Their Marked Baby Boy

2

             ~17 years, 364 days later ~

I shivered as I tried to wrap my thin blanket tighter around me. I was trying to sleep but couldn't escape the feeling that something was wrong. Dad had been acting strange for the last week or so.

Not that he'd ever been a normal dad...

Things were fine for my first few years of life. He'd done his best to play the role of a somewhat loving father, but it always seemed so forced. Then I turned 8, and mum left. She packed her bags whilst dad was at work and left nothing but a note on the counter and me. She left me.

Dad stopped trying after that. It was like something inside him broke, and the only solice he could find was at the bottom of a liquor bottle.

At first, I tried to bridge the gap he seemed to be making between us. I'd ask him to play with me or spend any time together, but then he hit me for the first time. I'd run to my room in tears, not fully understanding what had happened. That was the first night I cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I tried to be on my best behaviour and stay out of his way as if I had earned his wrath. As the front door slammed closed and he stumbled in, the first thing I noticed was his face. He was sporting a black eye and swollen lip as if he'd been punched. I didn't know who was responsible, but he glared at me as if it were my fault.

Life found a new normal after that. I learned a few rules to help stop his anger. I stayed out of his way, hiding in my room when he was home, I kept my head down at school, so they'd never call him and I grew out my dirty blonde hair to cover my left eye and the birthmark that covered it. For some reason, it always seemed to anger him to see it.

Still, without fail, he'd eventually find himself in a drunk rampage and take his frustration out on me. But, without fail, the next day, he'd return home looking as if he'd been beaten.

The last week, however, he hadn't so much as looked in my direction. I didn't think it was possible, but he began drinking more. I'd often find him passed out on the floor, mumbling strange things about debts owed and something not being his. It didn't make any sense.

I shivered again in my oversized hoodie and shorts, as my room seemed to get colder. The only light in my bare room came from an old digital clock. It was times like these I longed for something to offer me comfort. A soft blanket or even stuffed animal to make things seem less harsh. I didn't have anything like that, though. All my childhood comforts had been disposed of when we moved to this house. Dad couldn't bear to stay in the one we shared with Mum.

11:58
11:59

The numbers on the clock ticked over. One more minute until was 18 years old, an adult. I didn't know what was in store for me. I wouldn't have been surprised if my dad kicked me out, finally washing his hands of me. I just hoped I'd be able to finish my art course at college. I'd never really liked my lessons in school, except for art. I would draw all day if I could, and despite knowing my odds were slim part of me dreamed, I'd someday be able to. I'd already sent out applications to jobs that would take on students part-time.

Little did I know how things would change.

11:59
12:00