The Skeletøn Bøy

TWENTY-FØUR

"Happiness can exist only in acceptance." -- George Orwell

++ C H A P T E R | T W E N T Y - F Ø U R ++

"Whose cat is that?" Elliott asked once Mother had dragged him into the basement. Strapped to a table was a hissing white cat, looking more afraid that angry.

"None of your business. Here." She handed Elliott the whip he was slowly becoming accustomed to. She was proud of her little boy, finally growing up into the man he was supposed to be. She would show him what real love was. She would teach him well.

"You want me to whip the cat?" Elliott felt uneasy and sick. Before, the dolls didn't actually get harmed. Now, there was a live animal, and Elliott felt scared. This was different. This was torture.

"Yes. And if you don't get on with it, you'll be one there next, and then your brothers."

Elliott didn't have time to think. He brought the whip down on the cat, trying to block out the whines and hisses. They engraved themselves in his brain as he kept whipping.

"Keep your eyes open, Elliott!" Mother screamed, and Elliott did as he was told, taking in the sight of the bloody cat. He brought the whip down again and again, growing accustomed to the whines and the sight of splattered blood.

By the end, Elliott was immune. He didn't bat an eyelash at the dead cat. The cat he had killed. And in a way, he was glad when mother wrapped her arms around him in an embrace. She was proud of him, and that was all that mattered. Elliott had longed for her approval his entire life, and he was finally getting it. Getting the love he'd always dreamed of.

Elliott woke from his nightmare, a scream fresh on his lips. When he looked down at his hands, he pictured them covered in blood. He could feel the recoil of the gun he used to kill his father. He could feel the whip beneath his fingers. The power of being in control swelled inside him.

"What is wrong with me?" He whispered, clenching his eyes shut. He was supposed to suppress the urges. He wasn't his mother. He couldn't be. He cared so much for his brothers. For his new friends. But the nagging thought that they didn't truly love him ran through his brain. Only mother would love him as he was - a psychotic mess of a drowning skeleton boy.

Elliott fell back on his bed, his eyes wide open with the fear of not being loved. He changed his mind, pushing himself from the bed and wandered downstairs, hoping to drown his demons out in a glass of water.

He couldn't get far. There were voices on the couch, quiet but unmistakably there. Elliott could feel his heart skip a beat as he leaned in closer to the door, his heart beating so hard he could barely focus on anything else. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and poked his head in.

Anna was sitting on the couch with Wes's father. They were laughing quietly, with glasses of wine in their hands. Anna looked so carefree and happy, like she was discovering something special. Elliott knew it was love. He hated that it was.

He turned away, hugged himself to keep calm. Even Anna was finding love, and it was with a guy that reminded Elliott of his father so much it made him sick.

Elliott had killed that. Elliott had ruined one of the only good people in his life, even if he had been abandoned. He knew it was for the best - it was to protect his brothers. Their father couldn't save all of them, but two was better than none. Elliott understood that. But, it didn't make the pain any easier to handle.