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View Full Version : Brookrow Bastard: Sins of the Father - Part 2 (Strong Language and Violence)



MBNewman
January 21st, 2013, 07:05 AM
For those who want to know how the events of chapter one ended up, I bring you the second half of the first draft of the rewrite... Ahem, it's still a bit rough as is, but it's much better than my original piece.

If you have yet to read the first half, you might get a bit lost.
To read it --> http://www.writingforums.com/fantasy-sci-fi-horror/135802-brookrow-bastard-sins-father-mild-language.html (IT IS ON POST ELEVEN)

For those who wish for a brief explanation of the previous: Killian Todd is a young boy with an abusive, drunkard of a father, who gambles away all of his money, leaving Killian and his mother in a perpetual state of wanting. It is set in a "pre-Victorian" age of sorts, in the port city of Irianna that is loosely based of London.



Sins of the Father continued...

While the pain from his punches would cease to hurt over time, the pain and fear I felt from staring up at the man who claimed to be my father as I protected myself from his vicious assault was always present when he was around.

Whenever I was lucky enough to get a head start, I would escape my father’s tantrums by retreating to my mother, hoping that she would protect me from my father’s wrath. Every time, I would cling to the hem of her dress as my father would follow me into the room.

In the beginning, my father would always stop hitting me the moment my mother begged him, but he would never stop yelling so easily. The older I got, the more I saw my parents argue, yell, and scream. The more they fought, the more my mother cried. Strangely, the more I saw my mother in tears, the less my father’s fists seemed to strike.

My father had just enough decency to respect my mother’s wishes. She was the one he wished to appease, after all. That all changed when the recessions came. Money was scant, and knowing he had three lives depending on his income did nothing to improve his ever sour mood.

Despite our money problems, my father had simply refused to quite his addictions. For his transgressions, the gods punished him. My father lost, and he lost, until the little stream of money we had become naught but a trickle.

Maybe the gods meant it to be a lesson in the sinful act of greed. It is unfortunate that the gods forgot that my mother and I depended on him. My father, however, did not blame the gods for this curse, oh no. He blamed his son on this sudden loss of luck.

So it was that on the anniversary of my eighth year gracing this world, my father had not arrived to celebrate with his family. I remember sitting with my mother at the kitchen table, waiting for my father’s return. My mother always told me not to worry, that he would return home to celebrate with his family.
My father, of course, had gone to a gambling house, as was typical of him and he would return home later that night, particularly vehement over the day’s events. My mother had just fed me supper, and I had been practicing my letters at the kitchen when he entered. He was ranting about another fruitless day at the tables from the moment he entered the door, but my mother had had enough of him.

“How dare you come in here, ranting and raving ‘bout your horrible day to us,” my mother snapped at him instantly. “Your son and I have been sitting here all day, anxiously waiting for you to grace us with your presence, and only now, at gods-know what hour, do you come home! Do you even know what day it is?”

My father, as he always did, disregarded my mother’s harsh words. “What are you on about? Where’s supper?”

“There ain’t no more supper, because you were late,” my mother retorted, folding her arms, and glaring daggers at my father. “You missed your chance to eat. If you want some supper, you can make it yourself.”

“Don’t you ever talk to me like that, you bitch!” my father roared, slamming his fist down on the table. “I built this fuckin’ table with my own hands, I expect there to be food on it when I return home from work.”

“But you weren’t at work, you son of a bitch!” my mother argued. “You were out spending all our money—”

“All of my money, you mean. And how I spend my rightly earned money is none of your concern. Your job is to watch after the boy and get food for your gods-damn husband when he bloody well asks for it!”

This went on, as it always did. I had been struggling with a particularly frustrating sentence at the time. Whenever my father was home, my mother was unable to help me with my studies, as my father was always demanding something of her, or yelling at her for not complying, or not fetching something quick enough to fit his expectations. Because of this, I was not too familiar with an abundance of letters at the time, and had been struggling in my studies.

The yelling had become all too familiar to me, and I knew to keep my head down and stay out of it. As long as my father forgot about my existence in his blinding rage, I was safe from his violent wrath. I never spoke back to that man whenever he would yell. I would only ever raise my voice when he would threaten my mother, but every time I did, he would beat me out of spite. Luckily, even he never threatened my mother often.

This time, however, began to look like one of those exceptions. I saw the fear in my mother’s eyes as he slowly stepped closer and closer to her, his voice getting louder and louder. My mother began to scream, this time out of fear rather than anger. She begged my father to not step any closer, but my father, ever stubborn, continued his progress towards my mother.

I knew, even as a young boy, that my mother was in danger. My heart pounded, and I remember how hard it was to garner the nerve to raise my voice. The last time my father had beaten me, I couldn’t see out of my left eye for a week, and that was not an experience I ever wanted to relieve. However, my mother was more important.

“Leave my mum alone! She didn’t do nothin’ to you!”

My father did turn his attention from my mother then, only to have it focus on me. I would have regretted my words, had they not been necessary. I was petrified to the spot where I stood when my father’s gaze fell my way. I forgot how to breathe, how to move my legs, and how to run away. My father had that cold look in his eyes, the look that I would not soon forget, no matter how hard I might try.

I remember something happened that freed me from the powerful jaws of fear. Something in the back of my head screamed to me, Killian, run! In an instant, I was free, and I could see that my father was closing in fast.

I did as my thoughts commanded, and fled out into the halls of our home. The only memories I have of them is that they appeared as a labyrinth to me when I evaded my father. I made my way to one of the spots I knew I could hide if my father ever became too violent. The nearest one was in my bedroom. I remember making it to my room without having to evade my father, and being very relieved. Without much hesitation, I charged for window on the far wall. I turned the latch, and pulled the window open, greeted by the odd rain drop now being blown into my room.

Climbing out onto the roof, during the dark, rainy night was not the best of circumstances, but it was better than the alternative. There was a little ledge that jutted out right below the window sill where, if I crouched down, I could hide out of sight. I remember being very cold, and my shivers would not be stopped. I tried to forget the cold, but every time I did, a brisk breeze rolled by. The worst part was that I was not able to do nothing about it.

I was forced to cling onto the side of our second floor home, with a fall that would have killed me. Looking down was not the best choice I had ever made, but this was not the first time I had ever hidden out on the roof. I never did get used to the heights, and every time I looked down, I would tremble, which never did help me keep my grip.

I peered back in through the window, making sure to keep low. I remember seeming my father and mother standing in my room, arguing still. My mother was shouting, and pointing at my father with an accusing finger. After shouting back at her for a short time, and kicking a few of my belonging about the room, my father departed back into the house to look for me.

I waited there, remaining quiet outside the window until I could not hear my father’s shouts. I watched my mother sit down upon my bed through the trickle of water that covered the window. I could see that she was crying. I could never stomach to see my mother cry. It hurt too much. I knew what I had to do. I opened up the window, and made my way back into the hunting grounds.

My mother took notice of me instantly, and rushed up to me, picking up in her mother embrace. “Oh, Killian!” she kept whispering over and over again. It crushed me to hear her cry so heavily. I wanted her to smile, and I told her not to cry. I told her it would be alright, because she always comforted me, and now it was my turn to help her.

Just as I had begun to dry her tears, my mother looked past me. My father stood in the shadow of the door. When he saw me, he became furious. My mother picked me up, and thrust me behind her. My mother stood tall, facing up to my father, who charged in after me.

“Don’t come any closer, you son of a bitch!” my mother demanded, spreading her arms wide to shield me from that man.

“You can’t keep my son from me, woman,” my father growled. “You can’t fight his battles for him, but you can’t protect him forever. In the end, I will have my way!”

“Look at yourself!” my mother wailed. “Look at what you’re doing to your family!”

My father paid no mind to her pleas, and took his whittling knife from his belt. I remember the fear I felt when I saw the blade. I had seen it so many times before, but never had my father brandished it at me before.

My father took a step towards me, and I remember my mother howling at him. She pushed and clawed and smacked at my father, in a vain effort to stop him. My father shrugged past her away as he made his way to meet, until my mother leapt onto his back, in an attempt to halt him further. My father flailed about, and, reaching around himself, grabbed ahold of my mother, and flung her onto the ground.

I remember screaming and crying, begging them to stop, but they did not listen, and they did not stop. My father took a few heavy steps towards my mother, and I can still remember how his hands were trembling upon his approach. The closer he got, the more my mother screamed, but my mother did not scream for herself. My mother screamed and begged for me to run away.

I did not run. I could not run away from that man anymore. With no regard for my own safety, I attacked my father in a rage pent up over years of pain. I slammed my fists against his back, though I doubt much damage was done. It was enough to deter him from harming my mother, however, as he was back to trying to kill me.

My father knocked me over with the back of his hand, and threw my mother to the floor. Turning back, my father quickly closed the distance between us. He planted his boot on my chest, and he raised his blade to strike.

I remember these next few moments vividly, though they happened in a matter of a few seconds. My father, his attention on me, had not seen my mother pick up the blunt object that she brought against his head.

This strike, however, did not bring my father down, much to my mother’s dismay. My father ignored much of the impact, and immediately pounced on my mother. My father slammed my mother against the wall with a terrible force. Taking his calloused, hardened hands, my father pinned her to the wall. As she struggled I remember the pain in my mother’s face when began to tear the life from her body.

My mother looked across the room at me, and closed her eyes tightly. I remember seeing the newest tear creep down her reddening cheek, falling down upon my father’s hand. This seemed to distract my father, who gazed down upon. Using this chance, my mother kneed my father between his legs, and shoved him back.

My mother charged past him, my father falling backwards onto the ground behind her. She swept me up in her arms, and headed for the door. But my father had already gotten up on his feet, had already grabbed ahold of my mother’s arm. I remember flying through the air as he ripped me out of her grasp, and landing on the ground a few feet away. My father held my mother’s arm with his free hand, and when she struggled to break from his grasp once more, my father planted the blade into her stomach.

I watched in a surreal silence as my mother fell to the floor. When I think of my mother, often it is the memory of that quiet, lifeless expression she wore on her face as she gave her last breath.

That beautiful creature had only meant to protect her child, and died in a bloody pool on the floor because of it. My father must have been shocked at the realization of what he had done to his beloved, for he dropped the knife, and retreated back away. My father did not retract his eyes from my mother’s cold and lifeless corpse, as he leaned against the wall, breathing deep.

Forgoing his thirst for my blood, my father fled the room. I heard his footsteps lead him away, and when the echo of the slamming door faded, I was left alone. I walked the few feet to where my mother laid on the floor. It had all happened so fast, I hadn’t comprehended the events.

When I stared down at her, down at my mother and the blood that coated a body that was so full of life only moments before, something with me broke. I fell to my knees, tears streaming about my cheeks. I cradled her head in my lap, and stroked her hair slowly. The room was quiet now, nothing but the sound of the rain against the glass.

This can’t be real, none of this is real, I told myself until I started to believe it. I did not accept that my mother was dead. I could not accept that truth. My mother was all I had. She was the only one I had ever loved.

My mother was gone, and my father was on the run. I was left alone, an orphan now, destined to kneel there in the blood of my mother, and ask her why, oh why, she would not get up.
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