Go to hell, you fucking faggot.
The words didn’t quite make sense to the boy’s sheltered eight-year-old mind, but he was also smart enough to know that the words weren’t any good—-
Just like what his father had forced him to do.
The boy’s legs started trembling the moment he stepped out to the hallway, and by the time he made it to his bedroom, his heart was pounding so hard and fear was clawing painfully at his guts.
After clumsily locking the door, he dashed to the en-suite bathroom and threw up on the sink, chest heaving hard. Any moment, he expected his father or mother to come after him—-
But there was just silence.
And darkness.
Too much darkness, outside and inside of him, and the boy wondered numbly if it were something he would have to live with for the rest of his life.
The boy swayed on his feet when his stomach finally settled down. He badly wanted to cry, but he could not. He had lost count of the number of times he had received a thrashing every time he made the mistake of shedding tears in front of his father.
Pale, tense, and dry-eyed, the boy walked back to his bedroom and reached for the phone.
The call to the emergency hotline connected immediately, and the boy said shakily in Italian, “My name is Marcus Ravelli.”
The woman at the other end of the line gasped, recognizing the famous surname. When the boy finished providing his address, the woman asked carefully, “What would you like to report?”
The boy didn’t answer right away.
What should he report?
That his father told him he would become a man if he touched himself – and that he would be very angry with Marcus if he didn’t?
That at first he didn’t understand why his parents were naked, and his mother bound in chains?
That everything his parents did made him feel strange?
That in the end he had done what his father did—-
Touching himself——
And now he didn’t know what was right or wrong anymore.
The boy hung up.
Even so, only minutes passed when the boy heard the wail of sirens.
Papa would be mad at him, the boy thought.
Curling himself into a ball, he covered his ears, knowing it was only a matter of time—-
Heavy fists suddenly pounded his door, and the boy jerked.
It was his Papa, and he was calling Marcus all sorts of names.
The boy pressed his hands closer to his ears, but it was no use. He could still hear the sound of his father’s murderous rage, and the boy started hyperventilating. As the pounding worsened, his lips started to move in silent prayer, reciting the words that his grandmother had taught him.
Outside his room, a loud fight ensued, and angry voices filled the hallway. Someone started breaking down the door.
The boy squeezed his eyes shut and prayed harder.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil...