Injustice Surrender

A/N: Okay, so this story is basically one of my more morbid ones. It's a tragedy about a child who is abused during his life and then becomes an angel after death. Won't give you too much more info otherwise it'll give the ending away. But it's been known that I can be very cruel to my characters (Take Confined Tolerance for isntance) during these stories so if I happen to do something that is really inhumane to one of them just know that I can't help it and I do it becuase it makes the story mine. I can easily say though that I'm proud of this one. I don't like to brag, I'm far too modest for that. But all in all this story has a lot of emotion written in and so many thoughts that can only be written out. I hope that you enjoy and review.

Chapter One

Why is it that when the divine surrender their majesty they break? What is it that compels them to plummet to the ground only to have someone catch them? Is it the release that would come from dieing? Or is it the hope that where they lay rest the gods will look on in sorrow and commemorate their justice? If you don’t know, I do. I know exactly why stars burn out, why humans say that they have witnessed the slaying of one of Heaven’s creatures. I know because I am one of the beings they speak of. I suppose to tell you why it is that I’m laying in a pool of my own blood in the rain I would have to start from the beginning. My name is Crysc. And I am a fallen angel who descended from grace.

Some say that it rains when angels cry. Can it be believed that we weep for lost souls? Our unshed tears that touch the ground—where they land new hope is created. We are then condemned to guard what life we bore. We know the truth. Our eyes see through all the lies and unforgiven transgressions. What we end up giving life to are sinners, monsters of unsatisfied taste that feed on others in order to survive. That’s the reason angels die. Almost as unbearable as punishment, we cry because we can’t understand how our purity can bring about great destruction. Our fear drives us. Then our sadness tears off our wings so that when we jump we can fall instead of fly. That’s what my angel did when he left me to face my innocent life by myself. Strange though, I was guilty of no human nature or tainted accusation. My innocence was as pure as any child’s should have been.

I was born into the human world of wealth. My father was a multi-billionaire who had so much daily income that he could have given everyone in our city a hundred dollar bill to wipe their ass with and still have enough to buy a company of chain corporations. He was a busy man who was never home and when he was never acknowledged my existence. In his eyes, I was a useless mistake that only showed up to inherit a fortune. That description was much like my mother who had been a stripper. They had had a one-night stand that presented them with a son. At the age of six my mother had died—I would like to think of it more that my guardian angel committed suicide and ended up landing on her—and I found myself on Father’s doorstep. Angrily he had accepted me, more or less to save face with the public.

I suppose I didn’t mind all that much: him not being around. My mother had never been around leaving me to grow up into a detached child. I never spoke, I never cried, not even at her funeral, and I never grew fond of anything. I looked at objects and people like things that were just there but eventually would disappear. I didn’t have any friends and I didn’t want people to acknowledge my presence. I was happy being the one person that was invisible. It was the only life that I knew which is why I was always content in my isolated salvation. I would think about distant nonsense while staring at nothing intently. My mind was always preoccupied with small things such as why people die and who do you blame when no one is around? I imagine I thought the most about what kind of feelings I should have. I didn’t understand what love was and why people cried. And often I would just pretend that some people knew and others didn’t.

It was on a daily basis where I would just stay in bed, awake, and think. I would hear the staff gossiping about my father and talking about me as if I wouldn’t hear them when they stood outside my door. One maid to another, they would mouth their pity and think of me as a hollow child. In all logic, they thought I should be angry with my father and sad for his absence. Why bother? Even if I knew how it wouldn’t change anything. My world would still be empty and he would still hate me.

I never thought of my early years as punishment. It wasn’t until my father started to watch me closely. At the age of twelve I was an ascending student who had already graduated from high school and was three years into a four-year college. My silence proved to be an advantage unlike those who always needed a phone or someone to listen in order to survive. I had been fascinated by the many unanswered questions that plagued my mind. I would study day and night, teaching myself the ways of the scientist, mathematician, philosopher, alchemist, literary, politician, business man, engineer, technician, and most importantly human. Most people couldn’t believe that I had taken such knowledge that takes people years to learn and accumulated it in only months. I had no distractions in life—my only purpose was to study. But I guess most adults were too blind to notice. I never lost sight of my goal though. The reason I had driven myself to genius was because I wanted to understand human nature. I wanted to know why I was different.

