That night, Fonce' laid in bed thinking about his mother again. He was only three when she passed. She was always sick after he was born, it was amazing she didn't die after she gave birth. No one would explain to him why she died, they only said it was his fault. Especially his father. His father Shawn, used to be a cop, but was fired after coming in drunk four times. He never really drank until his mother had died. Fonce''s eye lids started feeling heavy. It wouldn't be long before he was asleep.
He looked at the closet... so commodious... has it always been that way? Fonce' closed his eyes....
There was a small boy sitting on the floor playing with the stuffed puppy that his mother had made him. The boy was Fonce' when he was only seven years old. His white hair was short and unbrushed, revealing a long scar over his eye; reaching from the midpoint of his forehead to his narrow lips. He would stop playing to touch the scar every few seconds. The room was empty except for a few store-bought clothes and his bed.
Everywhere else, boxes covered the room, full of everything his mother had made him. His father didn't want anything reminding him of his mother and he never did like Fonce', so he was trying to get rid of it. The boy was suddenly startled.
Fonce' could hear his father's calls from outside his door. He was drunk.. again; Fonce' cringed at the thought of what was to come, his scar burned even more reminding him of what had happened last time. He quickly ran for his closet, tossing a box out in order to make room for himself, and crammed inside.
The door to his bed room banged open; Fonce' jumped. To afraid to look through the cracks in the door, he hid his head in his arms; tears ran down his cheek. He heard things being thrown around the room; glass being thrown; the shattering sounds...
The closet door was ripped off it's track's; Fonce' felt his arm being grabbed. His father threw him out of the closet; Fonce''s stomach hit the side of his bed with tremendous force- Fonce' coughed, and felt blood gush on his face. The next thing he knew.. he was being roughly turned around; a hot tounge on his face, licking off the blood. Shawn's breath stunk with an aroma of alcohol. Fonce' raised his hands and tried to push him off, but he was to strong. Shawn pushed Fonce' harder against the bed and pulling out an old pair of handcuffs, restrained one of Fonce's hands to the railing of his bed. Fonce' tried to yank his hand out; he felt his pants being ripped off.....
heart heart heart
Fonce' woke up in a sweat automatically placing his hand on his scar. It wasn't bleeding, but merely stung from his tears. He knew he needed to stop crying about something that happens weekly.... still. Fonce' was always trying to forget his past, his scar was there to remind him. It reminded him of the first time his father did that. he was four when fighting his drunken father; kicking him away from his overall straps. He got impatient with Fonce', so he grabbed a knife to cut the overalls off.
Fonce' cried and screamed, "MOMMY!!!!" His father paused, the room was silent. Shawn raised the knife. "White haired LITTLE BRAT!!!!" Fonce' looked away as Shawn sent the knife down. He missed the center of Fonce's face, but deaply cut a line from half of his forehead, reaching down to his small lips. Blood wasn't enough to make Shawn stop.
Fonce' looked in the mirror, making sure that his long bangs could cover the scar. Whenever someone saw it, they could only ask 'why'? but when Fonce' looked at it.. He thinks of the man he's forced to live with and call father. Also, how much he hated life... He grabbed the mirror off of the bathroom wall... and smashed it.
Scarred for life....
