Chapter Seventy Four (Kayden’s Backstory)
Kayden’s POV.
Twenty–two years ago…
I stood still as my father kept hitting me over and over again. I knew he wasn’t going to be satisfied until I shed a tear and showed him that I was in pain, but since that wasn’t going to happen, I prepared to continue getting hit until he would eventually get tired and leave me alone.
“You should never forget whose son you are, you bastard!” he yelled angrily before punching me in the face. Since I didn’t expect the impact of the punch, I staggered backward, and when he realized that I was no longer steady, he did what he did best. He kicked me on my knee, causing me to fall flat,
and that was when it started. Again.
The drunken kicking was a habit my father had whenever he was drunk, upset, or unsatisfied about
something. This time, I was unfortunately the scapegoat of his rage, because he had gotten a call
earlier from one of my teachers who had reported me for failing class.
He started to kick me everywhere he could, and I simply lay there, knowing that there was nothing I
could do to stop him. I closed my eyes at a point, trying not to see his feet come into contact with
my skull, but I could still feel it.
I continued to lie still as my father’s boots collided with my body over and over again. The pain seared through me, leaving me helpless and broken. Each blow felt like a physical manifestation of my father’s
disappointment and anger. I tried to shield myself to protect my body, but it was futile. His rage was relentless.
I could hear his voice, filled with venom and contempt, echoing in the air. “You’re useless, Kayden! I won’t tolerate your incompetence! You’re a disappointment!” His words cut deep, embedding themselves in my consciousness and fueling the self–doubt that had become my constant companion.
As I remained on the ground, my body aching and trembling, my father’s onslaught only intensified. The merciless kicks kept coming, driving me further into a realm of despair and hopelessness. Each strike struck at my core, shattering whatever remnants of dignity or self–worth I managed to hold onto.
In that moment, I remembered my entire life–a life dominated by fear, pain, and inexplicable rage.
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(Kayden’s Backstory)
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The abuse had become my nom, whispering lies that convinced me I was inherently flawed and deserving of the torment that plagued my existence.
Lying there, battered and broken, a voice inside me whispered, “You deserve this. You’re worthless.” It was a voice that had grown louder with each passing day, echoing my father’s cruelty. It was a
voice I had come to believe in with every fiber of my being.
After he was finally satisfied, seeing that I was now bruised and battered, he finally stopped. He
was done, and I was finally free–at least for now.
As my father’s footsteps faded away, a heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the painful moans escaping my lips. I struggled to catch my breath, my body aching as if every inch of my skin had been set ablaze. The familiar taste of blood lingered in my mouth, a bitter reminder of the
blows I had endured.
Sighing in frustration, I pushed myself up from the cold, harsh floor, my muscles protesting with each movement. The pain shot through my body like an electric shock, but I gritted my teeth, refusing to let it consume me. Bruises adorned me like a macabre badge of honor, a visual reminder of my
father’s rage and my weakness.
Looking in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall, I winced at the sight of my battered face. My swollen eyes were starting to turn purple, and the cuts across my cheek were beginning to scab over. It was a sight that pained me not only physically but also emotionally–a constant reminder of how my
life really was.
Drawing in a deep breath, I mentally prepared myself for the next day. My father’s words echoed in my mind: I was to prepare for a guest’s arrival the next morning, and he expected me to hide the evidence of his brutality. I couldn’t afford to let anyone see any of my bruises, or else he’d kill
1. me.
With cautious movements, I rummaged through my wardrobe, searching for clothes that would sufficiently conceal my injuries. Long–sleeved shirts and sweaters–those were my go–to outfits whenever he hit me to the point where my bruises would take days, sometimes weeks, to heal. And I couldn’t afford for anyone to see the truth or get a glimpse of my reality.
Carefully pulling the fabric over my fragile body, I winced at the throbbing ache that accompanied every movement. I took a moment to study my reflection, adjusting the collar to hide the fading bruises on my neck. I looked like an average teenager, just another face in a crowd.
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Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself of the excuse I had prepared football. If anyone asked, I would claim that my face bore the marks of a rough game and that it was nothing serious.
After preparing for the next morning, I sank into my bed, feeling exhausted. As I closed my eyes, attempting to sleep through the pain, the creak of the door broke the stillness. My mother entered, a guilty look etched across her face, her eyes filled with anguish.
“Kayden,” she whispered. “Would you like some painkillers? Maybe it’ll help you sleep.”
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