Chapter Text
There he was. A little boy sat on a stone before a metal fence next to a street he did not know. He only knew the way home from a street sign about two metres to his left. It pointed to a street he knew.
But he didn't wanna go home.
Didn't wanna go back to that monster that brought him to an even worse one. To his father, who he knew was worried. His son had been missing for over a day now. But he didn't want to go back.
Didn't want to look his father in the eyes and tell him his beloved wife had brought him to a pedophile's house.
Only 13 years old and got raped huh? He thought to himself.
But who was he to complain? Many got raped way earlier or by a family member or had life long scars from it. He had no such things. It could have been worse.
Most other boys his age would've felt so proud. Would've bragged about pulling an adult woman. But he didn't feel like bragging. He felt awful. Everything hurt. His limbs felt like they were gonna break any second now.
The physical wasn't the truly bad part though. It was the small pieces of memory, tearing his mind apart, picking at his skull. The pictures and the way his body hurt. The lower part and his arms where she'd held him down so harshly he had big purple marks around his wrists now.
And the noises.
The noises she made while pleasuring herself through his pain. And his screams, so loud his own ears hurt and his throat getting dryer with every scream until he couldn't even cry anymore.
So much he screamed and cried and kicked and hit, but the woman didn't stop. She continued. Continued rubbing her body over his, though to him it was like she was hitting him with her body, a new wave of pain with every move, gliding him in and out herself.
Riding, they called it.
He'd had a couple fantasies before, of riding a pretty boy or one of his classmates, but now he didn't want that anymore. Never ever. He felt absolutely disgusted at the thought it. Pleasuring himself with someone else's body.
...
...
...
"I should go home. Dad's probably worried", he finally spoke to himself, got off the stone he was sat on and started walking down the Street.
White houses, gray houses, yellow houses. They all looked so simular. What is happening behind those walls I wonder? Gruesome things like those he'd just experienced? Or are there happy families inside, having lunch together or playing games? Who knows.
Let's just hope everyone's fine, he thought.
After a good 40 minutes of walking he reached his own. Big, white walls, big glass windows with golden window frames, a dark brown door and a huge front garden to show off.
Correction. He though. The rich kid got raped.
He took a deep breath.
Then knocked on the door.
He could hear mumbling on the other side, like someone stressed or annoyed. Then the door opened.
A moment of eye contact. They boy lowered his in shame, avoiding it.
"Michael!" A sound of relief no doubt. Should I tell him?
"Oh thank god you're OK! I was so worried!", followed by a tight hug.
OK is debatable.
"Where were you!? You can't just dissapear like that! A whole day! No. More. Almost two! What were you thinking?"
"Sorry dad... I-", Should I really tell him?
"I was-"
"Oh come inside first, we don't have to settle this outside" the hug loosend and the man turned around towards the house. I don't wanna tell him...
He stepped inside.
He moment he set foot inside the living room he regretted it. His mind was screaming for him to run. But he just stood there. Frozen in terror. Staring at who was infront of him.
There she was. The woman. Not the one who's touched him, but the one who'd brought him as a "gift". His step-mother.
"Oh, look who's here!", she said in this sickness induring tone, smiling.
"Come Michael! Sit", his father's voice swept over from the corner. Slowly, like in trounce, then almost fleeing, he rushed over to the couch where his father had taken place.
"Yes...?", the boy brought front, still glancing over to his step-mother. His father took a deep breath before starting to speak.
" You can't worry us like that! Do you understand that? I would've called the police if Ellise wouldn't have assured me you're probably out with friends! I get wanting yo spend time with friends, and I understand the thrill of doing that when and how long you want, but you have yo atleast leave a notice!"
Out with friends? So that's the lie she fed him. Ran away to visit friends. He would never.
"I wasn't-"
"Shh, I don't want to hear it. Don't think you'll get away without a serious word. Now I know teens your age want to try lots of new exciting things, but-"
"Exciting? You think I was excited? I-"
"I said I don't want excuses! Sit back down!"
"But-"
"NO BUT! You had us worried sick. You will be grounded and that's that"
"Grounded? FUCKING GROUNDED!?
"Watch your mouth!"
"But- but she-" he pointed towards Ellise, his "mother".
"No but! And don't you dare shift the blame. You vanished without a trace, no note where you've gone, come home a day later and try to make excuses. What happened is entirely your fault."
Silence.
My own fault.
He stares at his father in shock. His own fault? Was it his own fault? The life altering, traumatic thing he's just experienced, was his own fault? Did his father know? Did Ellise tell him and they were working together because he deserved it? It couldn't be... right? It just couldn't.
He started trembling. Felt tears creeping in his eyes and panic coming up his throat like vomit. Or was it actual vomit?
One last try...
"... but.. I-"
"I said no but. Go to your room, you're grounded", his father spoke more calmly now.
After a moment more of silence, Michael rushed to his room and slammed the door into it's lock. A sigh escaped his father's mouth.
"Was I... a bit too harsh? He looked looked hurt. Maybe something happened?"
"Don't worry dear. He's just not used to being treated sternly by you", his wife assured him.
Little did he know what was going on inside his son's room right now. Cries, screams of betrayal, throwing things on the floor and against walls in an attempt to handle emotions. More screams, pleads, more cries. A razor blade. Then blood. A familiar method the boy had found that he was now putting to use.
He cut deeper than he's ever before, desperetely clinging to the feeling of relief from it. His faith and trust in his father fading ever more. Full of guilt, hatred, betrayal and confusion, trying to process as he cuts down deeper. Trying to process as he cries in desperation for comfort.
But there was none. No comfort. Only a woman holding him down and ripping his insides apart by fulfilling hers. Only that, a mother who supported it and a father who's punished him for it.
It's my fault.
It's my fault.
It's my fault.
All my fault.
It's my fault.
It's my fault.
It's. My. Fault.
Until he passed out.