Prompt #2 - Family
Family? You want to hear about my Goddamn family? Well, there's a perfectly good response to that question. I have no Goddamn family. I wasn't exactly raised in a loving household where everyone was supportive and gave two shits about me. While my deceased mother might have begged to differ, my sadistic son of a bitch of a father treated me like shit. I was raised as an only child so I had no siblings to share a fucking thing with, much less who had my back. It's not like I would need their fucking backs. I'm fully capable of defending myself, but I'll admit, it was a little harder to do back then when my asshole of a father was beating on my fucking bones all the time.
My father ( although I don't consider the son of a bitch worthy of being called that anymore ) Tom, was a lawyer, and my mother, Katherine, was an elementary school teacher. While my mother might have suffered the same abuse and treated me better than my abusive father, she never loved me. At least, not the way I loved her. She protected me with her life, maybe, but she didn't feel the attraction that I felt for her.
My asshole of a father wasn't around much, and the only time that he was around, he would spend that time putting my mother and I through hell and back. He would beat the living shit out of us with his fists, and the only time he would ever show mercy to us was when tears were shed, a bone was broken, or he got fucking bored with the beating. To make matters worse, the son of a bitch was a belligerent drunk who often encouraged my uncles to join in on beating my ass whenever possible. If uncle Eric wasn't holding me down while my father beat on me, he was joining in. Of course, there was uncle Brutus. Always the pacifist, the deadbeat bastard, but it was because of that deadbeat bastard that I had a place to live after I finished high school and went off to college.
As far as my mother, there were certain ocassions when she took my father's side of a situation and I hated the bitch for it, but most of the time, she protected me with her life. Whenever I got into trouble, she would lie to my father to prevent me from enduring further abuse from him. Despite that, I didn't know what the hell to make of her. While I loved her, in my own "special" way, she didn't share such feelings, and over time, I did have the slight feeling that the bitch might turn on me without warning, and I did fantasize about harming her once or twice. I suppose you could say that, after watching my father beat my mother, I learned it was only natural to hurt a woman in the same way today. And as much as I wish death upon the sadistic bastard for murdering her, I'll never forget the little bit of advice he once gave me. I was around nine or ten and one day, I asked my father why my mother was crying, and I'll always remember, even to this day, he pulled me aside and he said, "Vic, my boy, never, ever let a woman double-cross you, and if she does, you give that bitch exactly what she deserves." As much as I tried to forget them, the words will forever remain in my mind as the only good piece of advice my fucking father ever gave me. I've learned a lot from them and over the years, they have inspired me to do such.
I took his words to heart because in tenth grade, after years of rebelling on account of his abuse, I raped one of the girls in my class. From then on, it came natural to me to hurt and overpower a woman who would think to deny me of what I wanted. No one found out about it because I used some incriminating little photos to blackmail the slut if she said one word. At the start of my junior year of high school, came the death of my mother. Despite the Goddamn lies my father fed me back then, I knew damn well it wasn't a fucking suicide. There was no fucking way that the bitch could have decapitated herself. My father killed her. I found her body in our basement. A part of me believes that the bitch had it coming for not returning the love and attraction I felt for her. While another part of me wants to believe my father's accusations that she was thinking of sending me off to a private school or a Goddamn mental institution, and that he did us both a favor by killing her, a bigger part of me is starting to believe that was bullshit. Just a cover-up to regain my trust so he could try and kill me too.
Of course I never let that fucker get that far. I left his dick in the dirt, dropped out of high school and moved to New York with my uncle Brutus. The rest, as they say, is history.
Unfortunetly, contrary to what I might have believed, and as Goddamn crazy as it might sound, I'm starting to wonder whether my mother is even gone at all. I'm starting to hear her voice. She's in my fucking head. I'm having hallucinations of the bitch! I can't explain what the hell is happening to me, but everytime I get close to killing a random bitch, she gets into my fucking head and somehow, I don't know, she stops me from killing them. Jesus! I don't know what the hell is happening to me or why the hell its happening, but I can't stop seeing her face or hearing her voice. I keep hearing that little nickname she used to call me when I was a kid..."my sweet boy."
So I've been seeing and hearing my dead mother, but as far as my father goes, well, I haven't seen the son of a bitch in years and I'm fucking fine with that. As much as I would love to kill the man myself wih my bare fucking hands, I'd like to think that he died a slow and painful death years ago. Maybe the bastard was burned alive or maybe someone cut his fucking dick off and shoved it down his throat. That would certainly be a nice little homicial thought. I could honestly give a shit what happened to the son of a bitch. The only thing he was ever good for was turning me into a fucking man, with all the power he could possibly ever want at his fingertips. I'm glad he's gone, but if I ever meet up with him again in the future, all I can say is...it won't be pretty.
