Prologue: Womanizer

I would say that this part is mature, except for the fact that teens these days play Gears of War so it's probably not all that bad considering.

As I walked into that room that night I noticed that something was amiss. The room was dark, and I could only see the faded outlines of the furniture. The windows were covered with curtains, preventing any light from entering that cursed place. It was where I found them.

 

            I, being 15, knew very well the sort of torture my father wrought on her. My poor sister. She was young, beautiful, 17 years of age, almost free of all the horror, but it seemed that my father did not want to let her go without using every last drop. I hated him. No possible problem in his past could excuse such behavior; such vile ambitions. When my sister turned 12 he began to molest her. Minor things, like grab her rear when she walked by him. I didn’t notice anything wrong, since I was only 10 and I had no idea what sexual abuse was. As she grew older, he became more blatant and I became smarter. I began to fear that he would target me when I grew to be her age, but those fears were calmed as I realized he obsessed over her body.

 

She was always too embarrassed to tell anyone, though. She would never say a word about it after he had finished. He would go into her bedroom at night and grab her and molest her when she turned 15. It was horrible to hear her whimper in fear of him from across the hallway. When he had gone, his thick brown beard wet with his saliva, she came out to check if I was awake. Her long blonde hair glistened in the moonlight as she came and laid her soft hand on my shoulder.

 

            I was the only one she would talk to, the only one who she could confide in, and to swear never to tell anyone. I promised whole-heartedly, and although word never got out to the public as to the situation, it made my heart harden more and more towards my father. He was a fat, greedy, selfish b*****d with no sense or feeling except lust and gluttony. He scratched himself in the strangest places, including his pointed nose and his bloated stomach, and he towered above me so far that I had look up at a right angle to see his chest. His breath always carried the stench of beer and cigarettes.

 

            He would sometimes come home so drunk that he would beg his own daughter to “do him good” which forced her to collect me and lock the both of us in the basement, waiting for his drunkenness to subside. While down in the basement, kneeling on the freezing cement, we heard him slam things against the door, such as his fist or a chair. I’m surprised it didn’t break. I fell asleep to the chaotic yelling and banging upstairs while she waited; waited until he became too exhausted and fell asleep. The next morning he would recall nothing.

 

            My sister’s name was Mary, named for my mother who was killed in a car accident many years ago. She had been out with some of her friends, drinking off her worries such as her loser husband, when her friend lost control of the car. It careened off the road and rolled five times into a nearby river and the car became surrounded by water. The emergency personnel were not able to reach her in time so she drowned. I was four.

 

            I never did know her that well. As far as I know, she was nothing like my father. When we were forced into the basement, Mary would comfort me by telling me stories about the family that we were forbidden by our father to see. She told me that the relatives always said how good of a soul my mom was. “Like her daughter,” they said. I don’t know. All I know of my family is my father, and I sometimes wonder if I am truly his son. Surely the son of such a horrible person must be equally as horrible, if not more so. I always wondered why I wasn’t a womanizer like him.

 

            But it wasn’t just him. In my freshman year of high school, and I saw and heard about all sorts of girls being abused and mistreated. Cheating, lying, sexual abuse, physical abuse, bruises, cuts, sometimes even internal damage. While growing up in Beloit was not an easy thing for me to do, I did enjoy some aspects of it. The Snappers play during the summertime, and the little kids there were fun to chase around the playground and they always invited me to play hide-and-go-seek. It always seemed like the oldest friend that I had that was a guy was only seven. His name was James and he was the best friend I ever had. He listened to me whenever I had problems and he was always cheerful and supportive. Despite his youth, he was surprisingly wise and he would always know the right thing to say to cheer me up. Granted, I never told him about my father, but when I had troubles with girlfriends and grades he helped me and gave me hope where I never thought to look for it. After that night, I knew I needed to tell him everything.

 

            That night I found them in the living room. I turned the lights on. She was naked and bleeding badly, sprawled on the floor; legs forced apart, bruises around her neck and abdomen. My adrenaline rose as I saw my father, naked as well, on the floor with her and forcing himself into her. As he touched his lips to her unwilling, bloody body, his gross, brown beard scratched her soft flesh, making new scars. Her kind face was painful to see in such a pale, tortured state and her eyes seemed to be dying. Out of her throat came gasps and coughs as if she was choking on both blood and tears. The furniture in the room was overturned at countless angles and there were indents in the walls where he had thrown her. Her left arm hung limp, as if it was broken, and he gripped her breasts so hard they could’ve burst. His eyes must’ve hurt from the sudden light, as he yelped when I flicked the switch and withdrew from my sister. His booming voice hit me like a brick wall as he immediately got up and grabbed a nearby golf club.

 

            “What the hell are you doing here, boy?”

 

            My sister screamed. “No! Don’t hurt him!” It was a futile command. I dodged his swings, which were enough to take my head off. I threw anything I could at him to keep him at bay while I reached my sister. Something in my mind knew that if I got to her I would be safe. I stunned him for a bit by breaking a coffee cup over his head. He grabbed his head in anguish as thick, crimson blood gushed out of his corrupt brain and flowed over his fingers. He staggered around the room for a few minutes, which enabled me to reach my sister.

 

            “Mary, what’s going on?” But all I could get out of her were groans and spasms. I put her arm around my shoulder and started to lift her up as fast as I could, but my father awoke from his dizziness and saw us. He raised the golf club above his head and I saw it come down at my own, but it did not hit me. I heard a scream as a blurry face lunged in front of mine. Her beautiful face, I will never forget it as the golf club came down and imbedded itself in her skull. She fell to the ground, limp, unmoving, and cold. I stood there, dazed. My father yelled again, leaving his golf club in her skull.

 

            “Now look what you did you little a*s! I’ll tear you apart!” I ran. Somehow I got by him, reached my room upstairs and locked the door. Looking around for some way out or something to defend myself with, I saw my beloved sword on my wall. I grabbed it. It was the sword I had bought with my own money. I don’t even recall how I got the money to begin with, but when I was 9 I had enough money to buy it from a store in Janesville called The Valley of the Kings. It was beautiful and reminded me of the stories that I would read when I was younger.

 

My door uttered a horrific bang. “Open the f*****g door!” I gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands. It was exceptionally large and I was surprised that I could lift it by myself. Its hilt was covered in silver and as the cross guard stuck from the handle, it curved towards the blade with pointed ends, as if it, too, wanted to be a part of the kill. The leather around the handle was black and the pummel was ruby encrusted with spines around the bottom that hurt to even poke.

 

 

            “I didn’t do it,” I whispered. He pounded on the door, hit it with unknown objects and kicked it with his bloated legs until finally the hinges gave way. The door came crashing down onto the floor and he staggered in, his fists clenched and his breath reeking of alcohol and drugs. I trembled with fear. I was so scared.

 

            “Come here, you!”

 

            “I…I didn’t do anything.”

 

            “You little b*****d! I’ll kill ya, you hear me? I’ll kill ya!” My voice began to grow.

 

            “I didn’t kill her.” He came closer.  

 

            “You’re dead!”

 

            “She’s dead! You killed her!”

 

            My hatred for him grew and I lost complete control of myself. I didn’t know what I was doing. My instincts took over. He yelled something, then I yelled something, he grabbed my arm and swung at my face, but I dodged and punched him in the left eye. He recoiled backwards and I kicked him in the crotch, causing him to let go of me. I felt my arms clench the sword once more, and a slash across his stomach finished him. He fell to his knees as the crimson liquid once more flowed from his body. I stabbed him in the chest without realizing it and he gasped and choked as I pulled out the sword. He grabbed my shoulder when I stabbed him again. If he had any heart, it didn’t give any resistance. The sword went clean through him. I pulled it out again, which caused him to fall to the ground. My hatred still burnt the inside of my chest and I stabbed him again and again in the back as he lay dying.

 

            “I loved her!” I yelled. “I loved her more than anyone in the world! You killed her! You killed her!” Tears dripped down and connected with the blood on my face as I stabbed him repeatedly. He grabbed my leg and I fell into his blood. He gasped and spat, as if he was trying to say something. I threw my sword across the room and it landed in the corner. It was of no more use to me. With one more choke and a last spurt of blood, he died. I sat there for a long time until the police arrived, responding to a complaint about noise and banging. They found me in the corner by my sword, embracing my legs. They put the sword in a bag and led me to their car whimpering.

 

“He killed her. He killed her. He killed her.”    

Author's Note

Hopefully I didn't turn you off to the story with this gruesome chapter. Personally, I hate it because of what happens, but it is essential to the story.

Reviews

[Political Punk ~~ CBD]

I wasn't turned off by this at all, it was a deep part of the story will set the entire tone. Like you said, it is essential to the story.

Personally I never like reviewing 1st chapters for this reason - most people spend a lot of time working on the first chapter mostly because it sets everything up in the story - emotion, characters, and introduction to the world you are being put in.

As for how you did on this - a perfect 10/10. Amazing first chapter.

[Millionth Muse]

I am someone who likes a little gore, so I wasn't at all turned off by the "in your face-ness" of this chapter. I think that this piece was quite thought provoking, and I do like your use of dialouge. I think that possibly you could have dug a little deeper in terms of character development...but this is only the first chapter, so that could be the reason why. I would just suggest that you keep the strength of your characters throughout the work, expanding upon them whenever possible.

[Call Me Crazy]

hee, I just read it again, even though I've read this before. So I could be a very annoying reviewer, of course!
The sentence- "She had been out with some of her friends, drinking off her worries such as her loser husband, when her friend lost control of the car." the HER seemed bit repetitive. Since you've already established that we are talking about his mom, the sentence could go "She had been out drinking with some friends, trying to forget her worries such as that loser of a husband, when one of her friends lost control of the car." That reduces the ‘her’s from 4 to 2. This is just a suggestion, btw. I have weird writing habits.
Following that, the next paragraph is sort of ambiguous, because remember you mentioned both Marys in the previous one, so the line would be more clarifying like “I never did know my mother that well.”.
I still think that introduction of James is sort of random, but that’s like the pot calling the kettle black. However, at one point you say “he was the best friend I ever had” which to me signifies he isn’t his friend any longer. This continues on throughout the entire paragraph. I know this entire prologue is like a flashback, though, so I might just have some time confusion.
Besides that, amazing (if sadly gruesome) detail. The emotion is really intense here, and I think you really pull off the pain and anger he feels (sorry I forgot his name again).
Can’t wait for the next chapter!