The origin story of one called Ray

This is a work in progress. I appreciate any constructive criticism and apologize in advance for any mistakes. I was not raised in a physically abusive household, thus may not have a 100% clear image of how that might look like. This work is a part of an origin story of my original character. Oh, also, English is not my first language, so some grammatical errors may occur.

//CONTENT WARNING: mild(?) gore, child abuse, slurs/derogatory names, cursing, violence, death


A short child was sitting at the kitchen table, doing his homework in silence. The lone bulb lighting up the room was hanging from the middle of the ceiling, blinking from time to time. The lack of proper lighting was certainly not helping with the overall emptiness and untidiness of the poor excuse of a kitchen. As always, dirty dishes were stacking on top of each other in the sink, some of the bottom ones most definitely having collected enough mold to kill a rodent, if it tried to snack on the food leftovers sitting on the plates. The kid sighed. With the amount of way harder math examples he was forced to do by his parents, the homework was almost trivial, but that did not make it any less boring and monotone.

Suddenly, the front door swung open, the loud thump echoing through the apartment. The child jumped up in his seat, panicked expression on his face. Another series of sounds made it clear, that Father was drunk and currently attempting to get to the kitchen. The kid inhaled at the realization, that there was no way he'll finish all the examples in time. He started scribbling frantically, praying Father will be too drunk to notice the unfinished ones. He curled up in his chair, as father waked into the room, swaying on his feet. He was struggling to balance, yet did not let go of the half empty bottle of beer, that he held, to hang onto furniture. Without a word, he walked towards the table, the overwhelming smell of alcohol making the kid gag. He took some time examining the homework, but after a minute his brows furrowed, his face contorting into a grimace of anger.

"Just what were you doing the whole day, you little cunt?!", he yelled, smashing his hand onto the table. The kid curled up even more in an attempt to make himself looks smaller, so maybe, just maybe, father would forget he was ever there. And as always, it didn't work.

"On the floor.", he ordered, as his face shifted into a grin. The child jumped out of the chair, almost tripping over his own feet. He sat on the floor in the very corner, hugging his legs. He was shaking - it was not the first time this exact scenario happened.

Moments later Father stumbled towards him, in his fist he was clenching a big, shiny knife, perhaps the only clean thing in the kitchen - mother did not like seeing blood (when Father would return late from his job, his clothes and skin covered in blood, she would not get near him until he would change and use the bit of water that they had standing in a bowl to bathe.). Well, 'clean' is probably an overstatement, the last time it has seen a molecule of soap must have been before the child was even born. Or maybe never - the kid never got to learn if it was his birth, that made his parents turn that way or if they just always were like that.

Regardless, Father was now standing over him, casting an ominous shadow (in the moments, when the bulb actually glowed, of course). The kid whined, as light reflected off the metal surface, right into his eyes. It must have sounded extremely like 'mom' to Father, as he stopped his walk, lowering onto the kids eye level.

"What, already missing mom? You were always such a mommies girl.", He mocked, chuckling. "Fortunately, you will not be any longer, not unless you can speak to the dead. Even if you can't, you probably will find a way, won't you, you fucking witch?"

It's not the violence that the kid hated the most about when his father was intoxicated, it was the way, that no matter how much alcohol he had, he could still talk clearly and rationally, always finding a way to best mock and make fun of anyone. Right now, though, it was not the hatred for his fathers qualities, that swarmed the kid's mind. He has always been a sharp one, forced to solve exercises made for older kids, now able to connect the dots and figure out the reason he hadn't seen his mother for a few days right away. He always knew, that his father was capable of murder. Not only capable. There were very few jobs that offered enough pay for one man to support both his family and alcohol addiction. It was always in the back of the child's mind, but never felt as real, as then. Even when he would return under the dim glow of the moonlight, practically soaked in blood, the child would find a way to distract himself from it. But now, as the realization of what has happened dawned upon him, the kid let out a quiet sob, barely audible.

"You know, I was saving your face of scars in hopes I'll be able to sell you out as a whore, but I don't think even the most desperate of men would want to even touch you. C'mon, get your disgusting mug closer and maybe I'll send you to see your mommy after I'm done with you. What do you say, cunt? I'm sure you'd love that, after all it's just a bit of pain in exchange for seeing her.", Father said in a suddenly deep voice, his tone truthfully making him sound like a maniac he was.

The child didn't obey, instead curling up more and pressing his face to his knees, squinting his eyelids shut. Father didn't seem to mind too much, getting closer and closer and forcefully grabbing his child's face, the knife hanging in the air, right above the eye. Just as the knife was about to pierce through the iris, something deep inside the kid snapped. He has endured abuse for the entirety of his life, more scars scattered around his body, than the amount actual meals he had ever eaten. He was no longer afraid. He knew it was all going to end that very evening, he was either going to escape his terrible fate or die trying. He kicked his legs into the mans stomach, simultaneously reaching for the knife. Father let out a surprised groan, loosing his grip on the weapon and falling backwards. The child grabbed it and instinctively LEAPED forward, onto his fathers fallen body. He clenched his eyes and let his hand fall down onto the chest, the knife shining before plunging into the flesh. For a second, the air filled with flying specs of blood and an animal-like shriek. The child was sure Father was attempting to defend himself and throw him off of him, yet he got into kind of a trance, vision blurred and red, no conscious thought in head. Only thing he was focused on was the rhythmic move of his arm. The body has stopped moving long before the child paused, only then realizing what has happened, still failing to grasp the reality of what he has done.

The entire floor- no, the entire room was covered in dark blood. Fathers chest was now closer to a red pulp, rather than a body part. Whiteness of the ribs was sparkling through it, fragments of the broken bones trashing the hole. The child glared into the glossy, unseeing eyes. Even then, they didn't depict fear, but rather an odd expression of smugness. He wondered if the same expression was the last thing victims of the man had seen. It was something only possible for Father, die looking the same way as when inflicting death upon others.