Eventually my fame caught up to me and all of a sudden my father was proud to have a son. He happily announced to the world that I would inherit his empire and carry on a nation-wide legacy. I understand that he was using me to better his name, but I didn’t care. My objective was still to be had and far from obtained. I suppose this was because he wanted to know me. Father would pull me out of my room and away from my studies. We would spend hours in his room. At first he had tried talking to me like a parent should. My lack of attention and detached interest soon caused him to stop. He continued to want my company though. His piercing brown eyes would stare at me like a predator. I would remain unchanged and sometimes it seemed as though his glare was directed at a rock. Then he started studying me. He looked at my slender frame, deep green eyes, night black hair that fell over my eyes and barely touched my shoulders, and my soft, lightly tanned skin. I wasn’t pale but I wasn’t dark enough to even be called white. My skin was an unheard of, nonhuman shade. I was told by many that it was the foundation of my divine beauty. Beautiful was the word they always used. I was lithe and gorgeous like a girl and even had a slight grace to my actions. The only masculine properties were my hair and eyes. My black locks that lacked the shine and gracefully quality of a girl’s and also my eyes, which weren’t big or soft, but frozen and emotionless, that seemed to distinguish me.

He would often run his fingers through my soft hair and tell me that it felt like icy silk. Father’s hands would run down my face and caress my cheeks. I didn’t know what he was doing. I just presumed that this is how adults acted towards children. The petty touches and compliments continued on for two years while he exploited my abilities and knowledge. Since the day I had graduated from college he had me work with him. I found it quite surprising how little he actually knew about business. It almost sickened me to think that I was in the shadow of an inferior man. At fourteen, I had little vision for the future and concentrated on the present. My studies had almost slowed to a complete stop. Father had me working day and night and only if lucky would I get a few hours of sleep. I don’t think I minded having something to do. But what I hated were the meetings that had become more and more frequent since I started showing up. Twelve men, aside from my father, would gather in a room to discuss nothing and just stare at me. Their ugly eyes looked at me with hunger and something else that I couldn’t identify. What were those looks suppose to mean?

My beauty had since doubled in two years and I would like to think that they were just admiring the sight of me. I wouldn’t be distracted though. My sickened disgust for the way my father’s ignorance did business soon started showing. I helped less and less only to watch him fall from power. Oh, how the mighty fall. But I wasn’t pleased with the mere conquest of just his humiliation. In that point in time, I wanted what all humans eventually long for: to eliminate all obstacles in my way. So, within my ability, I began to run the companies. I made business transactions and began purchasing stock behind my father’s back. Little by little I would increase my hold until finally I reached a percentage that would never allow anyone to overthrow me—51%. Six months after I began to work for my father, I owned 75% of his empire. I did what I had to get as far as I did without getting noticed. All good things must come to an end though.

At first, I dismissed it as nothing. But when he began to go through company records and my personal files I realized that he had found out. It wasn’t a surprise though. I had known that eventually someone would squeal. My only disappointment was that he hadn’t caught me sooner. Honestly, it’s no fun playing a game with someone that doesn’t even know they’re playing. It was then when my mistakes came back to bite me. Maybe I should have developed some aspect of fear in my youth, with always being alone and watching people look at me like I wasn’t supposed to be alive, but I never did. That’s the reason I hadn’t seen what was to come. But now that I think about it, would I have done anything different had I known? That moment was the foundation for a turning point in my life. So who’s to say…?

Father had called me to his room, as usual, for another one of our father-son talk things. But it was different. I remember thinking that the moment I walked in. I sat down on the same chair across from him as I had done for the past two years. He, already waiting for me in his chair, sat with one leg over the other and his hands locked together in his lap. He wasn’t smiling like he usually was. Father just stared at me indifferently. A few minutes passed and our common silence was broken when he finally confronted me about my actions. “What did you hope to achieve by claiming what was going to be yours anyway?” His deep voice had seemed thunderous in the quiet room.

He knew that I wasn’t going to answer. Father probably thought that I was incapable of talking. I just looked at him with little conviction. He should know damn well what I was doing.

“I knew,” he began, running his hand through his sleek black hair, “that when you started working you would challenge me.” A gentle smile graced his lips and happiness shown in his eyes. “I am proud that you were so smart with what you did. But you went farther than I ever expected you to. Now there are penalties for your deceit.” In an instant his soft smile had turned into an evil grin and what happiness shown in brown orbs became that same hunger driven look that so many others had given me. What the hell was that look suppose to mean!? Father stood and walked around behind me. He leaned down and cupped my face. His thumb ran down my cheek and over my lips. Leaning in close to my ear, his tongue circled my earlobe and his hoarse, husky voice drifted into my mind. “I will show you how punishment is dealt in the business world.”

