ℭ𝔬𝔩𝔱𝔬𝔫
••
As I leave Tobin's party, my rage ebbs, replaced by a strange thrill that hums under my skin.
The fear in their eyes, the crowd's rapt attention—I live for it. It's a rush, addictive. And I know this isn't over. Tobin is petty. He never lets things go, and always has to get the last laugh. Fine. Let him come. I'll be ready.
I'm on my way home when my phone buzzes with a text from Vivian.
Vivian: Can we talk?
The old me would've jumped at the thought of her begging, looking for excuses, trying to worm her way back in. But now? I'm over it. She's Tobin's problem.
I'm ten minutes from home, and all I want is a hot shower and my bed. It's been a long, chaotic night.
I press down on the gas, weaving through the streets, racing past the empty stretch of Parkinson's Avenue and then King Street. Almost home.
When I pull up to the gate, I punch in the keypad, watching as it glides open, and drive into the underground garage. This villa—massive, luxurious, built to house my dad's need to keep my mom, my sister Daphne, and me wrapped in a fortress.
I park and step out, stretching, still coming down from the rush. In the elevator, my eyes drift to my phone, buzzing with texts from teammates and friends from Brighton High.
Blake: Heard what happened, beast. You are the shit!
Susan: Are you alright? Talk to me.
Thomas: Did you really beat Tobin up? Is it true?
Kyle: Bro, answer your damn phone! You raging fighter! Love you, man, but seriously, pick up!
A laugh slips out as I read Kyle's text. I like him, but he can be clingy.
The doors of the elevator pull open. And that's when I hear it; soft, muffled crying.
I pause, the elevator doors opening into the dimly lit hallway of our house. The sound is faint, but unmistakable, curling down the hall, reaching me even here. My body tenses, the night's adrenaline taking on a new edge.
I know whose voice that cry belongs to and my heart thuds at the thought of it.
My mom.
I know who's causing her tears, though he wasn't supposed to be home until next week.
My dad.
Bile rises, burning my throat. My feet feel glued to the floor as I stand there, frozen, staring down the hallway toward the noise. The sounds, muffled yet unmistakable, twist my stomach into knots.
Why is he back?
I force my feet to move, each step heavy, carrying me closer to the half-open, six-foot door painted in deep, ominous red. The cries grow louder, not cries really—these are the sounds of pure, aching despair.
"Watch!" a harsh, commanding voice barks from behind the door.
And then I hear it. Slaps of skin on skin. Grunts from him, soft, broken whimpers from her. I'm paralyzed, every instinct screaming at me to turn and run. But I can't. My fists clench at my sides, my vision blurring as tears sting my eyes.
I close them, standing there in the hallway, wanting to storm in, to fight for her. But I'm petrified. Frozen by the red door. Frozen by the man who controls everything behind it. My father.
"Please," my mother whimpers, barely audible.
The sounds grow louder, sloppy, relentless.
I can't take it. It's inhumane.
I don't think—I just move, pushing the door open, my eyes immediately colliding with his. My father's gaze is hard, his face twisted in something between anger and sadistic pleasure. He doesn't flinch, just glares at me, daring me to do something.
The room falls silent, but the scene doesn't stop replaying in my mind. I manage to speak, though my voice breaks, raw. "Mom doesn't want this."
He laughs, cold and biting, unashamed as he pulls his still erect cock away from her, the girl on the desk who looks barely alive. His shirt is pristine, white, with a tie hanging loose around his neck, his pants hanging around his knees.
"And who are you to tell me what your mother wants?" he sneers.
I look away, the sight of him unbearable. I force myself to look at my mother, but the light in her eyes is gone, if it was ever there at all. She looks… hollow.
"I'm her son," I whisper, my voice barely a thread of defiance.
She doesn't look back. She's clinging onto hope, but it's slipping through her fingers elusive as ever.
He stuffs himself back into his boxer briefs, pulling up his pants and fastening the buttons with slow, deliberate movements. His gaze never leaves mine, his eyes cold and sharp, pinning me in place.
