Scream

He doesn't remember when it started. He just remembers that for the past four years of his life, he'd been blamed for every thing.

He didn't ask for this; But he supposed no one ever did. What sick person would want this life?

It was constant. It happened all the time.

His mother's birthday?
A hard punch in the stomach and a slap to the face.

His parents anniversary?
A shove toward the wall and nothing to eat for two days.

Davis wasn't around anymore. He got an art scholarship and only came down to little Massachusetts from Maine on holidays.

He was the only one that was able to give Joshua even the littlest bit of happiness.

-----

Young Joshua didn't want to think about what would happen when his father got home.

Today was Monday, which meant he had work. And work meant stress. Which in turn meant drinking, and that meant Joshua more than likely wouldn't sleep tonight.

He never slept on those nights. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes he would see his mother; Her body cold and lifeless in the hospital bed.

And then his mind would move to his father; Back before the beatings started. Back when he actually gave a shit.

But then his mind would take a turn for the worse.

He'd see his father stumble through the front door, a beer in his hand.

Joshua would run to his room and shut the door, sitting against it to hold it shut because there was no lock anymore.
Then his father would slam the door against his back, and a sharp pain would work it's way from the end of his spin and to his neck, making him jolt forward and on to the floor from the pain.

He'd feel a sharp kick to his stomach, something that he almost couldn't feel anymore because it happened so often.

Sometimes his father would spit on him, and scream cusses in his ear, calling him a shit-head and telling him he was worthless.

It was clear to him that his father didn't care anymore.
And now he wasn't so sure he wanted to care either.