The Devil's Chosen

Prologue:

There was a loud crash and I woke from my restless sleep. Quickly, I threw my itchy covers off. You could barely call them covers, instead they were just old, dirty, fifty-cent sheets. Sliding out of bed, I scooted across my small room and over to the rickety wooden door. I could hear shouting coming from the left on the other side of the door. Pressing the left side of my face against the door, I listened closely. My palms were sweaty, and my heart was pounding loudly in my chest.

“Not this again,” I murmured, wincing at the thought.

My parents were yelling across the hall.

“Stop!” I heard my mom screech as there was a loud thud. “Please, stop!”

A few more crashes were heard, and then silence. I felt myself hyperventilating and very slowly cracked open the door. Light pierced into the nearly pitch dark room, and I saw my father standing above my mother, hand raised. She was laying on the floor, holding her face with her left hand and putting her right hand out in front of her helplessly.

“Stop!” I yelled, throwing the door open and rushing forward. “Stop it!”

My father turned, and looked at me dreadfully. Behind him, on the old, ripped, black couch, was a case of empty beer bottles. Running forward I barreled into my father, pushing him away from my mother. He roared and kicked me hard to the side. I felt my breath give way as I rolled to the side. Gripping my side, I felt tears rushing down my face. Tensing up, I gave in to the few more blows that came to my back and side.

“Stupid, fucking, boy,” my father raged before picking me up with both hands. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I–I’m sorry!” I yelled, flinching as he threw me roughly to the floor.

I looked up at my mom, expecting her to do something, though she just stared at me in horror, before turning her head.

“M–mom?” I whimpered, reaching my hand out for her. “Please.”

A few more blows to the back of my head and back was all I got in return. I could only grimace and take the pain as my father relentlessly beat me to a pulp. The only thing I could feel was pure anger, nothing more, nothing less.

At the age of twelve, this was my life…