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that couldn’t get enough until he got the absolution that he wished for. From her, the one he let live. He had to know why. There had to be a reason, and he only hoped that it meant something.
    He pulled himself out of her, untied her wrists because at that time, the threat of leaving was abandoned. He pulled her naked, dead body into his, and nuzzled his nose into her blood-matted hair while he floated off to a sleep that would put most nightmares to shame.

Hurt was bestowed. Hurt would always be remembered.
     
     
    “BUT HE’S JUST A boy, Charlie.” Rhys’ mother, Julianne, called out between sips. Sips of her happiness. Rhys’ dad had went away six years before when he was just four-years-old. Rhys listened closely behind his scratched-up wooden door while Wren huddled in the corner with her skinny, scraped knees drawn up to her chest. He wanted to comfort her, but words never came natural to him.
    “You put your hands on him, Charlie. He’s just a boy,” Julianne muffled again, her voice a bit more stern than before.
    “That little fucker deserved every bit, Julianne. Every fucking bit. Probably more,” Charlie returned, turning to unfasten his leather belt, his hard features turning into stone before Julianne.
    Rhys continued to listen behind his door where he was safe from the world. Where hard fists and nasty words wouldn’t rain over him like a torrential thunderstorm. Unwelcome, but unavoidable. Destructive. Forceful.
    Wren’s dark hair fell over her shoulders gracefully, her cries a gesture for help. Rhys wasn’t good at help. He wished he could be, but he was merely a ten-year-old boy who was still trying to figure out the domain around him. The world that had proved to be nothing more than yells, fists, and confessional booths on Sundays where he was the bad boy who had to spill out all his infractions.
    “How can I make that little shit straighten up, Julianne? How? Pushing him around isn’t doing any good. Be a goddamn mother for once and put down the bottle!” Charlie yelled, his voice loud enough to shatter the windows of their mediocre two-bedroom home.
    “He’s just a boy, Charlie.”
    It was as if Julianne had trained herself to repeat that. She wasn’t able to say much more. But there was truths to her words. He was just a boy. A lost, little boy. Nurture molds one into who they are destined to become, or is it nature? Perhaps a little bit of both. Whatever the cause, Rhys was fucked, having a drunkard as a mother and a step-father that hated him for the little boy he was.
    “Say something that will do some good, Julianne! Do something!” Charlie screamed louder.
    His anger was climbing higher with each passing second, the rage spilling from the mouth of the devil himself at that time. Rhys stumbled back away from the door, Wren’s soft cries like lullabies from angels themselves. Rhys was never too sure about heaven. He was never given a reason to believe in it. But her voice, that sweet little moan, made him think that heaven could be for real.
    “Shhh, my darling,” Rhys cooed like he was trying to hush a colicky baby, stepping closer to Wren.
    She huddled deeper into the cluttered corner of their shared bedroom, her small fingers turning a paler shade of white than her skin. Rhys eyed her carefully, the beating he received thirty minutes ago nearly forgotten. The swelling over his right eye was growing, but so was his heart. Maybe there was hope in the godforsaken world he was thrown into. Birthed by parents that were distorted and fucked in their own ways. His eyes raked over her shaking body, and again, he wanted nothing more than to hug her. To tell her not to be fearful, but it was a lie.
    There was a lot to be scared of. It was standing in the other room, shouting what a bad boy he was. Everything wasn’t good. The world wasn’t made up of cherry blossoms and flower petals. It was made up of priests that turned a blind eye and told people to pray away their pain. Their