[???, ???]
It was a good day in Toronto, Canada. Clear skied, mild breeze—the kind of day people might remember fondly years later.
For some, it was just another ordinary day.
For others, perhaps the best in recent memory.
And yet, for a certain house in the neighborhood, it was anything but.
SLAP!
The sharp sound cut through the hum of the community. Passersby froze mid-step, neighbors paused their chores, even the usual chatter of birds and dogs came to an abrupt halt.
All eyes turned toward a single house.
It looked the same as the rest of the houses on the street: its paint was clean, windows reflecting the outside like mirrors, the front porch was absent of any leaves. It looked like the sort of place a normal family lived.
And one did.
A family did, indeed, leave there.
But unlike the appearance outside, the tension inside was unbearable.
"MOM"
AGE: ???
STATUS: ???
"How dare you speak to your fucking mother that way!?" a shrill voice cracked through the stale air.
An old woman stood in the middle of the room, her hand raised, trembling with fury.
Before her were two children.
One of them, a boy with his head bowed, had a face marred with swelling and fresh bruises.
"KID"
AGE: ???
STATUS: Severely Injured
Well, bruised might have been too soft a word—his condition bordered on broken.
SLAP!
Another blow landed across his cheek, sending his body reeling.
"You think you can just leave me?! Like the rest of my family did?!" the woman shrieked, her voice sounding more desperate than angry.
But the boy said nothing.
He didn't lift his head.
He didn't even try to resist.
He only kept staring at the floor, trembling, his chest tightening as he held his breath. Even the simple act of breathing had become painful.
"That's enough, dear" a deeper, rougher voice interrupted, heavy with mockery. "Ya' think some dumb fucking kid is gonna understand a word you said?"
From the shadowed hallway, a man stepped into the kitchen. Large, dressed formally, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His beard was clean, kept.
Though he asked the woman to stop, the young boy's position didn't change… except his eyes.
His eyes only squeezed shut, as someone worse entered, someone he's more fearful of.
"DAD"
AGE: ???
STATUS: ???
He took a slow drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air. His heavy steps shook the tiled floors as he closed in on the boy.
"We gotta teach em how to be a man first" the man growled, lips curling into a cruel sneer. "Only then will he understand how harsh his words were to you!"
Without warning—without so much as a flicker of hesitation—his fist shot out.
CRACK!
The backhand struck like a hammer, sending the boy stumbling. His knees buckled, but somehow, he stayed upright.
"Good" the man muttered. "At least you know how to stand like one"
He grabbed the boy by the chin, his calloused fingers digging deep into bruised flesh, tilting his head upward as though inspecting a catch.
The boy's lips trembled, but he bit them shut. His hands clenched so tightly his nails dug into palms, drawing blood.
"Open your mouth, brat!" the man's grip tightened, forcing the boy's cheeks inward, his jaw pried open with sheer force. "I'll teach you what makes a man!"
The boy gasped for air, his breath barely even present.
Then, with a cruel smirk, the man shoved the cigarette he's been using between his lips.
"Now breathe"
The boy obeyed. He had no choice.
The acrid smoke sears his lungs. His body convulsed.
—Ghhk!Ack—!
He choked violently, spitting the cigarette to the floor before collapsing to his knees. His stomach heaved, bile rising in his throat as he coughed and gagged, desperate for clean air.
"Ungrateful little pig!" the man's voice thundered. Taking advantage of the boy's collapse, he swung his shoe forward.
THUD!
The kick slammed into his side, sending him sprawling onto the floorboards.
"I'm trying to make you a man!" the man roared, spittle flying from his lips. "And you fucking shame me?! ME?!"
The boy lay there, writhing, every breath a battle. But even then—he did not scream.
The man's fists kept falling, each blow heavier than the last. He even rolled up his sleeves, as if preparing for real work.
The woman only watched. Her lips curled into the faintest grin, enjoying the spectacle as if it were theater made for her alone.
Eventually, the man grew tired. Panting, he shook the blood from his hands.
"Clean this mess up before our guests arrive" he ordered. His once-white shirt, now stained with filth and blood, was stripped off and handed toward the woman. "And make sure they don't fucking see the kid. Your little breakdown already got the neighbors calling the cops so make sure you and Julie do your roles"
"Yes, dear" the woman replied sweetly, folding the bloodied shirt as though it were laundry fresh from the line.
The two adults disappeared into another part of the house.
And finally, silence entered the kitchen.
The boy, still crumpled on the floor, forced himself upright. His limbs trembled like paper in the wind. And even then, not a single sound escaped him—no scream, no cry. Only vomit and blood stained the floor beneath him.
He tried to reach for the counter, but his hands fell short. His legs dragged unevenly, one foot stumbling forward while the other scraped behind.
Koff! Koff!
Blood spilled into his palm as he coughed. His lungs wheezed with every breath, each inhale a desperate battle.
Then—
"Bwuder?"
A tug at his torn shirt. A voice, soft and innocent.
He turned.
There she was. A little girl, clean and healthy, her big eyes round with concern, a stark contrast to his own battered state.
"LITTLE SISTER"
AGE: ???
STATUS: ???
She sucked on her finger, her words clumsy. "Wu-wud… you ok?
The boy forced his trembling hand up and rested it on her head.
"Ampf… ogey…" he whispered, since it was the only thing he could do.
His words were as fractured as his swollen jaw. But he still tried to reassure his clueless sibling.
"Go… to… Momfp" he added, his hoarse voice urging her softly.
The girl nodded innocently, her lips curling into a smile. "We-we'll pl-pl-play latur?"
He gave a weak nod. Somehow he managed a smile in return.
The girl's tiny arms wrapped around him, squeezing tightly.
It hurt—more than she could ever know, more than she needed to—but he didn't show it. He never did.
Then she let go, humming happily as she ran out of the kitchen. Not even a backward glance.
The boy stared after her, or tried to. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the other blurred with blood and tears he refused to shed. Still, he managed to lift his gaze toward the far corner.
A framed photograph hung there.
A normal family portrait.
A normal father.
A normal mother.
A normal daughter.
…
That was all.
No son. No brother. No him.
His half-blind gaze shifted back toward the living room across. The three of them smiled amongst each other, like the photo.
A perfect portrait of a normal, happy family.
Was it fine to keep living like this?
Of course not.
There was only one thing he feared more than his own parents.
It's that those fists, those cruelties, would one day fall upon her.
His sister.
The only person who had ever looked at him with gentle eyes in this wretched glass house.
Even at his young age, he knew something needed to change. If she was to live without their fake kindness… without the fear of experiencing their cruelty… then he had to to get them away from her.
Isn't that right?:
Cifer?
CIFER POWERS
AGE: 8
STATUS: Older Brother