This moment had been building since I began my conquest. I had messed with a big dog and now he was going to bite back. Confused, I jerked away from him and stood. I turned and looked at his unchanged grin and devilish eyes. Why couldn’t I see what that was? Was it some unknown emotion that glimmered there beyond brown orbs?

“You truly are an empty person, aren’t you? Not an emotion on your face or a sense of fear in your eyes. Yes, your eyes.” He stood up straight and removed the jacket of his business suit. “You haven’t mine or your mother’s eyes. Your black hair is mine and your beauty is hers. Yet you seem much more divine than either of us.” With a single hand he unbuttoned his dress shirt and, taking it off, put it on the chair, exposing his bare chest and stomach. He was a fit man, only thirty-two, with a broad chest and flat stomach.

I stared at him, unable to understand what he was getting at. Fear? Should I have been scared? My eyes were cast down and I looked at the ground. God must be punishing me, I thought. Why else would I lack something that I’m supposed to have? I heard him step towards me but didn’t meet his gaze. Punishment. Every action has a consequence and the greater the effect the worse the punishment. I had understood that principle since I was young. Now I would accept my defeat.

Father grasped my chin and made me look into his eyes. “Lay on the bed,” he told me. When I didn’t move he grabbed my shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. “Go on.”

My next fatal mistake had been that I decided to receive my punishment. Without hesitation I did what he told me to. I laid on his massive mattress, not thinking that there was anything wrong. I watched with slight interest as he took off his shirt and started to release the belt around his hips. The leather strap fell to the floor. Then I noticed something that I had always ignored. There was a bulge in his pants and the source was soon visible as he pulled his pants off. Father was fully aroused, his member bleeding with desire—wanting to find the pinnacle of divine intervention to where he would be granted release. My stern gaze and emotionless visage did not falter as he approached. I didn’t know why he disrobed, but I didn’t know what he wanted to do either. Not a thought ran through my mind as I stared with curiosity.

“You’re not aware of the power you have over people.” Father sat down beside me on the bed and ran a hand down my face. “I want to take that from you. Your innocence, purity, emptiness, and screams will be mine.” He then grabbed my shirt and tore it down the middle—exposing me to his vicious eyes. I had jumped, startled by this action, but did not move. He nodded his head slightly as if to tell me that it would have been wrong to move. Slowly, he began placing kisses and bites on my neck down to my chest. He stopped to admire my soft skin and then took my mouth into a kiss. He forced his tongue into my mouth and I tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let go. I felt his organ explore my passage. Finally he let go and watched me sit up and back away from him. He licked his lips and grinned at me. “You taste so sweet, Crysc. So intoxicating to the point where I want to devour you.”

My features were no longer plain. I somehow saw the carnivorous gleam that was directed towards me and felt, for the first time, some sense of discomfort. I was perplexed by this new revelation that had once seemed utterly stupid. But now I had a slight hint of respect towards it, knowing that my body was trying to isolate—defend—itself. But why? Why was I acting out of instinct when all my life I had planned every move?

I had never thought of my father as a cruel man. He had never physically or mentally abused me. All the years of neglecting attention towards my adolescent youth was never seen by me as a punishment. Even now I don’t understand the lust of men and why he did what he did. They say that you reap what you sow. Did that mean that I deserved to be “disciplined”? Had I driven my father to madness?

“You look surprised, Crysc. Don’t you trust me? Do you believe that I would hurt you?” His grin continued to gleam in malicious brilliance. His brown eyes continued to long for something that I could give. But I didn’t know what it was that he wanted.

I didn’t want to admit it, but I was more than surprised. I was… I don’t know what it was. Scared? Horrified? I backed up even more and stopped when I was at the edge of the bed. For once I wanted an escape but couldn’t find one. I wasn’t able to run away. I was scared though. My first experience in fright was at the hands of a man who I didn’t actually know much about.

He held his hand out to me and I stared at it, not really wanting to touch him. I was generally a person who hated to be touched and now he was asking me to subject myself to that? No, I wouldn’t. I did nothing but stare, not with fright anymore—however new the feeling was to me—but with my plain emotionless eyes that never held warmth or welcome.

