10 Years Ago
"When will Dad ever get tired of beating Mom up?" Draven asked, his voice trembling with desperation. His fists clenched as he paced the dimly lit room, the muffled cries from behind the bedroom door stabbing into his heart like shards of glass.
Brandon sat on the worn couch, his eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to meet his younger brother's gaze. "Look here, little brother. You're only fifteen years old, and they're adults. You shouldn't interfere in adult matters." His tone was detached, his words cold and dismissive.
"Adult matters?" Draven spat, his voice rising with a mixture of disbelief and anger. "You act like you don't hear her screams every night! Are you so heartless that you don't feel anything when you see your own mother with a swollen face and tears running down her cheeks?"
Brandon finally looked up, his face unreadable, as though he wanted to say something but chose to swallow the words instead. "You'll never understand," he said simply and walked away, leaving Draven alone with the echo of his words.
Draven stood there, his fists trembling. The weight of helplessness crushed him, suffocating him like a heavy fog. "Never understand?" he whispered to himself, his voice breaking. "I understand all too well. I'm the only one who does." He turned to the wall and punched it with all his strength, his knuckles splitting open, blood trickling down his hand. The pain felt like a reprieve from the storm raging inside him.
He was sick of being treated like a child, of being ignored simply because he was the youngest. If no one else cared, he would. He would bring justice to his mother, even if it cost him everything.
But where could he turn? The police? Their hands were tied unless his mother filed a complaint. And she never would. He could still remember the day she denied being abused, her swollen face a grotesque mask of denial.
"Why don't you ever decide to bring an end to your suffering?" he had asked her once, his voice laced with bitterness.
"I love your father more than you can imagine," she had said, her eyes filled with an unshakable resolve. "And I want you and your brother to have a complete family. A family with both parents."
"Love?" Draven had scoffed, his voice cracking. "I don't know about love, but I know you enjoy suffering. You must, to let him do this to you."
Her response had been a whisper, barely audible. "You'll never understand."
That phrase haunted him, a ghost of resignation that clung to every corner of their broken home. He felt foolish for being the only one who cared, the only one willing to stand against the monster.
Draven once tried to confront his father, only for it to end in his mother receiving twice the usual punishment. The memory was a scar that refused to fade. 'Why doesn't he ever beat us instead?' Draven often wondered. He would gladly take the blows if it meant sparing her.
Tonight was no different. His father stumbled home late, his heavy footsteps reverberating through the silence. After dinner, he disappeared into the bedroom, slamming the door shut.
Draven's heart pounded as he stood outside the door, the muffled voices within prickling his skin like needles. He had never eavesdropped before, but tonight, he needed to know where it all began.
"Why do you always come home late?" his mother's voice quivered with both anger and pain. "Do you know what stress you put on the children?"
"If you have a problem, leave this house!" his father bellowed, his voice cold and merciless.
"I know you're having an affair!" she cried. "That's why you keep insisting on a divorce. But I won't let you leave me, and I won't let my children suffer!"
The sound of the slap was deafening. Draven flinched as if he had been struck himself.
"Point of correction," his father sneered. "It's not women. It's a woman. A decent woman. Unlike a piece of trash like you."
"She's just a tramp!" his mother shot back. "Making her your woman doesn't change the fact that she's a slut and—"
Another slap silenced her. Draven heard her fall, followed by the relentless sound of blows raining down on her fragile body.
"Don't you dare call her that again! You're the cheap one here!" his father roared.
Draven couldn't take it anymore. His body moved on its own as he kicked the door open, his voice like thunder. "If you ever lay a hand on my mother again, I swear I'll kill you with my bare hands!"
His father stumbled back, stunned. Draven rushed to his mother's side, helping her to her feet, only for her to slap his hand away.
"How dare you interfere in adult matters!" she scolded, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and frustration.
Draven stared at her, his chest heaving. "Mom, I don't understand how you put up with this for the sake of your so-called love and family. When I look at you now, I don't see my mother. I see a woman who's too blind to see the truth."
Her hand struck his face, the slap echoing in the room. His cheek burned, but the pain paled compared to the ache in his heart. "I don't care," he said, his voice icy. "This man is nothing but a pathetic excuse for a father and a husband."
His father lunged toward him, his face twisted in fury. But Draven caught his hand mid-air, his grip like steel. "Only my mother has the right to raise her hand against me," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Draven left the room, his heart heavy with rage and sorrow. That night, the house was eerily quiet. No screams. No shouts. Only silence.
"Is Dad sick?" Brandon asked the next morning, his tone filled with genuine concern.
Draven stared at him, his blood boiling. "Are you seriously worried about him being sick?" he demanded, grabbing Brandon by the collar and slamming him against the wall. "You care about him falling ill, but you don't care when Mom is beaten black and blue?"
Brandon shoved him away, his eyes filled with guilt. "I care about her," he said softly. "But she gets angry when I try to interfere."
Draven told him everything that had happened the night before, but Brandon only shook his head, his disapproval evident.
And for the first time, Draven felt utterly alone.