literature

The Tortured

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Literature Text

In my life, I’ve never been cold. I’ve never been bitter, vicious, or hostile. I’ve always been that child that everyone loves… that everyone cares for.

My mother was the one who made me that way. She was beautiful on the inside and the outside. Her hair was the color of wheat, and her brown eyes always shone brightly like stars against the night sky. She would always come to me when I was sad. Every time I cried, she would come running. Her slender arms would embrace me tightly, and her soft lips would whisper in my ear, telling me everything was alright. I would wrap my arms around her neck every time. I would believe her words.

I spent several years in her care. When I was three, my father died. I didn’t know him very well, since he almost always worked, and I was too young to really realize anything. But when I was five, my mother remarried. The man was someone I didn’t like. He smoked, he drank, he gambled. He was… the most horrible of men. I questioned why someone as kind and beautiful as my mother would marry someone as horrible as him. There was a night when I tried to ask her, but she promised me that he was what was best for us, and that everything would be okay.

That promise… I couldn’t believe.

When I was seven, everything seemed to fall into place in my mind. The past two years of my life at that point had told me everything I needed to know. I had grown wise to the reasons of my mother. The man was wealthy and strong. He was a business man who held a sturdy job at a law firm. He was a lawyer that never lost a case. I had come to understand that my mother needed money, and that man was able to give it to her.

But I had also come to understand something else.

That man – no matter how much money he had to give us – was not a good man.

He wanted something in return from my mother. He wanted something that only my mother could give him.

And he took it.

Every night.

Sometimes without warning.

Even now, I can still hear the screams he forced from her.

It chills me to my core.

The thought of my mother – with her beautiful smile and her lovely brown eyes that always shine even in the darkest of times – being treated that way…

It sickened me.

But what could I do? I was seven. I mustered all of the courage I had one night and even went to her room. I remember rapping on the door with one hand, hoping that she would answer it and be alright. What happened was so different.

The door swung open and there stood the man whose name I will never care to remember. He was standing before me naked and angry. I had disturbed him at his worst.

He cursed at me and raised a fist. I stared wide-eyed at the hand that was already covered in blood. His horrible hand that had been doing things unspeakable to my mother just moments before came down hard on my shoulder. The man must have been drunk. He cursed, muttering that he missed his mark and was aiming for my face. Before the door slammed in front of me, I managed to get a glimpse of my mother in the bedroom. Her eyes were closed and her face was twisted in an expression that resembled the tortured. That was all I was able to see before the door blocked my vision.

The morning after that, everything seemed normal. My mother walked around the house like she always did, taking care of everything with a smile.

But I knew the truth. I could see it in her eyes – shining less than before. I could see it in her lips – smiling less than before. I could see it in her walk – shuffling more than before. I could hear it in her words – much more depressed than I remember.

He had broken her that night.

Despite what happened, I never once regained the courage to visit her room at night again. There is a part of me that will forever remember her tortured expression. Sometimes even the walk down the hall reminds me of it. That man who pretends to be businesslike and friendly; I know the truth about him too. He’s an animal.

He’s a demon.

It took me another three years before I did something again.

I was ten years old, and I was much stronger than I used to be. That night when I was seven scared me into being hesitant about trusting anyone. It made me rough on the inside, and cold on the outside. I had become something I had never been.

I was stronger than that night, and I had had enough of that man’s actions.

Over those three years between that night and my tenth birthday, I heard my mother scream many times at night. She was trapped in a situation she couldn’t control. She needed the financial support, and that was because of me.

But I wouldn’t stand for this.

I couldn’t.

So, one night when I heard her screaming through the halls, I got up from my bed, and I walked through the hallway. I stood in front of their door, made a fist with my hand…

And knocked.
Okay, so this is a little thing that I wrote for :iconlittleblueraccoon:'s literature contest!

We were supposed to write a piece from a child's perspective describing something terrifying.

I think I might have taken a rather creative take on what that means... Obviously my "child" is an older person describing an event he went through AS a child.

I like to think that still counts. :iconmingplz:

Well, hopefully it does. Haha....

Anyway, I actually really love this. It's creepy and psychologically disturbing. I meant for it to describe kind of the fall of innocence if you will. Some kid who always had a wonderful life who then realizes that his beautiful, lovely mother who he admires so much (can anyone say Oedipus complex?) is suddenly thrust into a situation she can't control and suffers for it in the worst possible way.

I feel really bad for this kid.

Either way, I think it's creepy and weird, and I love my brain.

Hope you... enjoy? I guess. :icondontunderstandplz:


... I don't know why, but for some reason, I read this in Johnny Young Bosch's voice. o.O

I figured I should add a bit of a disclaimer here. This is a purely fictional story based off of something non-fictional that happens to real people. The people in this story, however, are completely fictitious and any and all similarities between them and real people are completely coincidental. Due to the sensitive nature of this story, I felt it necessary to put this here. I'd also like to mention that even though the title appears in the story in reference to the child's mother, "The Tortured" may not ONLY refer to her... That is all.

UPDATE: I GOT SECOND PLACE YOU GUYS!!!!!!! So freaking excited. Hahahahaha!! I'm SO thankful for this news, too. I've been having a rather rough day. Really exhausting physically and emotionally and it honestly means a lot that my piece was well loved enough to make it to second place. Thank you so much to littleblueraccoon! I'm very happy with second place. I have yet to read the piece that beat me out, but I'm sure it's wonderful as well. Anyway, thanks again! :D

© 2013 - 2024 HarryRooden
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nikutsuki's avatar
Amazing piece! I was having breakfast and I don't even noticed when I stopped eating, but at some point I did, because in the end I was reading this like there was nothing else in the world ; v ;
I-I actually want to know what happens next...