“Stubborn child,” he had whispered. “You’re defiant, just like your mother had been. But in the end she was begging me not to stop. Unfortunately for you, she had known what would happen. You, on the other hand, are unaware. That in itself is proof of your innocence.” His hand fell to the bed. He stared at me for long moments, just watching. It was a game of endurance. He was expecting me to break and do something. Father should have known me better though. I simply made eye-contact and never looked way.

With a quick glimpse I looked at his member. It was hard as a rock and dripping with precum. I was only knowledgeable about his need through reading I had done in school. Yet never before had I wondered about my sexuality or had any intention of discovering the forbidden pleasures of intimacy. But what was causing my father to be erect? I didn’t know what the cause was, never having experienced it myself, and my reading never explained it—only the necessity for its release.

Brown eyes directed at my lower half and gleamed with malicious hunger. To me it almost seemed like he was disappointed. When had I ever actually disappointed him? It was impossible… Yet the sting of less than satisfaction was apparent in his eyes. His grin was still there though, never faltering, never changing, and never disappearing. Perhaps I should have been paying attention to other things rather than his eyes. If I had, I wouldn’t have missed the fluid motion in which he grabbed my arm and jerked me towards him. In an instant, I was on my back, in the middle of the bed, under him where I had been at the beginning. Once again I was at the mercy of a heavier being holding me down. I tried to struggle. I kicked but was unable. I punched but my arms were pinned. My attempts at escape were useless, unable to move his form from on top of me.

Father held me down with one hand and undid my pants with the other. He took his time, relishing in my struggles. When he finally did get my pants unzipped, he released me quickly and tore off the offending garment. Before I had a chance to get away he was holding me again, restraining the tries that might have freed me had I been stronger. I almost cried out. I suddenly had the urge to vocalize my discomfort—but I didn’t. I would keep my silence.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you. Such a shame that you are the way you are—had I ever told you, you wouldn’t have understood.” His eyes softened for a moment and he just smiled with knowing denial.

Had always wanted me? What was he talking about? He looked at me with such sadness for a moment, as though what he was going to do would tear him apart. My father was a difficult man to understand, yet I began to believe that this was who he really was. A broken person who struggled with logic and the need to maintain respect—that was what my eyes and no one else’s saw. But did that give him the right to do such things?

He leaned down and assaulted my neck with rough bites. I tried so hard to get him off but couldn’t. Father’s right hand made its way down my body and to my navel. He pushed on my stomach softly as if testing to see if I had some kind of reflex. When he was satisfied that I wouldn’t do anything he continued his actions and eventually made it to my crotch, his hand cupping my sac. With one last painful nibble, he withdrew from my neck and looked me in the eyes before covering my mouth with his. Futilely, I tried to turn away but he wouldn’t let me. His so called kiss was suffocating—he pried my mouth open and invaded it with his tongue, exploring and sickening me. I had had enough though. In a bold attempt of stupidity to free myself, I pulled on his tongue and bit down with as much force as I could.

Father screamed and jerked away. I could taste blood in my mouth as he let go. Before I had a chance to flee though, he turned back to me, blood dripping from the edges of his lips. His grin was gone. The softness in his eyes that I had seen was swallowed by raging hatred. He was furious and it was apparent. He grabbed my by the arm and jerked me towards him. I resisted, insistently clawing at the bed for some kind of support to help me pull away. Father had grown tired of my defiance though. Pulling his hand back, he lashed out at me and struck me across the face. It was such a powerful blow that I whimpered and lay still. My hand made its way to my face and cradled the abused flesh of my cheek. While I silently writhed in pain, Father lay me out flat on my back and spread my legs apart. “I was going to be gentle so that you might enjoy this. But it’s more fun for me this way. You should have been a good boy, Crysc. This will hurt, I promise you that.”

I’m not sure I was actually listening to what he said. For some reason, as I felt the burning sting from his strike, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was feeling this way. No one had ever hit me before. Now that I experienced it, it just seemed to dawn on me that pain cut me like a knife. It would have been the same concept to disturb a child only to see them scared of it for the rest of their life. Would I now be scared of it too? My mind was so preoccupied with its continuous thinking that I didn’t notice when my father positioned himself at my entrance. The last thing I remember before screaming out in pain was the brutal thrust that penetrated my body and tore me apart.

