#thenightmarecontinues

So my dream is to be a writer. I thought I'd share a section of what i've written and i'd love any comments. :) thank you.

Jason

Dread filled me as I walked through my home, toward the door of my father’s study. I trailed the design on the walls with my hand as I headed down the hall. The floral pattern twisted and flowed in odd ways, I often would trace my fingers along it. I stopped before my father’s office door, afraid of what lay begin it. The large dark door served as a barrier between me and what lie ahead, a barrier that I did not want to break. My hand drew away from the wall and I touched the bruise on my cheek. It still stung, for my mother had slapped me earlier that day, what for; I knew not. My little mind only saw it as punishment for something I had done, even if I did not know what that thing was. And to me it was small and merciful compared to what usually happened. Behind that door I believed that one of the beatings my frustrated father often gave me was waiting.

I reached for the newly polished brass knob, seeing a reflection claiming to be my own. The golden tint masked my sickly yellow bruise, and for a moment I entertained the idea that I had imagined all of it. Convinced myself that in a moment I would wake up to a loving family, and that this had been a dream, no a nightmare. It was a fantasy I often entertained, but I shook my head and discarded the thought. It was waist, a useless hope for a useless child. My Mother had often said that thoughts like those were demons, whispering in my ear. Of course, as a small child I believed her. She was my mother, and as a child I had to trust her. I had to rely on her to guide me through the world. I still laugh at my childhood ignorance.

I turned the knob and entered the room. I wasn't allowed here often, my Father seldom accepted disturbances. This room was his solitude, his bastion, where he would study something, he claimed, to be of great importance to my future. Yet, if I asked what it was, I was beaten. If I interrupted or made any noise at all to disturb him, I was beaten. Even if I had not done anything, I was beaten. Often Father had abused me when he could not find the answer to a question I knew nothing about. As if my bruised skin would somehow present an answer.

Shutting the door behind me, I entered. They were both waiting for me, father sitting behind his large maple desk with loose papers and ancient looking scrolls strewn about it. My mother was in a comfortable looking chair, right next to what I believe was the most uncomfortable thing to sit on ever created. This, of course, was to be my seat. Slowly, I walked down the large hallway like room, glancing at the book shelves that lined the walls. Each one filled with leather bound beasts that only scholars could comprehend. Each one would have cost a fortune, and each one was important to my fathers studies, or so he said. I took my seat and looked up at my father fearfully.

He was a tall and thin man, with a gaze that was threatening and piercing. His short black hair was often messy and unkempt, ruffled by his own hands as he researched. Often he did this out of frustration, trying to contemplate what he was reading. Something was strange, instead of his usual demeaning gaze, for the first time in my life I saw a smile on his pale lips. He looked into my eyes like he would a prized possession, not a living one, but an object he was proud of. This confused me greatly.

My mother was of average height, I had inherited her green eyes, but my father’s piercing intensity in my gaze. she had a extreme loyalty to my father, doing whatever it was he told her to. To her, whatever my Father’s word was law. Long copper hair flowed down her back, her delicate hands moved a strand of hair behind her ear as we waited for Father to speak. I had no idea where I had gotten my brown hair from.

“Jason, I want you to come with me,” The sudden break in the silence startled me. It was obvious from Father’s tone that I had no choice in the matter. I prepared mentally for any blows that would come my way, not that it would help. I slowly made my way to him. “You’re not going to be punished, today. No, I have something for you Jason. A gift of sorts.”

My childish mind believed him and I lit up with anticipation. My eyes gazed up into his looking for some clue of what I might be receiving. Just as quickly as I had looked into his eyes, I looked away. No one could look into those horrible, piercing eyes. It was if he was looking into your very soul.

I would have ran if I had known what awaited me. I would have fled as far away from them as possible. Punishment was a part of my life, but what was done to me, it was worse than any pain I can imagine.