Warning: This story is incredibly dark and violent. There are explicit examples and talk of abuse, attempted sexual assault, and murder.

…

Part One

"If you battle monsters, you don't always become a monster. But you aren't entirely human anymore, either."

Jonathan Maberry
…

I was five when my father first laid a hand on me.

Not with a loving, comforting pat like he used to dole out; not in a tight hug like before; this was painful and new and terrifying.

When it happened, I was caught completely unaware. My mother and little brother had left a month before, leaving my father with full custody of me. Until the slap, I hadn't known how truly screwed I was.

At the beginning when Mother first walked out, I had felt kind of grateful, because although I would miss my little brother Ludwig, I was glad that I would no longer have to listen to my parents screaming at each other.

I had never known what they were shouting about, but my name and Ludwig's name would always come up in their rants. Of course, I hadn't wanted to know what they were shouting about, but in our tiny apartment, there was nowhere to escape the sounds.

Often I'd wished that I could cover my ears and block out the noise, but I had a more important job: to protect Ludwig. We would always curl up together in the closet, my hands either over his ears or just wrapped around him as I whispered comforting words.

So, when my mother flung the front door open and ran out with Ludwig in her arms, never looking back, I'd wanted to jump around in joy. I hadn't known my father very well, as he always had been wrapped up in work or screaming and breaking dishes with my mother, but I had been certain that we would have a great time together.

When the first slap sent me reeling back into a cabinet a month later, my whole world darkened.

"What did I do? What did I do?" I asked hurriedly as I scrambled away from Father and pressed my thin body against the wall.

"You know what you did, you devil." Father's voice was angry, and he was glaring intensely at me with his right hand still raised.

I flinched, more at his words than from his hand. The slap had hurt but it was my first, and I had no idea if it would happen again. The words, though, went straight to my heart.

Despite my young age, my albinism and red eyes had been the reason my family was denied entrance of countless churches and even a few preschools. Of course, I only had a vague idea why the insults were directed at me since I was so young, but the meaning behind the words were clear: I was an evil monster.

Mother had always comforted me after those times, telling me that it was okay, that we'd find another church. Father, however, had always stayed silent. I guess it was because he hated me as much as the rest of them.

Standing against the wall, shaking, I could feel the loathing radiating off Father when he said the angry words. I still had no idea what I'd done to make him come tearing into my room and slap me, but there would clearly be no reasoning with him.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I pleaded, tears beginning to pour from my eyes, as he advanced and slapped me again.

Surprisingly, Father's eyes softened. He lowered his hand and reached toward me.

I tensed, but Father just pulled me into a big, comforting hug. I asked him why in a reedy voice.

Father set me down on my bed. I could see tears glistening in his eyes. "I really hated hurting you just now," he said sadly.

I was surprised. "Really?"

He nodded.

"Then why did you slap me?"

Father closed his eyes, grief written all over his face. "When you're a bad boy, I just have to. Otherwise, you'll never learn."

This was the beginning of a lesson that Father slowly ingrained in me over the years, that it was all my fault.

As a five-year-old, I was easy to manipulate. I didn't like seeing Father sad, and I realized that if I hadn't been bad (though to this day, I don't know what I did wrong), Father wouldn't have had to hurt me. "I'm sorry, Father," I said, staring down into my hands. "I'll try to be good so you don't have to punish me."

Father hugged me again. "Thank you, Gilbert, thank you. I'm lucky to have a son so understanding."

I beamed at the praise, the hurt in my cheek fading to nothing.

Father wiped my lingering tears gently and then left the room. "I love you," he said as he closed the door.

"I love you, too," I whispered back, but he had already gone.

…

Though I tried to behave, I was never the best kid. I was always forgetting to say 'please' and 'thank you,' and never wiped my feet when coming back to the apartment.

As the months passed and Father added more slaps and punches to every punishment, eventually giving me full-on beatings at least once a week, worse problems began sprouting up in my life.