He groaned and moaned out in ecstasy. “You have such a sweet, innocent, soft voice. I’m going to show you more love than your mother ever got.”

The pain was torturous and suffocating, constricting my lungs and choking me of the voice that I never used. Father gave me no time to adjust to his huge member as he began moving—pulling out and pushing back in. I continued to scream with ever move he made. It felt as though my body was on fire. Yet my misery seemed to fuel his actions. He moved faster and started to thrust in deeper. My cries grew louder in volume and I wondered how no one in the house heard. But it hit me that no one knew what I sounded like so they might just think that Father had hired another boy for “entertainment”. I struggled to push him away but was still pinned down by his form. Tears streaked my face and my once plain features were contorted into a horrendous expression of deep suffering and dieing prayer. I didn’t know how much longer I could take it, so I did something that I never thought would happen—I begged. “Please, Father, stop!” I screamed.

For a moment he did stop. He stared at me as though he finally understood the pain he was causing me. His brown eyes raked down my tear-stained face, heaving chest, and then at the blood that was coming from between my legs and tainting his bed. The look on his face was truly sincere. He leaned down and just hugged me for a moment while I continued to cry. “Crysc…” But then, as though he remembered some horrible crime that I had committed, he continued his brutal thrusts.

My voice echoed off the walls—I could hear the anguish in my own screams. Why couldn’t he? “No!” This was the first time that I ever spoke. “Stop, please!” My first words were torn from me in order to beg for the end. Yet my cries fell on deaf ears. Father ignored all the sounds and concentrated on his own desires. He didn’t care. He had never wanted me around and now he was showing the extent of his hatred towards me.

His “love” seemed to last an eternity. Half way through my voice had gone and my throat burned almost as bad as the rest of my body. But finally he thrust in for the last time and released within me. Unconsciously I was disgusted but was in too much pain to express it. Father pulled out once he had rode out the last waves of his passion. Once he released me I curled up into a ball and tried to will the hurt to go away. I didn’t have the strength to move and was afraid that if I did that he would hit me again.

I’m not sure how long we lay there, he catching his breath and me trying not to asphyxiate. When Father finally did move I instinctively flinched and closed my eyes tightly, hoping that I was safe within my own mind. No such luck. As he shifted his weight I felt the bed move—he was reaching towards me. His hand grasped my shoulder and turned me to face him. It was quiet for a moment and Father didn’t move. I couldn’t even hear his breathing. I opened my eyes to see what he was doing only to find out that he was staring at me. To my utter horror his member was still hard and dripping. I grimaced as I looked at the thing. His erection was covered in my blood and it served to remind me of my pain. His organ now represented the object of my fear and agony. Father had set out to destroy my life and he had. Now I know what the dark gleam in people’s eyes were. Now I know what everyone wanted and thought about. Now I know what it felt like to be tainted. I felt disgusted feeling the violation. A new wave of tears streamed down my face as I realized that this is what had broken my mother. I had heard stories that before I was born she had been happy. But I had never seen her smile—never seen her enjoy life. I understood now. He had murdered her.

“Your mother also cried,” he said, wiping away one of my tears with his index finger. “You look so much like her. You even feel like her. When I first heard that she was pregnant I was happy. She was such a wonderful woman, beautiful and always smiling. I wanted to start a family with her, save her from that life. But when my father heard about my plan he threatened to have her killed if I pursued her. So I didn’t. In time, though, I began to believe when he told me that she just wanted money and would be my down fall. I believed it when I was around my father. But when I was around her I could never trust anything that old man said. Despite his disapproval, I would give her money and visit her every month, to let her know that I cared. When you were born she made me promise not to come around. She said that it would be better if you weren’t introduced to something that you could never have. Your mother never smiled again. When I found out that she died I was angry at my father and myself. I could have had her. Instead I got you. At first the sight of you disgusted me because you’re her very image. But now that you’ve grown I can see that you’re not her—you’re some one more beautiful than the gods. And yet I don’t see the heritage. You don’t act like either of us did. Maybe that’s why I can see you as someone else.”

I glared at him, not caring about what he had to say. What my mother and he went through was his problem. It had nothing to do with me so why the hell wouldn’t he shut up?

