Chapter 1: Struggle
1299 Words
He didn’t become this overnight.
No one does.
He was raised between two people who used screaming as a second language.
Not that he cared at first.
They could kill each other for all he was worth.
But they didn’t.
Instead, they dragged him into it.
His father — drunk on power and ego — would shove him forward like a human shield.
Look his mother in the eye and say:
“I’ll slit his throat if you don’t shut up.”
Then his mother would cry, collapse, rage…
and later, when it was just the two of them —
She’d unload it all on him.
“Maybe if you were smarter…”
“Maybe if you weren’t so ugly…”
“Maybe if I never had you.”
He believed her.
At least, until belief turned into burning.
Around age eight, he was dumped at his grandmother’s — a woman who wore tradition like armor and used shame like a weapon.
She didn’t hit.
She didn’t scream.
She sank teeth in with silence.
Every look, every comment was a reminder:
He was worthless.
His mother was trash.
His father — gone, probably screwing someone else.
And Lucien?
He wasn’t a boy anymore.
He was a pressure cooker.
A black box of memories and muffled screams.
One day, sitting in that poisoned house, no one else around, he whispered something he never thought he would.
“Either I kill her… or I kill myself.”
But he didn’t do either.
Because fate — or maybe just coincidence — gave him a handful of friends.
Kids who saw something behind his eyes and didn’t run.
Sometimes they said things like:
“You’re not like them.”
“You’re better than this.”
And maybe that was all it took.
Not to heal — but to hold on.
For eight years, he held on.
Until he turned sixteen.
And they called him back —
His parents. The house.
Promises of peace.
But nothing had changed.
His father still acted like a hormonal teenager, lashing out at shadows.
His mother still wore misery like perfume.
They bickered like children.
Every dinner was a landmine.
Every step back into that house taught Lucien a new way to hate.
Hate them.
Hate himself.
Hate the years it would take to escape.
The six-year stretch ahead — like a prison sentence he hadn’t earned.
So he did what all dying minds do.
He began building a world inside himself.
A place where justice wasn’t a system —
but a knife.
A place where cruelty bled, and silence reigned.
That world had one king.
And his name —
Was Lucien Thorne.
As if life hadn’t already buried him deep enough...
The school — the one that was supposed to be a fresh start — had her.
A girl with a halo of cruelty and a smile sharpened like glass.
Lucien didn’t know her name at first.
He didn’t need to.
He could feel her long before she spoke.
She walked through the halls like she owned the oxygen —
laughing at boys who stuttered,
mocking girls for breathing too loud,
weaponizing every insecurity with surgical precision.
And Lucien?
He tried.
God, he tried.
Years of practice made him a master of holding it in.
That tight-jawed, dead-eyed smile. The shrug. The casual laugh.
He’d learned how to wear his anger like skin —
hide it under long sleeves, bury it beneath sarcasm.
But she…
She was the kind of person who didn’t know when to stop.
The kind who saw silence as permission.
The kind who poked and prodded, like a child tapping on a cracked aquarium —
never realizing what swam behind the glass.
One day, she cornered him in the stairwell with her little entourage of wannabe jackals.
Called him “Mute boy.”
Pulled at his collar.
Asked if his mom had run away again.
Asked if his dad was in rehab.
Asked if he ever thought about jumping.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t blink.
He just smiled.
And in that moment, he knew.
She would be the first.
Not because she was the worst.
Not because she was evil.
But because she looked at him like everyone else had — and assumed he had nothing left.
She was wrong.
He had one thing left.
And she was going to help him use it.
As if life hadn’t already shoveled enough s**t in his face…
It still had one more.
Lucien had reached his breaking point long ago — but there was always one thing that melted the rage.
One creature that didn’t speak cruelty or wear masks.
Broon.
A Labrador, old but loyal. Dumb as a brick but gentle as a monk.
That night, Lucien was walking Broon like always. Hoodie on. Head down.
The leash loose, dragging in rhythm with Broon’s slow, lumbering steps.
It was almost midnight.
The road was quiet. The kind of quiet you wish you could bottle.
“Come on, Broon,” he mumbled.
“Just to the corner and back. We’ll split a pack of biscuits if you don’t piss on the tires tonight.”
Broon huffed happily, tail wagging.
Lucien smiled — a real one.
The only real one left.
That’s when the voices came.
Behind him.
“Yo.”
“There he is.”
“Little psycho boy. Dog-walker deluxe.”
Lucien froze.
Broon turned and let out a low growl.
Four silhouettes stepped out from the alley near the convenience store.
All boys.
Hooded.
Laughing.
One of them had his phone out, already filming.
“Didn’t think we’d find you out here alone, mute.”
“Well, almost alone.”
Broon stepped in front of Lucien, hackles raised.
Lucien’s fingers tightened on the leash.
“Go home,” he said quietly.
“Aww, he speaks,” one of them chuckled.
The biggest one — the one with the chain around his neck — took a step forward.
“This is just a little favor for someone we care about. You know who.”
Lucien’s jaw clenched.
“Tell her she can go f**k herself.”
That did it.
The boy smiled — a wolf grin.
“Wrong answer.”
The others moved fast.
Two grabbed Lucien from behind, pinning his arms.
One kicked Broon in the ribs.
The dog yelped.
Lucien struggled.
“Don’t f*****g touch him!”
Another kick.
Broon tried to bite, but one of them swung a brick from the roadside.
First hit — Broon dropped, whining.
Second hit — blood.
Lucien screamed, pulled, bit someone’s hand.
“STOP IT!
STOP IT!
THAT’S ENOUGH!”
Third hit — skull cracked.
Broon stopped moving.
Lucien froze.
His whole body stopped reacting.
One of the boys crouched next to the corpse.
Patted the lifeless head.
“Not so brave now, huh?”
Another one leaned close to Lucien’s ear.
“Next time, it’s your turn.”
They left.
Just like that.
Laughter echoing down the street.
Lucien stood in the middle of the road.
The leash still in his hand.
His legs gave out.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t scream.
He just… stopped.
Something inside him caved inward, like a building imploding from the soul out.
Time blurred.
Streetlights pulsed.
The world turned silent except for the ringing in his ears.
Then…
A shadow moved.
One of them had stayed back.
The one with the phone.
Still filming.
Still smiling.
Lucien stood.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just… rose.
Picked up the brick.
The same one they used.
Walked forward like he was sleepwalking —
no words,
no warning.
The boy raised his phone like a shield.
“Yo, man— chill, it’s—”
CRACK.
- Writer
