Chapter Text
Travis layed awake in his bed. He thought about that day constantly.
The day his mother left.
With his sisters, leaving just him and his dad.
He still remembered the way she looked as beautiful as always as she hugged him in the middle of the night, tears falling down her face as she held him tight. He still remembered what she whispered to him that fateful night. "Be brave, my Travis. I'm sorry, so, so sorry. Happy birthday my baby, I'll come back, I promise you will make it out."
And then she was gone with his two sisters, Mary and Madeline, disappearing into the night.
When morning came, that was the first of many times he genuinely feared for his life under his father's rule. Kenneth took out his anger and misery on Travis. He beat him, spat on him, berated and degraded him, refused to feed him.
After the beatings and starvation, Kenneth would cry, sob, weep, and wail. He would hold Travis close and speak to him as if he were his mother, as if he was Kaya. This confused young Travis, he wasn't his mother. Why was his dad being so mean? Why was he so angry at him?
As Travis grew, he came to resemble his mother more and more until he was a carbon copy. His father never stopped the physical and emotional abuse, in fact in amplified. But after a few years of Kenneth drowning himself in drugs, alcohol and messy hookups, he decided to throw himself into the church.
He started spending more and more time at the Ministry before he quit his job and became a pastor. He had never once show interest in following his family's path of priesthood, but that had of course changed.
Kenneth gave up the alcohol, drugs and sex, but he never stopped abusing Travis. The boy had a new bruise every day, but no one said anything. "Children are clumsy creatures," Kenneth would laugh as he was confronted by another parent. "My boy especially. Will I be seeing you at church on Sunday?"
Kenneth was charismatic and charming. That's how he got people to stop noticing how Travis flinched at loud noise, flinched at raised hands, flinched at touch. That's how he got people to stop noticing how Travis never spoke unless spoken to, never did anything he wasn't told to do, never asked for help or comfort, never cried or complained, never called his father anything but 'Sir'.
Travis continued to lay in his bed as he wondered why he was left behind with his insufferable, evil father. He remembered the day she left, but not the date she left. She said happy birthday, but he didn't remember his birthday, and he hasn't for a long time.
As of right now he was in 8th grade, but once upon a time he was 8 years old, sitting at his table in kindergarten. A teacher with a face he couldn't remember had approached him. "Hey there Travis? How are you? You're awfully quiet."
Travis didn't looked up from his drawing. "I'm good. How are you?" He didn't respond to her observation, he didn't know what to say.
"I'm very good. The class is sharing their birthdays. When's your birthday?" She asked gently.
The question made Travis pause. He didn't know. He didn't know when his birthday was. How could he not know? Was he stupid? Just like his father said he was..? He was breathing heavily now, panicking.
He snapped out of it and saw the teacher's face of mild concern. "I don't know. Please go away."
He was beaten that night.
He didn't understand what for. Then again, he never understood what for. So as he layed in the same bed he layed in right now, he licked the long cut going from his wrist to his mid forearm. The taste of blood was metallic and strong, but not completely unpleasant.
Maybe I deserve it. He thought to himself as he squeezed the wound so more red liquid would spew out and he could lick up even more. Maybe that's why she left. He thought before passing out.
And now he was on the same bed, in the same bland room, under the same bloodstained duvets. Older, but he didn't know how much older. I wonder when my birthday is. He thought as he got up and started getting ready for school. I wonder if she's still coming back.