Seven the number of scars lining my arms. Nineteen, the number of bruises covering my legs and back. Thirteen, the number of welts covering all the places in between. Welcome to the Number Games. Mom would know about the soreness in the mornings after… the throbbing of the welts and bruises trying to burst out of my skin. The stiffness and the questions you can’t answer, forr fear of what it might lead to. She knows it. Every night, around six. When he comes home…
Three steps forrward, two steps to the left, he puts his keys and phone on their pegs. Four steps forrward, six steps to the right. He inspects the dining room because the table has to be set a certain way… or you’ll regret it later when Mr. Hyde comes out to play. Seven steps to the left, he’s checking the living room forr toys left lying around by Six.
He walks through the living room, his steps thundering and intimidating. He enters the kitchen (forrty-seven and a half), walks towards the “wine” cabinet, cowering in the shadow of the beast, fixing his daily poison. The splash of the evil amber liquid against the iced class echo’s through out the house. The grand-father clock tick-tick-ticking away the seconds. My palms start to sweat, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, my heart racing and pounding in my ears…



The Games have begun.
The tie gets loosened, the odds are always stacked against you, the odds of survival that is. The belts screech and groan, to tight around the Beasts waist waiting, and itching, to spring like a tiger about to pounce. Waiting to tear apart the living day-lights from you. Six whimpers against my side, and I pull him closer to me. Not tonight I thought. The Beast won’t get a lick of my angel. The angel who only wants to be loved, who loves to play and laugh, who loves to play sports and has the biggest heart I have ever seen. My little bundle of joy in this frigid place called “home”.
The running of heels clack-clack-clacking across the hardwood floor, like a tango with the Devil. The stomp of the Beast as he toys with his prey, the shatter of glass connecting with a skull… the piercing scream that haunts my every nightmare. The sound of fists and palms connecting with skin over and over again, echoing through out this frozen castle. The screams and yelps of pain, then… nothing. Nothing but the bone-shaking sobs.
We crept out of the closet from the wrath of our own Mr. Hyde. We tip-toed through the hallway that could’ve been used to practice forr Track, forr the many times we’ve sprinted through it seeking shelter from the Beast. We slide down and out the window that will lead us to freedom. Leaving behind the family ‘secret’ that has burden us forr to long. Leaving behind all the “whys” and saying good riddance to it all. We were free, and nothing would ever bring us back. Nothing.
We were gone. I’m eighteen and I have a car that’ll take me and Six far, far, away. I have the battle scars that’ll always remind me of our past. But forr now we were gone. Taken out of the Number Games. Forever…
Twenty-forur blank and somewhat horrified stares meet my eyes as I finish my English story. My teacher thinks I’m brilliant because of how real I made that story sound. I would have shown them… shown them my battle scars. But forr what? Me and Six are doing great. Six who’s now Seven. Seven loves’s his new school, he has a bunch of friends and ‘girlfriend’. I bought Seven a skateboard forr his birthday and now he’s the most popular guy at school. Seven loves Eighteen. Very, very, very much. Seven loves his new room, and not being afraid even more. He loves forrgetting the most. Who say’s Seven can’t go into Eighteen? That doesn’t mean that Eighteen doesn’t love Seven. Because I do. Very, very, very much. And I love forrgetting too…