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i_love_freddie) wrote2012-05-19 10:41 pm
i_love_freddie) wrote2012-05-19 10:41 pm
Entry tags:
LJIdol Week 28 Homegame
Making Monsters
He who fights monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you...
For him, walking on eggshells was just a part of daily life. Even in his earliest memories, he couldn't remember a time when there hadn't been the constant threat of fear and violence. Of course there had been the odd good moment – like when his father unexpectedly won some money in a bet and was in a good enough mood to bring home treats for his children. Or perhaps once in a while, there would be a bedtime story. But what did those good times matter, when another blow would always follow?
By four years old, he knew to be afraid of his father. His father was the man of the house, the one who drank away what little money they had, and let his children wear ragged clothes and go days without food. The one who would deal out punches and kicks for the slightest little thing... and sometimes for no reason but his own amusement.
By the time he was five, he hated his mother. Night after night she got dressed up and went out to sell sexual services to any man who would pay, blindly following the orders of her husband. Sometimes she would bathe and dress her children's wounds, but she never offered comforting words or a warm hug. Nor did she ever attempt to stop him harming them; indeed she would stand back and let them take the blows if it meant avoiding a beating herself.
At only six years old, he was hardened inside. He never shed tears, never showed emotion. He would not give his tormentors the satisfaction.
When he reached seven, he encountered a new danger. His elder brother - following in his father's footsteps - was not above giving a punch or kick to his much smaller sibling, or making up lies in order to see him punished.
At eight, he spent a lot of time on the streets... picking pockets, swiping from market stalls, stealing what he could to try and ensure that his sister had food to eat. For if he did not take care of her, he knew that nobody else would.
At just nine years old, he was aware of basic first aid techniques. He knew how to put pressure of a deep cut to stop it from bleeding, knew how to look for signs of infection, always tried to keep some fairly clean cloth to hand.
Then he ran away from home. Things had changed forever. No longer did he have to live his life in fear; instead he became the one who was feared.
He was sixteen when he killed his father.
He who fights monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster... for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you...
For him, walking on eggshells was just a part of daily life. Even in his earliest memories, he couldn't remember a time when there hadn't been the constant threat of fear and violence. Of course there had been the odd good moment – like when his father unexpectedly won some money in a bet and was in a good enough mood to bring home treats for his children. Or perhaps once in a while, there would be a bedtime story. But what did those good times matter, when another blow would always follow?
By four years old, he knew to be afraid of his father. His father was the man of the house, the one who drank away what little money they had, and let his children wear ragged clothes and go days without food. The one who would deal out punches and kicks for the slightest little thing... and sometimes for no reason but his own amusement.
By the time he was five, he hated his mother. Night after night she got dressed up and went out to sell sexual services to any man who would pay, blindly following the orders of her husband. Sometimes she would bathe and dress her children's wounds, but she never offered comforting words or a warm hug. Nor did she ever attempt to stop him harming them; indeed she would stand back and let them take the blows if it meant avoiding a beating herself.
At only six years old, he was hardened inside. He never shed tears, never showed emotion. He would not give his tormentors the satisfaction.
When he reached seven, he encountered a new danger. His elder brother - following in his father's footsteps - was not above giving a punch or kick to his much smaller sibling, or making up lies in order to see him punished.
At eight, he spent a lot of time on the streets... picking pockets, swiping from market stalls, stealing what he could to try and ensure that his sister had food to eat. For if he did not take care of her, he knew that nobody else would.
At just nine years old, he was aware of basic first aid techniques. He knew how to put pressure of a deep cut to stop it from bleeding, knew how to look for signs of infection, always tried to keep some fairly clean cloth to hand.
Then he ran away from home. Things had changed forever. No longer did he have to live his life in fear; instead he became the one who was feared.
He was sixteen when he killed his father.