“You know what though, it doesn’t matter who I see you as. You were the reason we couldn’t be happy so now you’ll spend the rest of your life making it up to me.” Without warning he put one knee on each side of my head and straddled my chest, his cock only centimeters away from my mouth. “If you bite down I will make sure that you never have time to rest before some one else fucks your tight ass.” His member hovered over my mouth, threatening with its enormous size.

He had stripped me of the beauty that I had once seen in myself. I didn’t know emotions—that seeming to vex me most—but I could admire beauty. Now it was gone—I could now only see myself as an insect that had been used.

Father ran his fingers down his body and took hold of his passion. Closing the distance, he pushed his member towards my mouth, rubbing the tip of his head against my lips only to watch the precum smear on me. “Open up,” he said. I couldn’t breathe as it was with his weight crushing my chest. So I did what he asked, hoping to get some air. As soon as I did though he plunged his erection into my mouth and down my throat. I choked, surprised by his actions. With little success I tried to spit the organ out of my mouth. I could taste my blood and wanted to gag. “Start sucking.” He thrust once to motivate me to do something. At first I choked but then learned to suck without the need for air. I had no idea what I was doing but could tell when I had done a good job and when he wasn’t pleased.

Father buried his hands in my hair and tugged painfully on my black follicles. He moaned with a hoarse voice and began to thrust into my mouth. I prayed to any god that he was almost done—I couldn’t take it much longer. When he finally did cum I hated it more than what it took to get there. He placed his hands on the headboard and with as much force as he could manage, thrust into my throat. I felt his cock tighten and release. I couldn’t spit out his seeds as they were shot down my throat. Father pulled out before he was spent and watched his cum shoot on my face.

He grinned evilly at me and stood. “You will die serving me, Crysc.” Then without a second glance he walked away.

I sat up and looked at my violated body. My blood was still coming from my entrance; bruises had appeared on my hips where he had held me to better thrust. An enormous mirror stood opposite the bed and I looked at my reflection. My cheek was turning purple. Tears, blood, and cum were mixed together and running down my face. I had been beaten. What I hoped to achieve had, in the end, destroyed me. All my work, all my effort had been wasted on a cause that would never happen. I stayed there on his bed for a long time, just crying.

After my fist rape I began to forget things. What I had learned and knew by heart seemed so difficult to understand. This dissipation of knowledge affected my whole life. Once my father noticed I was fired. I was useless and had only one purpose left—I was his toy. So often and quickly I forgot my knowledge that it was replaced by horrid memories of when Father called me to his room. Even then I couldn’t understand how a parent’s love could be so violating. I didn’t understand that what he was doing was wrong.

The first moment of my new enlightenment was on an ordinary day inside my room. As under normal circumstances, the maids stood outside my room gossiping about the same old thing. It had been six months since Father had started abusing my body. I began to stay in my room more often than before. I hardly ate and still never spoke—yet Father continued to tear away my screams and pleas. I had constant nightmares and would wake up crying. Sometimes I prayed that I would never wake up. My dreams were a replica of my reality, but at least I could control a dream. So, on that particular day I was rather surprised about how the topic of conversation was the same—but not the content. I will never forget what they said that day for it had major consequences that I knew to be my fault.

“Poor Young Master.”

“Yeah, this morning he woke up crying again.”

“As much as we feel sorry for him there’s nothing that can be done.”

“But it’s wrong the way he’s being treated. Crysc has never been a social boy but he is a nice kid. No parent has the right to rape their child!”

They knew. Everyone had known this whole time. But why didn’t they say anything? Was it wrong? She had said that raping a child was wrong. Did that mean that I was subjecting myself to something illegal?

“You can’t forget that our employer is rich. When you’ve got that much money the law is hardly a problem.”

“Who cares?! We have to do something. Let’s go to the police.”

“No, just get that thought out of your head!”

“But, Sister, he’ll die if we don’t. He hardly eats and his father calls him more often. Have you seen him? He’s so white and weak—he keeps getting thinner. And his screams. So much pain can be heard if we just listen…”

“I know but he’s far too powerful of a man.”

“Then let’s talk to Crysc about it. If he makes a case there is no amount of money that can overthrow the testimony of the victim.”

“No. We should just leave it alone. If his father found out we were even thinking about it then we’d be dead for sure.”

