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❗️❗️❗️TRIGGER WARNING❗️❗️❗️
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⚠️⚠️⚠️ Physical/Mental Abuse⚠️⚠️⚠️
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⚠️⚠️Drug Use⚠️⚠️
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⚠️Emotional Trauma ⚠️
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⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
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The Stairs Were the Only Thing That Ever Caught Him
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"Get back here, you fucking mistake!"
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Adam didn't flinch at her voice anymore. He just moved faster-bare feet sliding across stained linoleum, eyes scanning the mess for anything that could trip him up. A broken bottle from last night's binge? A cigarette still burning in a paper plate? Used syringes? He didn't care. Just run.
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She stomped after him, hair tangled like a nest of thorns, belt in hand. Her eyes were wild and red-rimmed, makeup smeared from hours ago when she thought she could be pretty enough for someone to want her. "Don't you walk away from me when I'm talking to you, Adam! You think you're better than me now, huh? You think you're some kind of angel? You're a piece of shit! Just like you fucking rapist father!"
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"I didn't even say anything..." he mumbled, cornered now in the narrow hallway that led to the bathroom.
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"What? What the fuck did you just say to me?" Her voice cracked into a scream.
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"I didn't say anything..." he said again, quieter this time, even though it wouldn't help. Nothing ever helped.
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She raised the belt and brought it down, not once, not twice, but again and again. The buckle ripped against his skin. But he didn't cry. Not anymore. That had stopped years ago-around the same time she stopped calling him by his name and just started calling him "it" or "freak" or "mistake."
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"You should've died before you took your first breath!" she spat, breathing hard. "You did this to me. You did. You did!"
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He looked up at her through a cut above his eyebrow, blood dripping into his lashes. "I didn't ask to be born."
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That made her freeze. Just for a second. Something flickered behind her eyes-rage or guilt or maybe both-but then she slapped him so hard it made him fall sideways into the drywall, leaving a dent.
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"You look just like him," she whispered, voice suddenly cold and shaking. "Same eyes. Same damn smirk. Every day I look at you, I see him. And I hate you for it."
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Adam pushed himself up, holding his ribs. He didn't know what hurt more-her words or her fists. Maybe it was neither. Maybe it was the emptiness that came afterward.
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He walked past her, slowly, without looking back.
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She didn't stop him this time. Just lit another cigarette with shaking hands and muttered, "Fuckin' ghost. Can't even hit you hard enough to make you real."
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He climbed the warped stairs slowly, one hand on the wall for balance. The railing had broken off last year during one of her drunken episodes, and no one ever fixed it. He knew where to step to avoid the creaks.
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His room wasn't really a room-just a box with peeling paint and one small window too dirty to see through. The mattress on the floor sagged in the middle, stained and crawling with bedbugs. Roaches scattered as he stepped inside. Some didn't bother. They were used to him. He didn't bother with them either.
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He sat down slowly, arms hugging his knees. He stared at the wall. Not thinking. Not crying. Just... existing.
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Then the front door opened downstairs.
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He didn't need to check. The sound of heavy boots, the low mutter of a voice that oozed sleaze and threat-it was another dealer. They came at all hours now. Some stayed long, some were quick. None of them paid in cash.
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He heard her voice-high, desperate, trying to sound flirty, like she still had something worth trading.
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"You got the stuff?"
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"You got the mouth?" the man chuckled, deep and gross.
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"I'll make it worth your time," she said. Her voice cracked halfway through like it wasn't sure if it was selling or begging.
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Adam closed his eyes.
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The couch creaked.
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Then came the sounds. The kind you can't unhear. Flesh against flesh. Breathing that turned to grunts. Her voice turning into something half-human, half hollow. The rhythm of desperation and disgust.
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He didn't flinch.
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He didn't cover his ears.
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He just sat there. Staring ahead. Staring at the wall with the water damage shaped like a face if you looked long enough.
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This was normal.
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This was every night.
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And he was so far past broken, he didn't even feel cracked anymore.
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Night after night.
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More visitors.
More of those sounds.
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Sometimes, the same man. Sometimes new. Sometimes, she tried to sound sexy. Sometimes, it was just her getting hit.
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There were those rare nights when he heard her laughing. But most nights, she screamed. And then there were the nights when there were no sounds at all-just footsteps, whispers, moaning, slaps, muffled crying, the couch springs creaking under someone who didn't care if a child was upstairs listening.
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Sometimes, they came up to the room.
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Just to twist the knife.
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"Your mom's got a tongue like a goddamn angel," one of them once laughed, breath reeking of beer and weed. "Sucked the soul right outta me, kid. You oughta be proud."
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Adam didn't say anything. Just stared back until the man got uncomfortable and left.
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And then there was one night... darker than most.
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He wasn't trying to listen. He never did. The walls were thin. The voices were loud. And this time, the words weren't just drunk nonsense or crude bragging.
