/-/ This idea has been floating around in my head, and I decided to turn it in to something. I'm unsure if I'll continue it, but I do hope that I can. Updates will be irregular if I do decide to. \-\

She was ruthless. She always had been, it was in her nature. He had grown accustomed to this fact, and that hurt him more than the cuts, bruises and gashes ever could. He had grown weak because of her. He would never stop blaming himself; it was his fault and it always would be. Though he may not have been entirely sure of what his fault was, it was still his fault.

He would never tell anyone. If he did she would kill him. Though he may have been a worthless fuck-up, he did not want to die. He always believed he was to be a part of something greater, though it was a stretch. It would probably never come true, but he could dream.

She hated dreamers. Dreamers meant entrepreneurs, and entrepreneurs could fail. Maybe that was why she had loved his brothers so much - they were mindless, and would do whatever they were told. Imagination could not, would not exist in her household. His father had an imagination once as well. She quickly changed that. Now he was practically a mute - or at least by choice. He was afraid, and everyone could tell. She had loathed those with imagination because they were higher than she was. She needed to be the highest.

They had stopped going out. Their car was left to rust in the yard, and the only other form of transportation was their trailer. She would not let anyone else drive it but herself. Not that she was afraid of damage - her driving was not exactly expert - but that she did not want anyone to get away. Ever.

She did not know about his wagon. He had built it himself.

The room was dark. It always had been dark, and he knew this possibly better than he had known himself. Perhaps the room was all he had known. He had stopped fighting an hour ago. His vision was far too blurred and his body just ached too much for him to continue the struggle. He could vaguely taste iron, but his body was too numb for him to care. She had found them; the cuts, that is. He was unsure of why he put them there in the first place. Perhaps he was beginning to enjoy hurt. The thought made him wince. It was only a matter of time before she had. He just was not expecting such a brutal reaction.

"Oncie deary," she had crooned. Her voice was like silk. She tried so hard to be beautiful, but he knew what lay beneath that make-up and smile. "What are these?" she asked, as if she had not known. He desperately tried to explain; perhaps she would appreciate the idea. She was always complaining about how much work it was to beat him, maybe if he had tried to make it easier on her she would thank him. Her nose crinkled as he blabbered. The tears had come too early. She dug her finger in to the deepest slash on his wrist and grinned as he cried out. Crimson flowed over her palm, but she was not yet satisfied. Her bloodstained hand came hard across his cheek. She knew just where to strike him so that it would not show the next day. "You know I don't like it if I'm not the one providing them," her velvet lips hissed in his ear.

Something glinted in the corner. It was familiar, but he tried to refuse the idea that it had been there. She approached it. It took some strength but she had managed to tear off one of the strings to his beloved guitar - another item which she hated. He gasped as an incongruous noise split the air. Her heels clicked as she found him again in the dark. "I've heard these can be quite painful," she explained as she wrapped one end carefully around her wrist. By then she had found his back - it was bare, as was custom during these times - and was sizing it up with her large eyes. She was the predator, and he was the prey. A crack resounded off the bare walls as she brought the item down upon his pale skin, which split and bled on contact. He yelped, contorting in a way to try and escape the burning sensation. It was useless to try and escape; his arms were held up by chains which hung from the ceiling.

"Mom," he had murmured. All he could see was red. She despised when he had spoke to her at these times, and so her powerful fist had come down on to his nose. The cartiledge shattered, and blood dripped down on to his lips. He would have to make up an excuse later - "I fell" or "I ran in to something". It was believable, he had been a clumsy individual.

"What is it, my darling son?"

"I thought...you would like it. I thought that maybe you would thank me. You're always saying how tiring this is..."

"You thought wrong," she had growled, and brought the makeshift whip back down on to his pale skin. Her sadism was apathetic. She did not care if he hurt, or if he cried. She only cared that his blood would run. That he would feel awful about himself, just like he deserved. It disgusted her to know that he was of her blood. How could someone - something - be such a failure, and be in her family? Not to mention her own child? The idea made her sick. She almost vomited. It would have been fantastic to watch him shudder and wince as her stomach acid soaked in to his wounds, but she was tired and she did not want to clean that up later. The blood could remain, but bile would end up reeking.

This was an hour ago. Now she had left him, broken and bleeding, to think about what he had done. What she did not know is that he could hardly think at all. Blood and snot came from his nose. He was unsure if he had been crying clear or crimson, but he did know that there was a wet heat in his eyes. He would not try and break away. She would come back later and retrieve him, but for now he was just cold. He shivered. It was hard to breathe.

All he wanted was to escape. Not necessarily his home, or that dark room which was all he had known, but to escape to a beautiful world. A world that was not barren fields. A world where he was #1. Where he was not useless. Where - bless his imagination - perhaps she worked under him. A world in his head.

His fault would not get away.