She wasn’t wrong about dieing. Two days later they found both maids at the bottom of the bay. Cops had put if off as suicide but I knew better. Father had felt threatened by their conversation. Then I understood what was happening. My body was being used and accordance to the law it was wrong. So could they be right about a testimony? After this understanding I kept replaying their words in my mind. Each day after that first encounter the rapes that followed became harder to bear. My body was holding out somehow but my mind was far from saving. I couldn’t remember or understand. But I was trying to think of a way out. If I could get rid of my father then that would be my greatest conquest and the absolute retribution.

I was fifteen when I finally decided to go through with my stupidity. I hadn’t planned it out, not containing the mentality to formulate such an unmistakably flawless plan, nor had I considered the consequences. I was blind to failure, thinking that there was no possibility of me losing to my father. But now I look back and wonder how I could forget about my first defeat. It seemed so clear that I had truly been destroyed from the inside out…

It was at night, right after my little visit with Father, and I still had my fresh bruises and was covered in blood. Instead of heading to my room I limped out of the house and started towards the police department. From our house, the police station was on the other side of the city. Needless to say it would take me a long time to get there. I decided to take the back alleys and stay away from populated streets. As it was, I was limping and could barely walk without support. I didn’t want anyone to find me and take me to the hospital before I was done with what I had set out to do.

When you fail to see something that is truly obvious then maybe you deserve to be punished for it. This was my second offence against my father and just like before he had a way of knowing. I hadn’t even made it half way when a black car drove up beside me and pulled me in. I didn’t scream or panic, knowing who it was, when I found myself seated across from my father. I was afraid. What would he think? Did he know what I was doing? I closely watched his eyes for some indication, but never got one. His face was plain, without emotion, and his posture calm, relaxed. He stared at me the whole ride home, saying absolutely nothing. When we arrived at the mansion he helped me out. Father then noticed the extreme difficulty I was having walking and picked me up. I was surprised but didn’t fight the support his arms gave. He carried me into the house and to his room. I never protested. I would eventually be punished for all that I had done so I might as well get it over with.

Father placed me on the bed and went to the bathroom. He came back with a damp cloth and began wiping the sweat from my face. His kindness was confusing me. Why was he being so kind? I couldn’t think. I just didn’t understand anymore…

“I thought you were smarter than that, Crysc.” He looked at me with sadness and disappointment. “I really did break you, didn’t I? You had such promise and by now you should understand how you went wrong back then. But it seems that I’ve done you more damage than expected. Now look at you, one of the smartest minds in the world became the child that it never was.”

A child? I was never a child. From the earliest years I was seen as nothing. I had no friends to play with, no love to open me up, and no parents to care for me. How is it that he believes my mind regressed to something that is completely unknown to me? I stared at him and shook my head slightly.

“You poor thing…”

A year passed without incident. I would like to believe that my father had finally understood the damage he had done. But in all the logic of a grown man that had had the world in his hands since birth it was probably impossible to really ever understand what kind of damage such abuse could cause to a child. He had been raised to destroy the world around him in order to succeed. I was not so strong as to understand this though. But nonetheless, I was thankful for the long months that gave me peace. Yet when the year ended it became a sad sight indeed to see what I had become.

With each passing month my beauty surpassed that of any woman. My father took great notice of that fact too. He often called me to take pictures with him for the newspaper and had portraits and grand paintings done of me in different poses. He was trying to capture my soul in those captions that were written on the bottom of each shot. I almost yearned to have that happen. In my mind it would mean the freedom to be suspended in an image that wasn’t broken and weak like I was. So miraculous a thing that to even stare at it would make it shatter and whisper the long forgotten traces of the person that I was and now could never reach again, my own isolation of the great pain that wracked my body and tore me apart. Even though Father hadn’t touched me in a long time I was still so very afraid of him—nightmares haunting me and the constant ache in my stomach taunting me.

It was my love for this that I made my last mistake. I had grown attached to looking at the eyes of the boy that stared back at me from the painting, alone in an image that brought out the true beauty and innocence of my features. He was someone that I could not be. His sadness was always present and his majesty always composed into an ounce of divinity. Even though I realized that it was me who had given life to that emotion I also knew that soon I would change from that to something else. Nothing remains the same and throughout my miserable existence this was the one thing that I really wanted to keep: the proof of my inability. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? For someone to want to know that others can see the helplessness in your eyes and the pain in your tears is unheard of, but let me try to enlighten you. Father had taken away from me the one thing I had that no one had given me—misunderstanding. I was a genius but ignorant to the world. He gave me something in return—amnesty. I was guilty of thinking that the world was far more complicated and simple. People look all the more beautiful when they are covered in blood, their blood. And even though it had been wiped away I could still see the red that stained my skin in pure white and the scars that were visibly nonexistent. But at least with those wounds on me people wanted me around. I felt like I had a purpose. But in the end I outlived my purpose.

