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Wait, i’m Not Supposed To Want Him To Bleed?
drericbeckmd-blog
Dr.Eric Beck M.D.
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Eight
Their screams ripped through him, their pain aching in his flesh and bones until he could do nothing but curl into a ball under his blankets and sob. There was an aching in his head, knocking sharply against the backs of his eyes and radiating down his spine until every breath was a struggle. It started after Mother passed, after the experiments and testing, the therapy Father ordered to try and fix his broken son. And instead of bringing sight to his eyes he was given screams, visions, and an aching head that came with each new victim dragged to his Father’s chambers. His fingers dug into the soft skin at his temples to try and claw away the pain, ragged edges of his nails cutting at his skin and allowing his fingers a place to pull and tug, peeling at his own flesh as he tried to reach that pain. Maybe if he could reach the soft insides of his head he could make it stop, pluck away the pieces of brain that allow this connection. Or at least dull the pulse of pain that shattered his thoughts and ripped through his head, shuddering down his spine each time a scream echoed down the castle halls. Each ragged scream twisted something within his chest and pulled at his mind, fracturing it into sharp bits that dragged over the squishy, pink insides. He could feel her, the newest of Father’s victims. Her soul was bright and strong, her mind filled with dreams and hopes that shattered and fell away with each scream Father pulled from her. Just as he’d done to Mother. Beating the spirit from her, creating a ghost to wander the halls and be used as Father pleased.
And he felt it. Heard it. Jerked with each touch of the whip or belt, whimpered at the phantom bruises and cuts, screamed, ached, and bled with them. He spent the nights curled up tightly, wrapped in his blankets and shoved into the corner of his room with his back pressed tight to the damp stone. As far away from the echo of screams and the flicker of lights in the darkness as he could get. He wasn’t allowed out at night, couldn’t escape the torture. Hers or his own. At eight he didn’t understand why he felt what they felt, didn’t know why his eyes and mind deceived him at the peak of the torture and pain. Why, even though his eyes were blind, he could see. Always a dark man standing above with a weapon in hand, cruel smirk in place. Today it was a long, dark tail-like thing with sharp blades on the end. It swung down to bite at his skin, to rip through him just like the scream that tore down the hallway to echo in his head.
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Five
Mother was never truly alive, she was a puppet, once a living breathing human but captured and held captive by the demon that was his father. She slipped away completely when he was four, her body going limp with a quiet whimper of sound. And though he was blind to the mortal world he could watch as the broken pieces of her soul were pulled into the glowing object kept beside father’s bed. It was all he could see, the souls of others. Flames of color and light that told him more about a person than slippery words or actions. Father didn’t have a soul, though he carried the residue of others making his hands shine with death. He wasn’t sure if Father was human, demon, or devil. But He was death. A lord of war that rode out with the howls of hounds and the screams of banshees to drag the innocent back to his castle, filling it with their sounds of horror and pain. At four he knew he was lost without Mother, that death would come to him. He was defective. Weak. A halfling that would never measure up to the others Father called sons. And he waited, clutching at the stiffening hand of his mother, ignoring the cold and quiet of her passing. He waited. Sitting with tears dried on his skin and blind eyes searching the moving darkness for that hint of light that would tell him Father was coming, that death would be here soon and he would join mother soon. Trapped together in Father’s collection for the rest of forever.
Though he starved, sitting there holding his mother’s decaying hand, death did not come. Naturally or otherwise. He was left alone, whether Father thought he would pass on his own or he just didn’t care enough to come for him he did not know. There was never love between them. He was the accident of a gypsy and kept only for ego and arrogance. The thirteenth child, a number that could not be ignored. A child that would be kept but unwanted.
A year from the loss of his mother and still Death did not come. He became reckless in this time, testing the boundaries of his prison and the patience of its inhabitants. He spent his days running through castle halls, arms held out in front of him to save himself from bodily slamming into any obstacles. There were bruises, stitching, and gashes from the top of his head to his toes already and the valet has started refusing to mend or wash his clothes so he needed to save the fabric as much as he could from tearing or blood. But at five he was quick to forget this need. There was a clumsiness to his movements that bellied the inexperience he had in navigating his surroundings, he had yet to figure out that counting his steps would allow him to move with less fear of running into doors, walls, or obstacles. Though, he enjoyed the sharp pain or throbbing ache that came from cuts to his arms and bruises to his legs and hands. He enjoyed the sensation, liked that it pushed away the knot of pain in his chest, the emptiness that came from being alone. It was almost as nice as the feel of Mother’s fingers in his pocket, rubbing his fingers over the different texture of her bones or holding them close as he slept.
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We’re going to have the best life, you and me. You can’t die because we’re supposed to end up together. We’re meant to be.
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When you get shouted at for accidentally doing something bad
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