"Since you're her son, you won't mind taking her place. Right?" he says, his voice eerily calm now that he's dressed.
I swallow hard, and suddenly, it feels like all the air has been drained from the room. My chest tightens, panic thrumming through me.
He smacks the girl on the ass, a cruel smirk on his face. "Get up," he orders, untying the ropes binding her wrists, ankles, and neck.
My father is what you'd call a sadist.
He finds pleasure in watching others suffer, especially those closest to him. He punishes my mother by shaming her. Sometimes he forces her to watch him with other women.
Other times, he hits her in front of us.
Daphne, my little sister, is his favourite, though you'd hardly call it love. He ignores her completely as if she doesn't exist.
But with me, it's different. With me, it's pure, palpable hatred.
Mom says it's because I look like his father—my grandfather.
But what does that have to do with me? I didn't choose to look like the old man. I didn't choose to be born into this twisted household.
The girl gathers her clothes in a pile, head bowed as she sneaks out of the room. My mother is still sprawled on the floor, barely able to move.
Then I hear the scrape of his belt as he pulls it from his pants.
"You want to be a hero so bad, don't you, son?" He wraps the belt around his hand, the buckle dangling—threatening.
I stand frozen, thoughts racing. Why? Why did she marry him? Why is this our life?
We have wealth—enough to last six generations living opulently. But it isn't worth the pain, the shame, the twisted hell we endure.
"Didn't you hear me?" he growls, voice laced with menace. "Don't make me repeat myself." He wraps the belt tighter around his hand.
Pain is coming. I can feel it, like a storm on the horizon.
I take a step forward, trying to lunge at him, but it's pointless. He towers over me at 6'4, a wall of strength and fury. His hand snags my shirt, and before I know it, I'm thrown to the floor, the impact jarring through my spine.
I hardly have time to brace myself before he looms over me, muscles taut, re-wrapping the belt around his hand.
"Are you a hero, Colton Kane?" His voice is mocking, and cruel.
I keep my head down, biting back the fear and anger.
"Walter, please, don't," I hear my mother's tired voice from the corner, barely more than a whisper.
He ignores her entirely.
"When I talk to you, you answer." His boot connects hard with my side, the pain exploding in my stomach.
"I'm a hero!" I scream, the words tearing out of me in agony.
And then it starts.
The belt buckle comes down, hard and unrelenting, each strike laced with his hatred.
I try to block it with my hand, but the metal snaps against my fingers, and I feel the crack in my pinkie.
Pain explodes through me, a scream tearing from my throat, joined by my mother's wail. Together, we make a horrible symphony-one that, to him, sounds like music.
The whipping stops, and he tosses the belt onto the king-size bed across the room.
Through tear-blurred eyes, I find my mother. Her gaze is wet and desperate, filled with the words she can't say. I know what she feels.
She's sorry. So am I.
But my father is not finished. He crosses the room toward the shelf, his heavy steps and his movements chillingly calm, methodical. I know what's coming. He always has a final act, his masterpiece of cruelty—the one that will break me.
I see it in his hand—a branding tool, long and metallic, his latest design. He flicks it on with a simple button, and it hums to life. The metal tip glows, a wicked 'X' that sears into my mind before it even touches my skin.
"Please, Dad, don't." My voice is small, desperate. "I'm sorry."
"You're a pathetic excuse of a man, Colton," he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt.
"You're no hero," he looms over me, towering, the branding iron gleaming in his hand. My body trembles and tears burn my cheeks, but I know he won't stop.
He wants to watch me break.
"Lift your shirt," he commands, his voice cold and unyielding.
I look up at him, pleading, but I know better than to disobey. My hands shake as I grip the fabric, slowly pulling my shirt up, baring my stomach, my navel, my chest. Every inch exposed feels like surrender.
"Let's brand you, hero of the year, shall we," he mocks, pressing the heated 'X' into my skin.
Agony blazes through me. I scream, my body thrashing uncontrollably, but he only laughs—a cruel, guttural sound that sinks into my mind.
And then, mercifully, everything goes dark.