This was the day that marked the sixteen years of my life. Nothing to be excited about or even notice that it had come. But I had wanted something that day. I remember now what it was and why I needed it. The object of my desire had been the portrait of my mother. Some time before I had been allowed to view Father’s private collection of paintings and that’s when I had seen her smiling face, so fragile and alive, hanging on the wall. She was alive and happy, something that I had never been. I never loved my mother or father but on impulse I recognized all the beauty of her captured time as a symbol of what I could have been. I hated it. Since the days of my constant rapes I had grown to learn hate for some things and pity for others. I knew that I was a creature to be pitied and I hated knowing that no one did. In just the same way I hated that she could smile and I was miserable because of her mistakes. I would wipe away that smile that was always there, always testing my sanity.

I had found my refuge from Father’s watchful eye in the confines of the grand hall where all his precious paintings were stored. It was early in the morning so I knew that he was still asleep, resting up for a big meeting that he had with the executives of his company. The opportunity that had presented itself led me to Mother’s portrait. I had with me a bottle of cooking oil and a lighter that I had found in the kitchen. I stared at the familiar face and saw no reason to feel joy or sadness. She meant nothing to me as a person and even less as a parent. She had died a long time ago and this was the only memory keeping her here. I was going to set her free and show her that she was not worthy to remain in the eyes of life. The portrait hung some twelve feet above the ground and was quite enormous, fourteen feet long and ten feet wide. I had overheard my father saying that soon it would be placed on display for the world to see. I wouldn’t allow that. With as little conviction as possible, I threw the glass bottle of oil at the painting. It shattered against the force of the impact and the stone wall supporting the frame of the picture, glass raining down like an angry punishment from heaven under the pretenses of sacrilege. Oil seeped into the paints and made it run—flow like a river of timed ending—causing the beauty to flow away and mix in a variance of colored blood that signified the death of my mother. I watched in astonishing awe at the horrific act that I had committed. But even in a state of regression my mother remain who she was and smiled down at me almost in gratitude for my benevolence.

I looked at my hand and studied the relevance as I clicked the spark that lit the flame. It danced from side to side and hung on its metal prison which sustained its life. The glow seemed auspicious and begging for greater purpose than to fade away. Vibrant heat touched the edges of my hand and I knew then that it was meant to be. My eyes scanned the wall where the oil and paint ran down, almost reaching the floor. Sadly I walked to the wall and touched the liquid satin that was once art. Was this also the way that I would end? I remember thinking this and almost wanting to gather it in my hands and hold it for all eternity. If this was also my existence then I would let the gods decide if I was worthy to remain in my grace. After a moment of contemplating it, I closed the distance between the oil on the wall and the lighter in my hand. In a glorious rode of fire the oil was lit aflame and ran up the wall, tracing the many veins that had been sketched out with the flowing paints. I graciously stepped back and was witness to the scorching lines that bled away as the fire consumes the fragile texture of the painting. Tears fell in lit ashes to the ground and quietly, without scream or struggle, they landed like the petals of a black rose, becoming nothing more than refuse.

“This is the closure that I give to you…” I threw the lighter into the falling ashes and watched until all that was left of the marvel was the destiny of all man—quiet unrest. Satisfied with the product of my rebellion, I walked from the hall back to my room. I stared at the countless faces that lined the walls of my house, suspended in their silent prisons. The frames of the pictures had appeared like cells when I was young. I had imagined being trapped in them, a room where no matter how loud you screamed no one would even hear you. A trap in which you could bleed and scream for the ultimate release of a quiet confinement—that’s what I saw in the many dieing expressions. And I realized that I would end up the same in my portraits.

“What have you done?!” The yelling at my door didn’t startle me when a few hours later Father came to find out my guilt. “That was the only painting of your mother that I had. Why would you burn it?” He didn’t hit me; he didn’t even seem angry—only surprised. His fingers reached up and stroked the softness of my cheek. I wasn’t afraid. This was my ultimate defiance and I would not become guilty with regret or remorse.

A/N: Please let me know what you think and don't be afraid to correct me on any spelling and grammatical errors that I might have made.