His stepfather's eyes are bloodshot red. Scary. Deadly. His mother's once adorable skin suffers the wrath of his stepfather's anger. He is only nine. He only watches his mother cry uncontrollably, and as always, joins in the cry, patting her shoulder, wiping sweat off her swollen forehead, gnashing his teeth, rubbing his chest to console himself, softly calling his dead father's name as though it'd lessen the intensity of his pain.
His heart is irredeemably scarred. On daily basis, redemption scavenges his soul, but only hate is found. Deep, deep down his soul. So much for being nine years.
Oftentimes, his playmate would come beckoning on him to join in his playground. But you see, he's forgotten the taste of childhood. Happiness holds little appeal for him. Or maybe, he feels they're overrated, anyway. Of what joy is it to be happy, and your mother, dead sad?
Wednesday, 11pm.
He's in bed, waving bad memories off his head. His eye bags are sagging. He closes his eyes, opens them, and repeats this ritual a couple more times. He'd count to hundred, but he's null in the head. Only pictures of his drunk stepfather molesting his beautiful mother, he envisions, he hums. The humming graduates into a soulful song. This time, he bursts into tears. Boy's life is a mess. An abominable fart, even. Just as he falls asleep, he hears a voice. It's like the thunderous bell of Hades; soul-terrifying, damnifying. This voice keeps ranting, and cussing, and discrediting the essence of peace. He runs downstairs, and hides behind the curtains to catch a glimpse of what's happening. Even from a distance, the stench of alcohol still hits him.
The scene:
His stepfather pushes his mother to the couch, strips her off her gown, and abuses her sexually. While she tries to push him away, every thrust scars her trust for men. He picks a picture frame from the side of the couch, smashes it on her head, forcefully brings her breasts out, fondles them, and bites her left nipple off.
She screams. This time, for death. This scream resonates with the boy's senses. He dashes to the kitchen, picks a dirk from the trolley, and speeds off to the scene. He taps his stepfather, looks deep into his bloodshot eyes, stabs his neck one million times. This time, with a sense of fulfilment, he shivers at the sight of the blood, runs straight to his mother, and asks, "are you okay, mummy?" She nods affirmatively, and wraps her arms around the young killer. Maybe, happiness isn't overrated, after all.