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They were threats. Real ones.
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From someone different-low voice, steady, dangerous. The kind of voice that didn't yell to scare you. It whispered. Because it knew you were already afraid.
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"You think I'm playin' with you, huh?" the man said, voice rising just enough. "I don't fuck around. You got until next week. You hear me?"
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Muffled whimpering. His mother. Trying to plead.
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"No more sob stories, bitch."
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"If I don't get my money, I'm gonna chop your junkie ass up and dump the pieces in Black Hollow."
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"Ain't nobody ever found shit in Black Hollow."
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Adam didn't know where Black Hollow was.
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But the way the man said it-like it was a place that ate bodies and spit out silence-it stuck.
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Burned itself into the back of his mind like the cigarette scars on his arms.
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It didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like a promise.
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Sometimes, when the house went quiet, he'd creep downstairs and rummage through expired canned food, moldy bread, half-empty ketchup packets. The fridge buzzed like it was struggling to keep its own heart beating.
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She was usually on the couch-slumped, nodding, her dress halfway up, needle still sticking out of a bruised vein like a flower wilting in dead skin.
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He never helped.
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Sometimes he'd stare.
Long enough to wonder if she was finally dead.
That maybe, just maybe, it would be quiet for good.
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But she always woke up.
She always came back.
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And then the pattern changed.
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No more random men.
Just one.
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No more moans.
Just thuds. Cracks. The sound of her body hitting the walls. The floor.
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"Where's my money, hoe?"
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"You think I'm playin' with you Bitch?"
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"You get out there and make it right, or I'll make sure you can't walk again."
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He heard it all.
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Sometimes the man stayed longer than she did. Ate food that wasn't his. Took naps on the couch like he owned the place. Sometimes he watched TV loud and laughed like he lived there. Always ignoring Adam, like he wasn't there.
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And most of the time, she was gone.
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Gone for days. Weeks sometimes. Out somewhere doing what she had to do.
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Adam would wipe the filth off his bedroom window just enough to see her.
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Standing on the street corner in a wrinkled red dress, hair pinned up in a messy puff, makeup smeared like clown paint.
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A dirty whip pulled up.
She leaned in the window.
They talked.
She smiled.
And got in.
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Adam didn't cry.
Didn't blink.
He just watched the car disappear.
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And waited.
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For whatever was coming the next day.
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One day, when his mother had been gone longer than usual, Adam crept downstairs. His stomach felt like it was eating itself. He opened the grimy fridge-empty. No surprise. The pantry? Just dust and an unopened can of something long expired.
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Then he saw it. A piece of bread on the counter-green with mold and crawling with roaches.
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He knocked the roaches off, tore the moldy sides away, and shoved the rest into his mouth. It tasted like damp sponges and rot, but he chewed anyway. Survival didn't care about flavor.
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He turned the kitchen sink on. Nothing came out.
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Figures.
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He turned to head back upstairs when a voice stopped him.
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"Hey, kid. Come watch some TV with me."
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Adam froze. Standing in the living room was a man he hadn't spoken to directly yet-but one he'd heard yelling, laughing, hitting. Razor.
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He didn't move. Didn't say a word.
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"What's your name?" the man asked, almost casually.
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Adam stared, silent.
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Razor chuckled and leaned back on the couch. "What? You mad at me 'cause your mom's a whore? Don't be. She chose the life. I'm just showin' her how to play the game."
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Still, Adam said nothing.
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"Not a talker, huh? Got it." Razor's tone turned colder. "How 'bout you get me some batteries for this remote? Thing's dyin'."
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No response. No movement.
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The smile vanished from Razor's face. He stood up, slow and deliberate. His heavy boots creaked against the floorboards as he stepped toward Adam.
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"Oh, you think you're tough, huh?" he sneered. "Don't play tough with me, boy."
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He leaned down until he was nose-to-nose with Adam. His breath smelled like blood and beer.
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"You see this face? Get used to it. This is my house now. I make the rules. What I say goes. You ever have a dad?"
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Adam didn't reply.
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"Well... let me show you how fathers raise their sons."
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The punch came out of nowhere-straight into Adam's gut. He folded like paper, collapsing to the floor and vomiting the moldy bread he'd just eaten.
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Before he could catch his breath, Razor kicked him in the face, snapping his head back, then again in the ribs. Over and over. Still, Adam didn't scream. Didn't cry.
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"You know who I am?" Razor growled, standing over him. "I'm Razor motherfuckin' Malone."
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He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small silver straight razor. He crouched and dragged it across Adam's cheek, slicing a thin, shallow line just under his eye.
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Then-like it was nothing-he leaned in and kissed the cut.
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"I'm your new daddy now."
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He stood up, stepped over Adam's body, and casually changed the TV channel. The remote clicked. The volume went up. Razor sank back onto the couch like it was just another evening.
