LUCIEN'S POINT OF VIEW.
YEARS AGO.
The first thing I could remember was glass breaking.
I was five, or maybe six, I don’t remember my age, but I was small enough to crouch low behind the banister without being noticed, but at the same time, I was old enough to know that what would follow after the glass breaking would be the piercing screams of my mother, followed by the dark one of my father.
Her voice rang out shrill and afraid, followed by the sound of a smack. I peeked and saw her clutching her face as she sat on the floor, her sobs racking through her as she wept silently.
“How dare you question me?” My father spat at her, his belt in hand, as he stood towering above her. My tiny hands had clenched into fists, as hatred blurred my vision.
It wasn’t the first time he’d hit her;
