Sine i decided to keep writing here, no matter what the reaction from the (few) readers are, i'll keep using it my way. So here's another attempt at narration by Mine Truly (i aint yours. sorry)
There was a way to feel when something wrong was about to happen, something seriously wrong, without evn knowing it. He had developed a series of ways to use his senses as one giant third eye that made him understand the coming of the storm before the first drops of rain. And he was usually right.
It was the smell of the house. All he needed was to get across the door and smell the air. Even after he left, that smell would be engrained in his mind, like a weirdly shaped scar. It was a density inb the air, something acrid and wet. Sticky. It could be the smell of smoke, of beer and wine, of sweat and vomit. But it was non of those specifically. There was something that the bodies of the inhabitants of the house started to sweat out that gave a red flag to his nostrils.
Made him think how close to a bunch of feral beasts they really were. Like a pack of wolves, without the respect or the survival instinct and a taste for abuse a mile long. But still giving out smells that could create panic in the heart of the weakest ones, cayse they knew that when that smell started spreading, pain would be served.
The air smelled that way on a day, when he was twelve. And the whole house was silent. No screming, no crying, nothing.
He had come home from a long refuge at his grandmother house, but she had not so politely told him to go away when the sun came down. She did not like him or any of his family members, including her son, his father. It wasnt that weird that his father was what he was, looking back at his familyt. They were a whole genration of hateful people, who reveled into hurting each others and humiliate the weak ones. They took a few protected ones that were worthy of respect and then tormented the rejects in the name of lovelesness. It made sense that a repulsive family would create a repulsiuve person and would just spit on him just cause he was his son. But that was the only place he could go.
He had to go home, though. And when he opened the door that mixture of smell, humidity and silent tension hit him in the face.
She was crying, in silence. She was on the floor, wrapped up in torn clothes. Her face was swollen. Beaten. A grimace of pain and misery that was almost laughable. He had to hold on the revulsion and snark at how pathetic this all was.
He left, apparently. He was in an insane mood. Barely able to stand, full of sleeping pills and antidepressants, the same he would force him to take some time after. He loved to drug himsle fon those when things werent going his way, while his wife chose to fuel her own demons with beer and cartons of cheap wine.
She didnt know what happened or couldnt really explain. They had a fight about nothing, about how they were not supposed to even exist in the same universe, they spewed disgust at each other, clumsily hit each other and then he just ran to the medicines cupboard and wenjt to town. Then ran away.
The floor under the cupboard was full of empty blisters of stuff he dint even recognize.
He ran after him, fearing an accident, fearing the worse.
He was still in the yard. Inside the car. He approached the vehicle, frightened. Knowing that he shouldnt but somehow had to.
The man looked like you would picture your worse bully to be. He never looked like a pleasant person, but at those times, when the chemicals flooded his head, he just turnede into something else. He lost any form of posture or control of his face or limbs. His flaccid facve became yellow and his liver stains more pronounced. He had greying and balding hair, which wehre greasy and scraggy. Even his goatee looked dirty, with specs of food and drool in it. He didnt stink but it felt like he did. He was like a big fat hateful rat, staring at him with unfocused, angry and hateful eyes. Blodshot.
He entered the car. The man was smirking. Something in his body smelled like rotten flesh and came out through his breath which stabbed the air with every single slurred word
"Is the whore still alive?"
"She's Crying. She's worried"
He laughed. Then he snapped and started the car.
"Where are we going?"
"Since you dont let me die here, we'll die on the road. And youre coming too"
He wanted to throw himnsle fout of the car. He knew that was all talk, he wouldnt have done that. He always talked about killing him and himself but never did it. But what if he crashed? whatr if he ended up on a wheelchair?
The car kept driving, his father laughing and swerving, other cars honking.
He pushed the pedal. They were entering a dirt road, in the middle of the country. It was dark by then. Nothing outside but the remains of junkies and whores. Semen and misery.
"Where are you going"
"I'm going in a dark place and im going to kill you"
"It's not true. You dont have the balls"
"Wanna test me, fag? You came here to cry and beg me to come back, and you wanna be a man, boy? I will DIE and you will die with me! You shoulòdve let me be! If i'm at this point it's just because of you and because i made you with that fiulthy slut!"
How did slepping pills unleash that in himk. It would happen again. Morphine and three cancer opperation and he would be swearing against nurses and doctors, promising to kille them all. How did the man's brain work. What could he do?
He felt tears running down his face. Big mistake. The man Suddenly halted the car. He wouldnt hit him, he never did but....
He started screaming, in a high, weird, raspy pitch. A shriek, made even more sickening by its feminine quality.
"DO NOT CRY! EVER! EVER! MEN NEVER CRY! I WILL CARVE YOUR EYES OUT IF YOU DONT STOP! ARE YOU A FAGGOT!? YOU'RE A MAN! STOP!"
He slapped him. The tears went away, hardly. Silence.
Suddenly he became lucid. Drove back home. For now, it was over. It would get worse.