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That's when the door opened.
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Adam's mother walked in, purse hanging off her elbow, eyeliner smeared, breath smelling like cheap vodka. She looked at Adam lying on the floor-blood dripping down his cheek, one eye already swelling shut.
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She didn't gasp. Didn't cry. Didn't even blink.
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"So what did he do?" she asked.
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Razor grinned. "The kid likes to act tough. Don't listen."
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"Yeah, sounds like Adam," she muttered, stepping over him like he was a pile of laundry and collapsing onto Razor's lap.
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"I'm sorry about Adam," she purred, voice slurred. "But Daddy... you got any more on you?"
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"Depends," Razor said flatly. "How much you make today?"
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She reached into her bra and pulled out a few wrinkled twenties.
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He snatched the money from her hand, looked at it, and slapped her clean off his lap.
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"This it? You been gone for three fuckin' weeks and this is it?"
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"Daddy, I'm sorry, I-"
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"You shot it all up, you junkie bitch!"
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"No-please-I didn't, I-"
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He didn't wait for her to finish. The fists came fast. Brutal. Sickening. She fell to the floor just a few feet from Adam, and it all slowed down.
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Adam didn't move.
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He just laid there. Watching. Listening. Bleeding.
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As Razor beat her into the stained carpet.
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And no one did a damn thing to stop it.
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For all the horror Razor brought into the house, his presence sometimes made things... quieter.
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Not better. Not safe. Just less volatile.
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Adam didn't trust him, didn't fear him-not in the way most people did. He just learned how to navigate him. If Razor was fed, high, and entertained, he'd let Adam finish his backwashed water bottle. Or throw him the crusts of his pizza. Once, he even brought Adam a bobblehead-a dusty, broken thing that used to belong to a child one of Razor's workers had "settled a debt" with.
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Adam never played with it. But he kept it. Because it was the only thing anyone had ever given him.
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But the next day... Razor left.
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No warning. No slamming door. Just gone.
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And the moment he was, something shifted in the air.
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Adam didn't know exactly why, but his mother hit him less when Razor was around. Maybe she didn't want anyone seeing her truth. The bruises on her soul. Or maybe she didn't want Razor knowing she was still the worst monster in the house.
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That illusion shattered the second Adam reached the bottom of the stairs.
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She was waiting for him.
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Her eyes were sunken, twitching. Her skin pale and glistening with sweat. Her jaw clenched so tight it looked like her teeth might shatter. She was shaking all over.
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Withdrawals.
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He knew the signs. He'd seen it before. But this time... this time, it was different.
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"Where is it?" she whispered.
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Adam didn't move.
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"I said, where is it, you little fucking thief!"
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"Where's what?"
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The slap cracked across his face before he even finished the word. His head snapped sideways, lips splitting against his teeth. He stumbled back, nearly falling.
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"You stole it, didn't you? My last fucking baggie! You think this is funny? You think this is a game, Adam?"
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She grabbed his shirt, yanking him down the final steps. He landed hard, shoulder first, on the floor.
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Then came the kicks.
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To his side.
To his back.
To his stomach.
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Over and over.
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"You ruin everything you touch!"
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"You ruined me!"
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She dragged him by his hair toward the kitchen, screaming nonsense-screaming everything. Slammed his head into the fridge door, into the counter. Pulled open drawers, looking for something-anything.
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And then she found the metal spatula.
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She raised it like a weapon and brought it down on his back.
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Clang.
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Clang.
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Clang.
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The sound echoed through the room like a bell from hell.
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He tried to crawl away, sobbing silently, not from pain-but from shock. From a deep, cold place inside him cracking open.
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She grabbed a pot from the stove and threw it. It hit his ribs with a sickening thud. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move fast enough.
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"You think you're better than me now? Think Razor likes you more?"
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She picked up a cigarette butt from the ashtray and shoved it against his neck. The sizzle of flesh burning filled his ears.
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That was when something broke.
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Not in her.
In him.
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She lunged again, fingernails like claws, scratching his face. He rolled-out of instinct-and his hand closed around something cold.
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A broken glass bottle.
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He didn't think. He didn't aim.
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He just swung.
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She screamed. Staggered back. Her hands went to her neck, and suddenly there was blood-so much blood-pouring through her fingers, down her chest, onto the kitchen floor.
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She fell to her knees. Looked at him with a kind of expression he'd never seen from her before.
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It wasn't hate.
Wasn't rage.
It was confusion. Like she couldn't believe what just happened.
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She collapsed.
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Adam stood there, hands shaking, breathing in ragged gasps.
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He hadn't meant to.
He didn't even know what he was doing.
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The bottle fell from his hand. Shattered.
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She didn't move.
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He stood in silence for a long time. Blood slowly pooling around her like a dark, sticky shadow.
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And then the numbness set in.
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Not fear.
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Not guilt.
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Just quiet.
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