Chapter Text

Prologue - The Case of Lucas

Lucas POV

Bright flashes from the TV screen lit up the dim living room, casting light over the two figures on the couch. The voice from the news channel blurred into something unintelligible while the radiator’s hum throbbed in Lucas’ mind. On the edge of the couch, he rubbed and knotted his clammy fingers together until his knuckles turned white. Beside him loomed his father, Gerald. They looked the same; tall, black hair, tan skin. But Lucas bore a gift from his late mother; a pair of startling blue eyes that set him apart from his father.

He won’t hurt me if I stay invisible.

Low grumbling escaped his father’s lips, eyes glued to the flickering screen. He’d been drinking again. His father, beer in hand, raised his arm due to something the news anchor said on the TV and shouted angrily. Lucas didn’t know what had been said, the words had melted into white noise long ago. Then, with a sudden lurch, Gerald sprang up and hurled the half-finished beer bottle across the room. Shards spread across the floor, and Lucas’ whole body locked up. Teeth clenched together like he was bracing for impact. To avoid ending up like the bottle, Lucas attempted to stand up, to get away, but before he could take a single step, his father’s gaze turned toward him at record speed.

“Sit down!” his father roared, standing up in a drunken stance. Lucas immediately obeyed, sitting right back down just as quickly as he had gotten up. “God, do you hate me that much?”

“No,” Lucas muttered back, his gaze avoidant.

“Look at me when I speak.”

Lucas’ eyes slowly rose from the floor, his icy blues meeting his father’s brown. Something flickered across Gerald’s face, sadness maybe.

“I’m just the worst father, aren’t I?” Gerald said, words slurred. He was launching into the usual monologue. Scoffing, his lips formed into a horrible, crooked smile as he sat down again. “You’re not making it easy for me, kid… Smoking that fucking grass, skipping school. They keep fucking calling me, your teachers,” he continued. Lucas knew where this was headed. Gerald would spit insults at him, ramble and rant about how hard it was to be his father, and that Lucas should be sorry.

“I’m sorry.” Lucas knew it was wise not to talk back. Sometimes he’d get away with a slap if he just apologized. But the kid had a feeling he wouldn’t get away with it this time.

“You just had to be caught with weed again, didn’t you? They’ve been calling me non-stop.” It was true. Earlier that day, some teacher was going on about some weed smell in the boys’ bathroom. Lucas’ so-called friend snitched on him after they were suspected, and they found the stash in Lucas’ backpack.

If you only knew what my dad will do to me because of you, fucker.

Gerald’s face suddenly darkened, his hand jolting toward the boy’s throat. Gasping, Lucas reached up to helplessly claw at the iron grip.

“Answer me! Why are you so set on ruining my life?” Gerald yelled, standing up and pulling his son along with him by the throat. Lucas choked out a pained moan. Before the kid could steady his feet, Gerald had already shoved him, sending the boy crashing over the coffee table. Lucas toppled over it and landed on the cold, hard-wood floor with a force so great it knocked the wind out of him.

“Dad, please,” Lucas begged after having taken a deep breath. He quickly attempted to stand up, but he was given no chance by the dark figure looming over him.

“You’re the one making me do this,” Gerald spat, seizing hold of Lucas’ gray hoodie. His fist whipped across the boy’s face.

Then again.

And again.

Blind rage fueled the man, a rage that gripped him so tightly he spent no time to stop and think.

By the time Gerald had stopped and stumbled into the hallway, Lucas found himself glued to the floor, head too heavy to be picked up. The shards from the shattered beer bottle laid sprawled a couple of inches from his face. He was lucky he didn’t land on them. Lucas closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather whatever thoughts he had left in his mind. Normally, after a beating like this, he'd go to his room and seek the familiar refuge of a joint or a couple of opioids swallowed dry. If it didn’t tame the pain, at least it would lull him to sleep.

As the minutes passed, and he still found it hard to move, Lucas knew this was more serious than usual. His ribs hurt so bad; every shallow breath sent a sharp, searing pain through his chest.

Yeah, this is worse than usual…

He feared substances couldn’t heal him this time. A knot formed in his stomach. Lucas had always kept his father’s outbursts a secret. Why? He told himself he didn’t know, but maybe he did, deep down. Years of this suffocating and oppressive home had warped his sense of what was normal. Maybe it was loyalty, the hope of a family, a father. Gerald used to be someone. Someone great. But that old Gerald died the same day his mother did. They both died that day. Whatever hope he had for his old father to return would be torn from him if he was to seek help. He’d be arrested, wouldn’t he? But the truth beneath this excuse was much darker.

I deserve this.

It was shameful, all of it. How could he admit he’d endured for so long? Maybe if he had been stronger, better, less defiant, things wouldn’t escalate. What if he didn’t smoke, didn’t skip school, had been the son his father wanted? Maybe then Gerald would finally say the words Lucas longed to hear.

Leaving didn’t feel like an option.

And yet, the way he felt his breathing coming shorter told him enough. As Lucas heard his father retreat upstairs, he knew what he had to do. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself upright. He couldn’t stay. He needed help. Gerald wouldn’t give it to him. Lucas grabbed his phone off the table, his mind racing.

He was really doing it.

The boy didn’t waste any time and limped through the hallway, catching a glance of himself in the mirror by the front door. He looked… horrible. Hurt. His tousled black hair stuck to the mix of sweat and blood on his forehead, and his lips were so bloodied it was hard to tell where they met each other. Lucas tore his gaze away from the mirror and placed a hand on the doorknob. Knowing his intentions, it felt illegal. But he slowly and quietly opened the front door, feeling the crisp November air piercing his skin. It was a welcome feeling.