I had no idea why, but suddenly it was harder for me to concentrate in school, and my grades dropped. I always flinched when the teacher came over, sure that she would hurt me for being bad. I also found myself acting out more—talking loudly and doing silly things to get people to look at me and laugh.

Of course, I could not deal with any direct attention, and I pushed away anyone who tried to become my friend, sometimes even physically.

When Father got reports of my academic decline, he was always forced to punish me. It was worse around summertime, since I had to wear hot sweatshirts to cover all the bruises. Of course, it was my bad choices that got me the punishment in the first place, so I could not complain.

As the years passed, I began to hate myself more and more.

Nothing I did ever seemed to be right.

I would always have trouble sleeping at night, which made school even worse. In elementary school, my sleep-deprived brain would make me extra hyperactive and I would act out much more. By middle school and high school, I just couldn't find the energy to care and I often passed my days in a haze of exhaustion.

I did eventually make two friends in 8th grade who seemed to understand me, but the second they asked about a bruise or wanted to know why I didn't eat lunch, I would refuse to talk to them for a few days. They finally got the hint and stopped trying to pry, but I always stayed on guard around them.

While my school life was absolute trash, my home life was as well.

Roughly two years after Mother left, Father refused to even talk to me when I was not being punished. He stopped stocking the fridge and would never take me shopping for new clothes. Without beatings, I never would have seen him at all. Every day, I would walk home from school and see the door to his room shut, knowing that if I made the slightest noise and disturbed him, I'd get in trouble.

Father would still apologize after every beating, and I would apologize too, guilty for making us both go through this.

I wondered how the other kids at school, who didn't seem to be punished like me, stayed so perfect and never messed up.

I concluded that I was inherently inferior, and began to wonder if all those churches had had the right idea of me.

By the time my senior year of high school came around and my 18th birthday passed, I couldn't remember much of my life before Mother and Ludwig left, but I didn't care. Nothing really mattered, and I continued trudging through life for no reason whatsoever.

I did still sometimes act out for attention and pick fights for no reason, but most of the time, a dark hole in my heart would envelop me and I would tune out the world with earbuds in the back of the classroom.

It had been a while since my friends had asked me questions, but one day at lunch, they brought it all up again. I was caught completely off guard, having learned to relax somewhat in their presence.

"Hey, man!" Antonio slid onto the bench across from me at the cafeteria table. He set down his bagged lunch which I tried not to stare at.

I eventually mustered up a half smile, not able to produce anything more. I'd gotten another beating the night before and was hungry and wanted to just be left alone.

Antonio usually was oblivious, but I guess my unhappiness was obvious, because his grin faded. "Are you feeling okay?"

I was spared from answering as our other friend Francis sat beside Antonio, already starting to speak rapidly.

"Hello, Gilbert, Antonio. You won't believe what just happened in history class! You know that pretty, smart girl named Alice? Well, I brought her a rose today and asked her out, but she stormed away and—" Surprisingly, Francis stopped. He flipped back his blond hair and frowned at me. "Are you good?"

I felt like a bug being examined under a microscope. My friends became the scientists poking me and writing down everything I did. I didn't want to reveal anything about my species.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I muttered, putting my head down on my arms. "Leave me alone."

Now, this was the time when Francis and Antonio backed off. They were usually pretty understanding. Today, though, they didn't.

"Sorry, Gilbert, but that can't be true." Antonio at least did sound apologetic.

"Yes, that is what you always tell us." Francis sniffed. "We know there's something wrong."

That was how the two always acted. With Antonio's extreme kindness and Francis's bite and style, they were the perfect duo. They didn't need me, and I knew that I would be kicked out of their little group soon enough.

I lifted my head to glare at them both. "It's nothing that concerns you. Go away."

When neither of them stood, small flowers of panic began blooming in my stomach. The concern in their eyes made me want to bolt.

"We're your friends," Antonio responded as Francis nodded in agreement. "You can tell us anything."

Francis tilted his head. "Don't you trust us?"

The problem was, I didn't trust them. For some reason, I'd always found it difficult to connect with people and open up to them. I always felt like they might hurt me, so I stayed guarded. Just another one of my flaws, I supposed.

