"What kind of a son are you anyway?"
Blue eyes flicker open at the voice. The familiar voice. The voice he can't seem to be rid of. "Fa-father?" He sits up, backs away. No matter how he denies it, the instinct is still there. Still working as it always did.
"Still calling me that, eh?" Disparaging brown eyes glare down. The sixteen year old cringes back. Even just a look from that man can hurt him. Maybe not put him in hospital, but the mental pain is equal to that. The man bends, stares him in the eye. "You put me in jail. Is that what a *good* son does?"
Lowering his eyes, Wesley shakes his head, bites his lower lip. "You..." He begins again. "You put me in hospital, father. You put yourself in jail."
His father shakes his head, tuts in disgust. "You don't seem to be understanding this little scenario, my lad." He leans close, face inches away from Wesley's. "I was the head of this family. I was in charge, in control, holding it together. You disobeyed me, you stood against me. Now, you have one parent. You're nothing in society. Your mother is a whore, a slut who couldn't keep her husband, all because you disobeyed me."
"No." Suddenly, Wesley feels like the infant begging not to be pushed under the stairs again. It can't be true. He helped his mum. Helped her escape from a violent bastard who tried to kill him – Wesley – on the last occassion they had seen each other.
His father sneers at him. "Such a good son. Splitting up our family, breaking your mother's heart, shattering your sister's illusions of what a man is."
"That's not true. You were a bad man."
"You're a child, Wesley. You don't understand. You could never understand." His father raises a fist. Wesley flinches back. "You're useless. You always have been, with your desperate attempts to be heroic. You'll never be strong enough for our family. You're a coward, a lily-livered wimp."
Each word hits home as viciously as that raised fist would. Tears fill his eyes. "Stop it." He whispers. "Stop..."
"What's this?" There's a bark of laughter, a cruel hand jerking his face up. "Crying? For God's sake, Wesley, you're meant to be a man. Try and act like it at least." The hand contracts around his jaw, bruising. "You should have been born female, Wes." He barely registers the mocking tone of his father's voice, blinking back more tears. "You play the part so bloody well. If we put a frock on you, I'm sure no one could tell the difference."
Wesley looks away, digs his nails into his mattress. Teeth cut into his lower lip and he can taste the blood. He fights down the tears, fights down the growing knot of pain in his chest. If he can just hold the signifiers of his weakness in, maybe he can be good enough.
"Just admit it, boy." The voice is in his ear now, whispered poison. Inescapable. "You are a weak, spineless, useless waste of humanity. We should have just killed you when you were born to save on the money and time we've wasted on you."
Pulling aside the tangle of sheets, he stumbles to his feet, run to the door. Pulls the handle, but it is locked. Nowhere to run. Pounding his fists futiley against the rebellious panel of wood, he sinks to his knees.
Palms spread on the wood, he bangs his forehead against the door, tears falling freely. He hears his father laugh, mocking, condescending. Feels rather than sees the shadow looming over him. Flinches as he hears the familiar hiss of the belt being pulled free.
He doesn't move. Can't. There's nowhere for him to go. Palms braced against the door, he hangs his head. Hears the whistle of the belt as it sings in the air. The sting cracks right across the center of his back.
Arching with a scream, his eyes fly open to find his mother leaning over him, concern etched in her sleep-misted eyes. "Wesley?"
"Mum?" Sitting up, he throws his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder. He realises his face is wet with tears. Doesn't care, just hugs his mother, feels her arms around him, her hand stroking his hair softly.
She rocks him, as she used to, when she found him under the stairs. He always lied, said he'd accidentally locked himself in. Now, she knew the truth. Pressing her lips against his temple, she lets him cry.
"He won't leave me alone." He whispers, his voice choking, strained. "He never leaves me alone. He never leaves me alone..."
Sitting back, his mother cups his face in her hands. Her thumbs brush his hot tears away gently. "I know." She murmurs, lays a kiss on his sweat-soaked forehead. Drawing him back into her arms, she holds him close, her cheek presed against his dark hair.
And he weeps.
Weeps for the hurt his father put all of them through. Weeps for the Hell that he goes through every night and has done since that fateful day. Weeps for the undeniable truth he can see in his father's cruel words.
Words that haunt him more than the pain from his punishment. He would live through the physical pain all over again, if only the words were erased. He would bear the scars on his back, but can't bear those in his mind.
"You shouldn't listen to him." His mother murmurs, as if reading his mind. "He knows what to say to make you believe him."
"He's right, mum. He's right about everything."
Mother rests her chin on top of Wesley's chest, sighs. He feels it ruffle his hair, snuggles closer to her. She's warm and secure. "No, Wesley." She says quietly. He can hear her steady heartbeat near his ear. "Do you want to be like him? Do you want to be the kind of man who beats his wife and children and makes them feel worth less that the dirt on your shoe?"
He shakes his head. No. He doesn't want to see anyone else go through that. Especially not any other children.
"See." She says, one hand unconsciously rising to caress his cheek gently. "You're a strong, good young man. You don't let yourself be forced into being someone you aren't." She sits back, lays him back down and tucks him in. "Get some sleep, okay?"
He nods, closes his eyes, feels a kiss brush over his forehead again. Listens for the door closing and opens his eyes, stares straight up. The light from the street reflects off the mirror, dancing on the white ceiling.
He's not ready to see daddy again. Not yet, at least.
Mum may be right, but that doesn't take away from the fact that he can't forget. That the words are burned into his memory. That they repeat like a mantra, over and over, a broken record of his father mocking him.
"I'm not useless." He tells himself, searches for the conviction to mean the words he says. "I can be worth something. I can be strong. I don't have to be like you, father. You can't make me do something I don't want to."
Ten years of physical punishment and his father's mocking laughter ring deafeningly in his memory. He blinks back another wave of tears, curls on his side and hugs his pillow. "You can't hurt me anymore." He whispers. "You can't."
But he doesn't close his eyes.