The Price Of Us

LOUIS

Since Mama left Father and me when I was ten years old, all I’ve ever known is suffering and pain. Father had always been cruel to me, even before my sorry excuse for a mother left—but her absence carved a chasm so deep in his already blackened heart that the only way he knew how to fill it was with fists.

Each. And. Every. Day.

And this morning was no exception.

“Come here, Louis,” my father said. I shuffled toward him.

I hardly even reached him before he threw a ceramic mug at my head, barely missing me by mere inches.

“Have I told you how much I loathe your existence,” he said, heading toward me. “You even look like her.”

“I-” Big mistake. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. He punched me so hard, I fell on the floor in a daze.

“You sorry excuse of a man,” he roared, driving his heavy boots into my stomach again and again. The pain burned through me, but I didn’t dare cry out. Just like I hadn’t for the past seventeen years.

“Twenty-seven years and you still can’t even stand up to me,” he spat, delivering a final kick to my shin. “Such a disgrace. Just like your mother.”

Then he turned and stomped up the stairs, likely to drown himself in whiskey or whatever poison numbed the void inside him.

I stayed on the cold, cracked kitchen floor, blinking back tears of frustration. I was pathetic. Helpless. A man who couldn’t even defend himself in his home. I’d tried over the years—God knows I’d tried— but every attempt ended the same way: bruised, broken, bleeding. And with how much he hated me… I knew it would take only a misstep for him to finally kill me.

So, why was I still here?

Because of my mother. Because my naïve ten-year-old self made a promise to her. She stood in the doorway, eyes dry but distant, and told me she couldn’t stay anymore. I begged her not to go. She knelt, held my face in trembling hands, and made me promise to take care of him.

“Don’t leave your father,” she’d said. “He’s all you have.”

I was ten.

I didn’t know promises like that could turn to shackles.

I pulled myself off the floor, quietly cleaned the kitchen, and trudged upstairs to get ready for work. My shoulder length blond curls were tangled and wild, so I tied them back in a messy bun. I couldn’t care less. After mornings like this, I didn’t have it in me to deal with vanity.

Besides, I’d be in a hairnet all day.

In the tiny bathroom—thankfully mine alone— I stared at the not-so-stranger in the mirror. Gaunt and pale, my lean torso was littered with bruises in various stages of healing, some fresh, others lingering from weeks ago. Cigarette burns scarred my skin in raised patches of pink and white, clustered around my chest and inner arms like a cruel tattoo.

Let’s not even talk about the ones on my thighs.

I hated my reflection.

Most of all, I hated my face. Because it looked like hers. The woman who left me behind. The woman who didn’t think I was worth staying for.

Cornflower blue eyes—hers—stared back at me, rimmed red from unshed tears.

I swallowed them. Like always.

My life was horrifyingly pathetic. I was horrifyingly pathetic.

With a heavy sigh, I turned away from my now foggy reflection and hopped in the shower.

After a hot shower—a luxury I could barely afford but desperately needed—I got dressed and headed to work, following the same broken sidewalk. The same cracked buildings. The same grey skies pressing down on my world.

When I walked into the hospital, the few staff members on duty offered tired nods. Most people in this neighborhood barely finished high school, let alone trained for medical work. We were short-staffed, overworked, and underpaid. But we made do.

I’d wanted to be a doctor once.

Now, I just clean up after them.

“Louis, my boy,” Jamie, the elderly African-American security guard, greeted me with his usual wide toothed smile. His voice was warm, fatherly—the kind I’d always longed for.

“Hi, Jamie,” I replied, forcing a smile through the ache.

“You holding up, okay?”

I nodded.

We both knew I was lying.

He’d tried to talk to me before. Begged me to leave that house. But I never listened. Not really. Still… if he tried again, maybe this time I would. I was close—so close—to breaking.

The rest of the day passed in a numb haze and I welcomed the monotony. Nothing unusual happened, and I was grateful. I didn’t have the strength to deal with chaos—not today.

But I had a plan.

A way out.

Over the years, I’d saved every spare dollar I could and hidden it beneath a loose floorboard in my room. Father never stepped foot in there—he called it “pansy territory” and acted like being near my things would infect him with weakness.

The board wasn’t obvious. I’d even modified the surrounding floor so it wouldn’t creak or echo. It was safe.

Or so I thought.

I got back home late that night, sore but relieved. As I climbed the stairs to our decrepit two-story house, I noticed the lights were still on.

He was home.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door, stepped inside and froze.

Father was sitting on the yellowed couch. He was holding a thick wad of cash in his hands. My cash. The money I’d bled for.

My heart plummeted to the ground.

How? How did he find it?

I thought I’d been so careful. So damn careful.

“I took a stroll through your pansy room,” he sneered. “And look what I found.”

He got up.

I stepped back.

No. Not this time.

I was tired of being beaten. Of being quiet and living like a ghost in my own body.

My hands trembled as I reached into my crossbody bag and pulled out the small pocket knife I always carried.

“Give me the money, Father,” I said, voice shaking, knife trembling in my grip. “Now.”

There was a pause.

Then he laughed. A loud and cruel one that rattled through my bones, weakening my already fragile confidence.

“So, you think, just because you have a… weapon,” he sneered, glancing at the blade, “you’re suddenly a man now?”

“Yes,” I said. “And if you don’t hand over the money, I’m going to use it.”

He lunged at me.

I panicked and tried to slash, but he grabbed my wrist mid-swing.

“Leave it,” I said, making a pathetic attempt to push him away but he had an iron grip on it. He twisted my arm and the pain made me cry out.

Then came his fist to my gut.

“How many times have I told you to shut your mouth boy?” he whispered in my ear.

The force of the blow destabilized me so much, I doubled over unable to breathe properly.

But he wasn’t done.

Somehow, he got hold of the knife.

“I can’t believe you thought you could use this,” he said, as he stood above me. “But I’d make you wish you never carried it.”

Then the slashing began.

“Please,” I begged. “Father, please.”

But he didn’t stop and as the blade danced across my skin, each cut elicited a cry of agony from my lips. Blood dripped to the floor, gruesome in its brutal red tint.

My vision began to blur and I collapsed to the floor, my breath shallow, eyes fluttering as more strength left my aching body.

As he kept hitting me, I felt my consciousness slipping away.

The last thing I saw was the ceiling, smeared with water marks, mold, and memories I wish I didn’t remember.

And amidst all this, the only thought in my head as spots began to dance behind my droopy eyelids was—

I can’t do this anymore.

I’m sorry Mama.

I can’t keep your promise.

And then—

Darkness.