“Get off him!” he heard his mother cried as he stifled another cry of pain.

He felt tears stinging his own eyes as his father brought the belt down on his body once more. He refused to give in, refused to let even one single cry escape from within his throat. Just let him take the pain, the beatings. It’s better this way—he didn’t think he’d be able to put up with any of his mother’s cries when he did it to her instead of him.

It’s not his fault that his father beats him up constantly. His father gets drunk nearly every weekend and it’s only in the weekends that his nightmares begun. There’s absolutely no way to stop the beatings. Besides, this wasn’t the first time he was flogged.

The pain came again and it snapped him out of his thoughts. He didn’t think he’d be able to feel the pain anymore—his nerves; his body simply got used to the meaning of “pain”. After all, he’d been beaten since he’s as young as three years old.

Before the beatings started, things in the house were smashed for no apparent reasons. Hs father just kept drinking and the furniture-smashing activities kept going—until he saw a new target to vent his bottled-up anger on: his son; his only son. After he’d told his mother about the beatings, his mother brought up the subject to her husband.

Her husband denied it at first but his mother was dead sure after she found her son crying as he cowered in the closet in his room. She kept bringing up the subject to her husband and all too son, it got too much for her husband to bear. She became his target as well. He yells at her, shouts at her and at times, forces her to have sex with him; something in which her son would consider as sexual abuses.

He didn’t care if he gets beater often, just as long as his mother’s safe from that demon. He loves her too much to see her suffer.

“My baby,” his mother sobbed as she saw the welts on the body of her son. “I promise I’ll get you out of this.”

He kept quiet as he felt the belt on his arm; restraining the cry that rose to his throat. He never talked to his father ever since he’s old enough to know that what his father did to him was wrong—ever since he’s five, two years after he started abusing him.

There came several times when he’d had to be send to the hospital, suffering from internal bleeding. His father wasn’t using his belts at that time; he just punched him from all directions, kicking him whenever he could.

He should be thankful because his father wasn’t very drunk that night. If he’s a little bit sober, he uses belts but if he’s seriously drunk, he beats the daylights out of his son.

Back in reality, his father was shouting obscenities at him and his mother stood in one corner of that room, crying.

His world turned black for a few seconds before he managed to compose himself and dragged himself back to consciousness.

“Get away!” his mother cried as she lunged forward and grabbed his father’s arm, dragging him away in the process. She watched as her son collapsed to the cool, marbled floor; watching the blood dripped from a small cut on the left of his forehead. He’s already had enough scars on his body—she felt like her son had just been shipped back from a battlefield.

“Get out of my way, bitch!” her husband shouted. “He deserves it after all.”

“Deserves what? What had he done to deserve this?!”

“He never should’ve been born! He knows full well that he’s gonna get all the beatings!” her husband slurred.

He felt another jolt of pain as the leathery texture of the belt came in contact with his skin. Yet, he remained silent.

“Also, he should remember never to make me angry!” bellowed her husband, kicking his son for effect.

“He did nothing of such!”

“Mom,” her son wheezed from the floor, near her feet. He’s just a bloody mess, with obvious scars and welts and cuts. “Let it go.”

“See?” her husband turned to face her. “You son agrees with me as well.”

“That’s only because I care about her!” he lunged at his father with all his might, punching him in the face as he did so.

“Why, you son of a bitch!” his father threw him off and pushed him away, hard. Hard enough for him to collide with a shelf.

His mother watched in horror as he son sunk to the floor, a trace of blood on the corner of his lips and a tiny pool of blood forming on the floor. It’s obvious that the sharp edges of the shelf had pierced the skin on his back. Silently, she prayed to God to save her son and don’t let him die, not like that anyway.

‘Please, let him live…’ she thought as her right eye tingled with pain, a result of her husband’s punch. She was sure that her husband had given her a black eye but she’s sure that this was nothing compared to the number of bruises, cuts and scars on her son’s body.