The priest at one church I'd attended had said God makes everyone perfect the way they are. I guessed that He messed up on me.

Still, I wasn't about to tell that to Francis and Antonio, so I tried to escape their inquiry. "Whatever. I'm just tired, okay?"

My friends exchanged glances.

Francis leaned in. "We are concerned about you," he said quietly, for once losing his usual bite. "We've been talking, and it seems to us like your living situation isn't the best."

"What the hell?" I cried, struggling to keep my voice down to a normal level. Luckily, the cafeteria was bustling, so my shout attracted no attention. "Well, you're wrong!"

"We only want to help, I swear—" Antonio began, but Francis cut him off.

"When you stop to look, it's all so clear," he said, sounding sympathetic and slightly patronizing.

I took a deep breath. It wasn't like I was trying to hide what was going on, right? The Health teacher my freshman year had said hitting is wrong, but Father knew that, too. He didn't even like punishing me!

Really, the whole situation was all my fault. I just wanted to keep it a secret because I was ashamed that I required so much discipline. Right?

My fear threatened to spill out of me, but I forced myself to stay in my seat. "You've been analyzing me?" I snapped, keeping it clear that I didn't want to talk. "Tell me, what have you seen?"

Francis narrowed his eyes as if trying to discern whether or not I was expecting an answer. "The bruises you try to hide. The clothes you outgrew months ago but still wear. The way you're always on guard and never seem to care about your grades." He spoke mechanically, closing his eyes and opening them beseechingly. "What have your parents done to you?"

I opened my mouth, utterly speechless. Finally, cheeks flaming, I covered my panic and embarrassment with more anger. "Why are you so #%*ing nosy? You've been watching me? What, have you also looked through my diary and followed me around, taking pictures? Back off!"

Francis shook his head quickly. "I didn't mean it like that; I'm genuinely worried about you!—"

Smack.

As my hand made contact with Francis's face, his expression changed from worry to fear to betrayal.

Francis clutched his face for a moment, blinking back tears. He turned away from me.

My self-hatred grew as I saw what I had done.

Before I could apologize and run off, Antonio stood abruptly, knocking his lunch to the ground. He'd been so quiet that I had forgotten about his presence. "How dare you hurt Francis like that?" he cried angrily. "He was trying to help!"

"Well, maybe I don't want help!" I stood as well, making sure Antonio could see that I had two inches on him. I shoved him. "Ever think of that?"

Antonio stumbled back a little. "I don't care what you don't want!" He shoved me back.

"That's it," I growled, losing my composure.

I punched Antonio and before I knew it, we were full-on fighting.

A ring of students gathered around us, some with their phones out, but I ignored them. Instead, I focused on releasing the mixture of fear and anger that swirled within me, using it to dole out powerful punches.

Antonio played soccer and had a fair amount of muscle compared to my malnourished form, but my aggression was stronger, so I had the upper hand. Once I knocked him on the ground, I was the only one still punching.

By the time security guards pulled me off Antonio, blood was running down the side of his face and one of his eyes was swollen.

We were both forced to see the principal after being quickly inspected by the school nurse, and while Antonio was given a week of suspension, I was given two.

At that point, I didn't care. My anger had faded, and I was left with a deep weariness in my soul that was even more painful.

As Antonio and I were walked off campus, we passed Francis. His cheek was still red, and he glared at me.

I glared back.

"Don't you ever speak to us again," Antonio spat at me outside the premises. "You only cause trouble."

The words were ones I heard every day, so I told myself that they didn't affect me anymore. I then commended myself for not trusting Antonio and Francis. Everyone in my life ended out hurting me at some point; I needed to accept that.

"Good," I hissed back. "I don't want to see you anymore anyway. I hope you and Francis die."

At that time, I didn't realize that this fight would end up killing me.

Maybe if I had known, I would have stayed and apologized. I would have begged for forgiveness.

I didn't know, however, so I stormed away, ignoring the hurt in Antonio's eyes and sealing my fate.

...

Do you think I should continue this?

Please review!