My father ( although I don't consider the son of a bitch worthy of being called that anymore ) Tom, was a lawyer, and my mother, Katherine, was an elementary school teacher. While my mother might have suffered the same abuse and treated me better than my abusive father, she never loved me. At least, not the way I loved her. She protected me with her life, maybe, but she didn't feel the attraction that I felt for her.
My asshole of a father wasn't around much, and the only time that he was around, he would spend that time putting my mother and I through hell and back. He would beat the living shit out of us with his fists, and the only time he would ever show mercy to us was when tears were shed, a bone was broken, or he got fucking bored with the beating. To make matters worse, the son of a bitch was a belligerent drunk who often encouraged my uncles to join in on beating my ass whenever possible. If uncle Eric wasn't holding me down while my father beat on me, he was joining in. Of course, there was uncle Brutus. Always the pacifist, the deadbeat bastard, but it was because of that deadbeat bastard that I had a place to live after I finished high school and went off to college.
As far as my mother, there were certain ocassions when she took my father's side of a situation and I hated the bitch for it, but most of the time, she protected me with her life. Whenever I got into trouble, she would lie to my father to prevent me from enduring further abuse from him. Despite that, I didn't know what the hell to make of her. While I loved her, in my own "special" way, she didn't share such feelings, and over time, I did have the slight feeling that the bitch might turn on me without warning, and I did fantasize about harming her once or twice. I suppose you could say that, after watching my father beat my mother, I learned it was only natural to hurt a woman in the same way today. And as much as I wish death upon the sadistic bastard for murdering her, I'll never forget the little bit of advice he once gave me. I was around nine or ten and one day, I asked my father why my mother was crying, and I'll always remember, even to this day, he pulled me aside and he said, "Vic, my boy, never, ever let a woman double-cross you, and if she does, you give that bitch exactly what she deserves." As much as I tried to forget them, the words will forever remain in my mind as the only good piece of advice my fucking father ever gave me. I've learned a lot from them and over the years, they have inspired me to do such.
I took his words to heart because in tenth grade, after years of rebelling on account of his abuse, I raped one of the girls in my class. From then on, it came natural to me to hurt and overpower a woman who would think to deny me of what I wanted. No one found out about it because I used some incriminating little photos to blackmail the slut if she said one word. At the start of my junior year of high school, came the death of my mother. Despite the Goddamn lies my father fed me back then, I knew damn well it wasn't a fucking suicide. There was no fucking way that the bitch could have decapitated herself. My father killed her. I found her body in our basement. A part of me believes that the bitch had it coming for not returning the love and attraction I felt for her. While another part of me wants to believe my father's accusations that she was thinking of sending me off to a private school or a Goddamn mental institution, and that he did us both a favor by killing her, a bigger part of me is starting to believe that was bullshit. Just a cover-up to regain my trust so he could try and kill me too.
Of course I never let that fucker get that far. I left his dick in the dirt, dropped out of high school and moved to New York with my uncle Brutus. The rest, as they say, is history.
Unfortunetly, contrary to what I might have believed, and as Goddamn crazy as it might sound, I'm starting to wonder whether my mother is even gone at all. I'm starting to hear her voice. She's in my fucking head. I'm having hallucinations of the bitch! I can't explain what the hell is happening to me, but everytime I get close to killing a random bitch, she gets into my fucking head and somehow, I don't know, she stops me from killing them. Jesus! I don't know what the hell is happening to me or why the hell its happening, but I can't stop seeing her face or hearing her voice. I keep hearing that little nickname she used to call me when I was a kid..."my sweet boy."
So I've been seeing and hearing my dead mother, but as far as my father goes, well, I haven't seen the son of a bitch in years and I'm fucking fine with that. As much as I would love to kill the man myself wih my bare fucking hands, I'd like to think that he died a slow and painful death years ago. Maybe the bastard was burned alive or maybe someone cut his fucking dick off and shoved it down his throat. That would certainly be a nice little homicial thought. I could honestly give a shit what happened to the son of a bitch. The only thing he was ever good for was turning me into a fucking man, with all the power he could possibly ever want at his fingertips. I'm glad he's gone, but if I ever meet up with him again in the future, all I can say is...it won't be pretty.
