"Draven, you useless child! Avail yourself immediately!" His father's bellow shook the quiet of the night.
Draven groaned, his temper flaring as his peaceful sleep was torn apart. He dragged himself from bed, grumbling. "What is it, old man?" he asked, his tone laced with mockery.
But as soon as his eyes landed on his father, standing in the hallway with a machete glinting in his hand, Draven froze. His father's face was contorted with rage, his eyes bloodshot, but there was no hint of drunkenness—only a deadly, chilling focus.
"I am going to kill you all!" his father roared, the machete trembling in his grasp.
Draven's mother and Brandon appeared at the door, both looking groggy and alarmed, their eyes wide with confusion. "What is going on?" his mother asked, her voice trembling.
"You worthless woman!" his father spat. "I lost the love of my life because of your stupid son. The blood on this machete belongs to her."
Draven's stomach twisted. His father was a cruel man, but this was beyond anything he had imagined. The reality of the blood-stained blade in his father's hand made his breath hitch. And then, with horrifying suddenness, his father lunged.
The machete arced toward his mother, who raised her arms instinctively to shield her head. The blade sank deep into her arm, drawing a scream of agony that tore through the house. Blood poured from the wound, staining her nightgown crimson.
Something inside Draven snapped.
A surge of energy—raw, violent, and terrifying—coursed through his body. Before he could even think, he rushed forward, ripping the machete from his father's hands and tossing it aside. His strength felt unnatural, like it didn't belong to him, but he didn't care.
"How dare you touch her!" Draven growled, his voice low and venomous. He shoved his father with all his might, sending the man sprawling to the floor.
Then he descended on him.
Blow after blow rained down, his fists slamming into his father's face, chest, and ribs. Blood spattered across the floor and walls, and his father's muffled groans turned to gurgles. Draven's mind screamed at him to stop, but his body refused to obey. His fists kept moving, as though possessed by something darker than rage.
"Draven! Stop!" Brandon's voice finally cut through the haze. His brother yanked him back, but it was too late. Their father lay crumpled on the ground, his face a mangled, bloodied mess. His chest heaved weakly as he drew what would be his final breaths.
"You will have a miserable life," their father rasped, his voice wet and broken. "You will suffer... every day. Guilt will kill you... from the inside. You will be alone forever." A rattling sigh escaped his lips, and then he was still.
Draven stared at the lifeless body beneath him, his hands trembling and slick with blood. The room was eerily silent, save for his mother's sobbing.
"What have you done?" she wailed, her voice a keening lament that pierced Draven's soul. "You are a psychopath! A ruthless murderer!"
"You've killed him," Brandon spat, his voice shaking with fury. "You've destroyed everything."
Draven stumbled back, his legs weak. The weight of what he'd done hit him like a tidal wave. He had killed his father.
---
The days that followed were a blur of misery. The police arrived, but the gash on his mother's arm was enough evidence to classify it as self-defense. They left without arresting Draven, but he wished they hadn't. Prison would have been kinder than the hell he now lived in.
His mother avoided him entirely, retreating into her room and refusing to meet his gaze. Brandon spoke to him only in venomous barbs, blaming him for their father's death. The house, once filled with shouting and chaos, now echoed with a heavy, suffocating silence.
On the eighth day, Draven noticed his mother hadn't left her room all day. Anxiety gnawed at him. He knocked on her door. "Mom? Are you okay?" Silence.
"If you don't open the door, I'll break it down," he warned. Still, no answer.
Panic took over. He slammed his shoulder into the door, again and again, until the lock gave way and the door crashed open.
The sight inside stopped his heart.
His mother's body hung limply from a rope tied to the ceiling. Her face was pale, her eyes closed, as though she were merely sleeping. A small table lay overturned beneath her, and a note rested neatly on the bed.
Draven's hands shook as he picked up the letter. The words blurred before his tear-filled eyes, but he forced himself to read.
---
Draven, my son,
I know you will be hurt when you read this, but please understand—I had no other choice. Even though I was angry with you, I never hated you. I have loved you since the day you were born, and I love you still as I write this.
You were always my strength, my anchor. Everything you did, you did for me, even when it was wrong. But I cannot live with the weight of what has happened. I cannot bear to see you and your brother suffer because of my mistakes. I should have left your father long ago. If I had, maybe we could have had a happy life.
You are not to blame for my death, Draven. The guilt is mine alone. I am the reason you grew up in misery. I am the reason you bear this burden. I pray you don't let this guilt consume you.
I hope you find peace, my son. I hope you live a life free of the shadows of the past. You deserve happiness—a family, love, and redemption. Please take care of your brother, and promise me you won't fight. Be better than your father. Be better than me.
I love you, Draven. I love you more than words can say.
With all my heart,
Mom
---
Draven clenched the letter in his fist, his chest heaving with sobs. "Why did you leave me, Mom?" he cried, his voice breaking. "Why did you have to leave me like this?"
Brandon stormed into the room, his face a mask of grief and rage. His eyes fell on their mother's body, and a strangled cry escaped his lips. He turned on Draven, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall.
"This is your fault!" Brandon shouted, his voice raw. "You killed her! You killed both of them!"
"I didn't mean for this to happen," Draven choked out, tears streaming down his face. "I didn't want—"
"Shut up!" Brandon roared. "You're a monster, Draven. You ruin everything you touch."
Draven didn't fight back. He didn't argue. He simply stood there, broken, as his brother's words carved into him like knives.
As Brandon stormed out, leaving him alone with their mother's lifeless body, Draven fell to his knees. The curse his father had spoken echoed in his mind.
"You will suffer every day. Guilt will kill you from the inside. You will be alone forever."
And in that moment, he believed every word.