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Israel Hands was born 2 months early, and he was born hungry. His mother hadn’t eaten more than one meager meal per day for the week before he came. Their craving for alcohol outweighed their need to eat. Isreal, however, hadn’t yet given up on life as they had, and so he screamed and screamed until his mouth was brought to his mother's breast. It’s shocking, really, she had any milk to give him at all.
The first time his father hit him he was four years old. He was old enough to stutter his way through sentences, and pull himself up onto wobbly legs, so his dear old dad reasoned he was old enough to learn a lesson. Israel was sobbing, clinging onto his mother's dress, he wasn’t upset for any particular reason, but it was hard for a toddler not to cry when starvation made their body ache. His father crouched down and slapped the side of his face, knocking him to the cold cobblestone street. He stopped crying out of shock. His father trekked forward without another word, and his mother just looked at him expectantly until he stood up and followed her. He didn’t cling to her dress anymore, and he held his breath when his father stood too close, trying not to make a noise.
The first time he hit his father he was 12 years old.
Life had gotten comfortable recently, and then it had taken a dive. His father was fired, and his parents were drinking again, and he could feel the familiar sensation of stabbing pain emanating from his gut. He hadn’t eaten for 2 days.
He makes up his mind to get food, fuck the consequences. He almost gets away with it too. His father is passed out in their living room–if it could really be described as such. A slender hand finds its way into his pocket, latching on tight when it finds a few loose coins. Maybe it was his breathing, or the shouts of the city, or just some wicked sense of vengeance, but no matter why his father's eyes fluttered open and he was livid.
He tried to grab a hold of Israel, but the boy was faster. He ducked out of the way and sprung to his feet, his face white in fear. He should have left right then, but his feet felt frozen in place. His father spat out a curse at him, groggily trying to make it upright. With a burst of ferocity Isreal didn’t know he had, he grabbed the nearest weapon he could see, a kitchen knife, and swung.
His father’s shirt was cut open and he cried out as he saw red blood dripping down his chest. It was a shallow cut, all things considered, but for some reason, probably the shock, he dropped down to his knees.
His mother was summoned by the yell, and she gasped at the sight. Israel was stood stock-still in the middle of the room, blood-tipped knife in his hand, and a manic look in his eyes. His father was on the floor wailing over an obvious slash through his chest.
His mother rushed to her husband. Placed a quivering hand on the wound and asked what has happened. Instead of answering he tangled his hand in her hair and pulled. She dropped next to him with a pained cry.
“How could raise such a boy, you
bitch
.” He spat, putting such emphasis on the words Isreal could smell the stench on his breath from the other side of the room.
Israel paused. Glancing back at his parents, sprawled on the ground. His mother met his gaze, pain and fear clear as day on her face. Israel watched as a tear dropped from her eye and rolled down her cheek. He couldn’t find it in him to care. As his father continued to rant and claw at his wife, Isreal turned on his heel and went to buy a meal with the gold coins still gripped in his fist.