited himself to his fists.
Anything within reach became a weapon... bottles, belts, furniture.
And the food that was once scarce became nearly nonexistent.
Davey's already frail body grew weaker.
His ribs jutted out, his skin became pale and sickly.
The boy who once smiled even in the face of neglect had now become a hollow shell.
His eyes, once curious and bright, were now empty.
The neighbors heard everything.
The screams, the cries, the crashes of furniture—
... it was impossible not to.
But no one intervened.
"It's not our business." they would murmur, avoiding each other's eyes.
"It's better to stay out of it."
Even the children in the neighborhood shunned Davey.
On the rare occasions where he'd venture outside, they would run away as their laughter turns into whispers.
"Don't play with him" one child warned another.
"He's cursed."
"His father's a drunkard." another said.
"It's better to stay away."
Davey didn't bother trying to make friends.
He didn't want to see the pity... or the fear... in their eyes.
Instead, he stayed inside the small, suffocating house that had become both his prison and his grave.
Another year passed, and Davey turned five.
The passing of time brought no relief, only more misery.
James came home even later, and the little food he brought was barely enough to stave off starvation.
One evening, as Davey stood washing dishes in the dim light of the kitchen, he stared at his reflection in the water.
His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken.
The boy he saw was not a child but a shadow.
"What did I do wrong?" he whispered to himself.
"Why does father hate me?"
His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion outside.
The quiet neighborhood, usually so still that even the sound of breathing could be heard, was alive with murmurs.
"What's going on?" Davey wondered, his curiosity piqued. But fear held him back.
He didn't want to go outside.
A loud, commanding voice cut through the noise.
"Is this the house?"
Davey froze.
The voice was cold, authoritative, and unlike anything he had ever heard.
Before he could react, the front door was kicked open with a deafening bang.
Four men stepped inside, their silver armor gleamed even in the dim light.
Their faces were stern, their eyes scanning the room until they landed on Davey.
"Are you Davey?" one of them asked, his voice sharp and unyielding.
Davey stumbled backward, his heart pounding.
"Y-Yes… but please, don't hurt me!" he begged, falling to his knees.
The soldier who had spoken stepped forward.
Without a word, he raised his hand and struck Davey hard across the head.
The world blurred, and darkness consumed him.
As Davey's unconscious body slumped to the floor, the soldier picked him up effortlessly.
The group turned and left the house, leaving the battered home in silence once more.
The door hung ajar, swaying slightly in the evening breeze.
The neighborhood was silent again, as if nothing had happened.
But within the broken walls of that house, one thing was clear... Davey's life, as he had known it, was over.
And somewhere deep within the boy's unconscious mind, a faint flicker of hope began to stir.