{ W I L L I A M }
The sounds of yelling got louder.
I tried to ignore them, but failed.
With one feeble step, I got down from my bed and walked out of my room. I quickened my pace as I heard my mother scream.
It was happening again.
I was sure of it.
I stood at the doorframe of my parents' bedroom, letting out shaky breaths. It was no news that I was scared. Scared of the monster that towered over my mother.
Father pushed my mother to the sofa and she winced in pain, but forced a smile immediately her eyes met mine.
"Will, sweetie, go back to your room. I'll be with you soon."
Mother was always conscious not to let me see her in that state. See him in that state.
But Father didn't care much for my presence.
He continued to scream at her with so much rage and inhumanity in his tone. She tried gently to calm him down but it only seemed to fuel his anger. They kept going back and forth until Mother said something firm in opposition and he wrapped his hands around her neck, depriving her of oxygen.
My heart plummeted against my chest at the sight of it.
"Dominic, stop this." She said to him through strangled breaths, trying to get his hands to loosen their grip. "Our son is watching. He's just a little boy."
"Shut up!" He roared, hitting her hard across her face.
I flinched at the sound of it.
"Mommy!" I ran to her but stopped in my tracks at the sound of her voice.
"Go back to your room, William." She instructed, her voice croaked. "I'm serious."
Father, on the other hand, couldn't care less.
He felt nothing wrong of the actions he was taking.
He screamed at her as he struck yet another blow to her face. Thick red liquid pooled down her lower lip. Even at that, he remained unfazed. He kept going. His rage only seemed to multiply as he pummeled hardly at her face.
Dominic Torres was a sadist.
He enjoyed seeing her like that.
I didn't. "Daddy, please stop!"
"Don't tell me what to do, boy!" He exclaimed furiously as he hit my mother again, messing up her beautiful face.
I wondered if the cries and pleas she let out had no effect on him. I wondered if he was completely deaf to the unpleasant sounds of pain that escaped her lips with every blow he struck at her.
And as he hit her again, she passed out, her eyes drooping shut.
"Mommy!" I couldn't help the tears that began to roll down my cheeks.
Father took sharp, long strides towards me and grabbed me forcefully by my little arm, "What have I always told you, William?"
My sobs wouldn't let me speak.
"Tell me!" He yelled in my face.
"B-Boys don't c-cry." I sniffled.
"So, why the hell are you crying?" He asked, his voice dangerously low.
I tried to hold my tears back but failed miserably.
"Clean your tears, boy." He clenched his jaw. "Clean them now or you won't like what I'll do to you if you don't."
As I brought my little hands to my face, I couldn't help the sob that slipped out of my lips.
"Stop crying, William!" He shouted as his hand made a forceful contact with my face.
I jerked awake.
I sat up in the dark, my chest tight, my jaw locked hard enough to hurt. My sheets were tangled around my legs. Sweat cold at the base of my neck.
Sleep never lasted long.
It was a more subtle nightmare compared to the ones I would usually have. But it caused the same weight in my chest—like I couldn't move fast enough, like I couldn't breathe through it.
My father's voice still echoed faintly in my head. The screaming. My mother's acceptance.
I shoved the covers aside and stood, bare feet hitting the cold marble floor.
My penthouse stretched out in front of me—too big, too quiet, like always. I kept my steps sharp as I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, flicked on a single under-cabinet light, and poured a glass of water.
My hands were steady now. It always was after the first few minutes.
I gripped the edge of the corner, my knuckles blatantly pale. My reflection ghosted in the dark glass of the window in front of me—tired eyes, clenched jaw, nothing out of place except the tension sitting right behind my ribs.
And I saw it again. Not my father this time.
Madelyn.
The sharp image burned clearer than the rest—her on the floor of the archive room, blood on her hand, that look in her eyes right before she told me not to touch her.
Her words reechoed in my head. Time and time again.
"You think just because you don't raise your hand, it doesn't hurt people?"
My chest became tighter.
While I was aware that I may have misjudged Madelyn from the beginning and treated her harshly because of it, my intentions were never to lead her to get hurt.
Seeing her hand bleed did something entirely different to me. Hearing her air out her frustrations and quit did something even worse.
I wasn't like my father.
I swore never to be.
So why did the sight of Madelyn flinching away from me in anger seem gravely familiar to all the times I would watch my mother after being beaten to a pulp by my father?
How was I any different from him?
I hated to think that after how much I had tried not to be abusive physically, I was being mentally abusive.
I didn't lay a hand on her.
But my actions put her there.
She told me she wanted to go home. She told me her head hurt.
But I was so cold.
I refused.
What kind of man does that make me?
Dominic Torres?
I shuddered at the thought.
I exhaled slowly, my jaw flexing again. My fingers tapped once against the counter before I reached for my phone.
Her name sat right there in my recents: Madelyn Clarke.
For a second, I almost opened a message. Then, I locked my screen again.
She doesn't need this. You don't need this.
But it didn't change anything. My head was still full of it—her voice, her face, the exact shape of her hand when I wrapped in that stupid white cloth.
I pushed away from the counter and decided to head back to my room to take a hot shower.
No chance of sleep now. I would go to the office instead.
At least there, it felt like control meant something.
***
The drive didn't clear my head.
By the time I stepped into Torres International's private elevator, it was barely 7 AM. The executive floor was still half dark, lights humming low, glass walls catching nothing but my own reflection.
I liked it this way. Early. Quiet. Predictable.
But as I passed the reception desk and rounded the corner to my office, my eyes flickered once—almost automatically—to the spot just outside my door.
Empty.
Madelyn's desk.
No coffee waiting. No quiet shuffle of papers. No unnecessary commentary. Just silence.
I convinced myself it didn't matter.
I stepped into my office, set my briefcase down and shrugged off my coat. I was halfway to my desk when a soft knock played on my door behind me.
"Sir," came Mrs. Thornsmith's voice, careful as always.
"What?"
"Ms. Clarke won't be in today."
I raised one careful eyebrow, careful enough not to let it show that I cared in the slightest, "Why?"
"Doctor's orders." She stated. "I believe her wrist—she's under rest instructions."
I looked at her.
"If you need any assistance that she would normally render, I'll make sure to send someone in for today."
I said nothing for a moment.
Then:
"Fine."
Mrs. Thornsmith lingered like she expected more. But when nothing came, she left.
I stood there a while longer, my eyes drifting toward the window and then back to the hallway.
Her desk. Still empty.
And somehow, that was louder than anything else in the room.