Eric stood quietly inside his father's home office. Or it was more like 'shivering' inside the office of his father. He stood there, both of his clutching his cloth trembling silently. He was hot and sweaty but he knew better than to say a word. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
The office was immaculate. Neat, spick and span. Not a single speck of dust was seen there. And that was how it was meant to be. An office reflects the personality, position, and ambition of the individual. And it was visible in this office.
James Asterix wasn't a normal man. He was the type of man who would throw you to the crocodiles, and later he would call it business. He was ruthless, cunning, and a pragmatic individual. His mentality was rigid and he stood by what he had ordered, never flouting it even if it cost him his life. He was also the type of person who would sacrifice his blood relations as long as it was certain to benefit the evolution of the lineage and empire. And it had worked. Every venture he had put his mind to had been successful and it was certain that he was truly an Asterix.
And now this same man was sitting at his desk, a tablet in his hand, watching the video that had ruined his reputation and soiled the Asterix name. The video was trending on all social platforms and was on everybody's lips.
Eric watched as his father kept on watching the video, and then he would replay it, and then he would watch it again. Eric could hear the curses, the taunts, and the beatings, the groans and grunts of pain clearly coming out from the video. And he hated himself for it.
He hated how he was weak. And he missed her. He missed Anna and he was disgusted with himself. Who in the Irish frame of mind will miss someone who plotted their downfall? Anna never loved him. She was with Mason and he found out in the worst, most possible way. Now, he knew when she was not around, where she was. The endless phone calls she had with the person she was talking to. The lies about where she really was. But he never suspected and that was because she was always there when he really needed her. But she wasn't here. He was all alone and he was going to face his father's wrath.
He gulped as he finally saw his father place down the tablet, sip gently from a glass of wine on his desk, and then place it back. He then finally stared at Eric, his face calm but Eric was no fool.
His father was furious. He could feel it hiding beneath the calm facade he was displaying. He felt the tension become so thick you could cut it with a knife. Eric's mind was in a daze, rapidly thinking of what his father was going to do to him. He was even on the verge of tears.
"Can you tell me what I just watched?" The question was so abrupt, so sudden that it registered late in his mind.
"Huh?" Eric stuttered stupidly.
"I said," James asked, his tone ice cold. " What is it I just watched?"
Eric gritted his teeth in anger, his eyes on the rug as if he finally saw the patterns unique and interesting. He was sure his father knew but he wanted to hear it from his mouth.
"It is a video compilation," He muttered, audibly enough. "Of me being bullied by Mason and his friends."
"Elaborate further," James spoke, picking up the glass and sipping it.
'He wants me to elaborate further.' Eric thought in anger. 'He only wants to humiliate me the more.'
But he knew better than to refuse.
"Mason and the boys beat me in the toilets, cursing and pissing on me. They mocked, snapped pics of me, and also attacked me in the streets with their gangs theirs."
"And?"
"And the girls were no exception. When I was pinned, some of them would step on me using their high heels and rub lipstick on me and mock me."
He thought it was over, that his father would just mock him, maybe tell his brothers to beat him as he stepped out of the office. But he was far from right.
He watched as his father got up, removed his luxurious gold watch, removed his gold-rimmed glasses, unfastened his sleeves, and rolled them up. Eric's breath hitched in fear. He knew what was going to happen.
"Father, please." He called out, his voice cracked with fear. "Please don't do this to me."
"Strip." That was the only word he heard from him.
"Fath...."
"Do not make me say it again."
Eric blinked back his tears as he removed the clothes he was wearing. He stood shivering in his worn-out boxers.
"Lie down flat on your stomach," James ordered. "Spread your legs wide and don't say a word.
He did as he was told, anger and hatred swelling up in his heart. He heard his father walk up to a cupboard, open it, retrieve a golf bag, and then remove a golf club from it. He tested the golf club before putting the golf bag back in the cupboard.
He moved slowly, deliberately, the club dragging across the floor behind him. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with something dark — not rage, not grief, but control. The kind that fed on fear.
"You did the one thing I hate the most." He spoke, his voice low and venomous. "You shamed the Asterix family with your pathetic show. How many times have I drilled it into your head? How many times?"
Eric didn't answer. He knew better.
James raised the club and brought it down hard across David's back. The sound was sharp — metal against flesh and bone. David's body jerked, a muffled grunt escaping his lips.
Again.
The club rose and fell, each strike deliberate, each one a punctuation mark in a sentence of punishment.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
You're a disgrace."
Thud.
"You're a pathetic human being."
Thud.
"You're nothing."
Thud.
Eric's back was a canvas of bruises, each one blooming beneath the skin like ink in water. His fingers twitched, his breath came in short bursts, but he didn't move. He couldn't.
James didn't stop.
He struck again. And again. The rhythm was cruel, mechanical. A ritual of dominance. The club rose and fell, rose and fell, until the bulb above them flickered violently, as if recoiling from the scene below.
Finally, James paused. His breath was heavy, his grip loose. The club hung at his side, streaked with dirt and sweat. He looked down at his son, broken and silent.
"I'm done." He spoke, his tone final. "You've played your part and I'm done with pretending."
'Pretending.' Eric thought in pain. 'What is he talking about?'
Then, without warning, Gerald spoke — his voice sharp and commanding.
"Cover him."
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. Silent. Obedient. They carried a heavy cloth — thick, dark, and coarse. Without hesitation, they draped it over David's body, covering him from neck to heel. The fabric clung to his back, absorbing the sweat and blood, muffling the sound of his breath.
David stirred beneath it, his body twitching. He tried to lift his head, to speak, to resist — but the weight of the cloth, the pain in his spine, and the fear in his chest held him down.
He struggled.
His arms pushed against the floor. His legs kicked weakly. The cloth shifted, but didn't fall away. The figure pressed down, firm and silent, pinning him in place.
"Don't let him up," Gerald said, voice low and final.
David gasped, his breath ragged. His vision blurred. The world narrowed to heat and pressure and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Then — a final blow.
Not from the club. From a fist. From the heel of a boot. From something unseen.
His body jerked once, then went limp.
Silence returned.