:warning: WARNING, READ BEFORE CONTINUING :warning:

This story is about my original character, Wayne. It holds a lot of sensitive topics, including: Domestic violence and abuse, implied alcoholism, murder and death, gore, ptsd, gun violence, and a few scenes that may be overwhelming for some viewers.

:warning: PROCEED WITH CAUTION :warning:

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As he neared the door of his home, Wayne didn’t even have to press his ear to the door this time in order the hear the shouting and banging from the inside. His parents fighting had gotten increasingly worse as of late. The young man had nearly been forced to give his mother stitches the other day, and he didn’t even know how to!

He would’ve gone in through the backdoor, skipping straight into his bedroom, but it had been jammed for a while now, thanks to his father forbidding him from leaving the house without permission. His only option was to be as quiet as humanly possible as he entered.

He flinched as the door began to creak, freezing in place for a moment as he held his breath, counting down as he waited, but nothing seemed to change, luckily. He made it inside safely, and the coast was clear, though he could hear his parents arguing loudly just around the corner, near the kitchen, perhaps in the lounge area. It was getting heated now, the boy could tell by the words that were used, such as Putang ina mo, and Leche, as well as the gradually increasing volume. He poked his head out of the short foyer hall, just barely enough to see what was happening. It looked like every other considerably “tame” fight he’d seen from them, and he almost had half a mind to ignore it in favor of the safety of his room, till he caught sight of his father raising the glass bottle he clutched in his hands. There was a sharp, loud shattered noise as the bottle was brought down on the edge of a hard surface, too vague to exact details, and his arm once again raised. Wayne let out a sharp gasp before promptly clamping a hand over his mouth, desperately attempting to stay quiet. He listened to his poor mother scream as the jagged end of the bottle was harshly slashed across her face, slicing into her flesh and even her right eye! The hot, sticky river of crimson liquid gushed from her face as she fell back, crashing into the coffee table. Wayne made the mistake of crying out for her, and the bottle came flying towards his face, gashing his cheek. As his father lumbered towards him, he didn’t have the time to think about the pain, or anything rational, really. He was going to die, his father was going to kill him if he didn’t do something!

A third time had his father’s arm been raised, and the young orthodontist snapped his head towards the gun his father kept displayed at the end of the hallway. He knew for a fact it was loaded, and he had seen the man use it plenty of times, enough to improvise. In a moment of impulsivity and desperation, he scrambled to grab it, clicking the safety off and turning towards the scene. Before he could comprehend it all, the sound of three bullets firing echoed off the walls, and his father’s body collapsing perfectly matched the exact timing that Wayne had let the gun fall from his grip with a loud clatter.

His neighbors knew better than to interfere. To the public, Makisig Tydesburrow, also commonly known as “Paham,” was a caring, considerate, and an overall pleasure to have in the community. And now, that kind, ever-loving, and grace-giving man was laying dead in front of his son, with the back of his head practically blown out by the third and final bullet that hit just under his chin. The other two were now embedded in his chest as his blood seeped into the carpet’s fibers. The poor young boy was frozen, standing above his corpse with wide, horrified eyes, body shaking as he felt the tears stream down his face.