tyrone hope-less - d8 - wip | Hunger Games: The RPG

tyrone hope-less - d8 - wip Aug 4, 2015 13:42:29 GMT -5

Post by mat on Aug 4, 2015 13:42:29 GMT -5

[googlefont="Orbitron:400"]

[presto]

[/presto]

Tyrone Hope-Less

"Tyrone," I heard my father call out once to me as a little boy, I was looking at the patterns my mother planned on making into someone's attire. She was good at making the patterns, but when it came to actually making the articles of clothing, she was never nearly as good. "Tyrone, will you go to your room for a second, your mother and I have something we'd like to," my father stopped looking at me and turned to my mother, "discuss." I always did what they asked, knowing how much they do for me, it was an obligation to do something for them.

I was so naive to think that them raising their voices was just a friendly discussion, but I suppose that's what little kids are? They believe in so much their family says. They were screaming at each other, but the door that separated me from two angry adults made all the noise turn into whispers. I wished that they didn't have to exclude me from conversations. After all, I was a little kid and probably wouldn't care for half the stuff they're saying, so why did it matter if I was in the room or not?

After my parents had their talks, my mother would come into my room and put her hand through my blonde hair, which didn't stay blonde for long. By the age of seven or eight, it started to fade away into a dirty blonde, almost brown. I looked straight into her hazel eyes and spoke, "What do you guys talk about?" It took her awhile to come up with a response, "We were just having a little bit of small talk." I accepted what she said, but why did I have to leave if they were just making small talk?

This seemed to be routine, at least once a day, I'd hear their 'small talk' get louder and louder. It was always the case, and then when it died down, my mother would come in and talk to me. Seven, eight, nine. It was always happening, they were always talking like that, and it got me angry that they never let me talk with them. It's probably just big kid talk, I'd always tell myself this, because the older kids at school always said we were the littler kids at Seven-Ten. Being an older kid gave you a lot more freedom.

One day, I was already in my room when they began their discussions, I really wanted to hear what they were talking about. I slowly pressed onto the door which wasn't even fully closed, and I tried to be quiet, but it was obvious to me that the flooring of my house squeaked every step I took. I continued to open the door, and when it was about halfway open, it was enough to hear and see what they were doing clearly.

My father slammed his hand onto my mother's face and I heard her short burst of a scream. He did it again and again and again. I listened to my mother plea for him to stop, but he kept going. Eventually, Mother stopped screaming. Instead, she shed tears and sniffled. I want to come to her aid as any son would for their mother, but Father, Raegan, panted heavily. "This is why you listen to me. Do you hear me?!" he demanded of her to do as he asked. She nods, and she rubs her head. I see the red and black marks all over her face. "Go and tell him everything's okay," he tells my mother.

As she gets up, I immediately shut the door and run back to my bed. It shuts just fine, but the loud bang means that I was out of my room. My father begins to yell again. He's even louder than the slam of my door as he speaks. He's as clear as a whistle. "Tyrone Raegan Hope! Get your ass in here right now," he yells. I want to scream for my mother's help, but she's already hurt enough by him. She doesn't deserve to get even worse. "NOW!" he demands me to come out, but I curl up in the corner of my room. He bangs on my door like a peace keeper is readying to shoot him and he just wants in. He opens the door and begins to curse at me, slamming his feet on the ground and breaking my toys like a little child when he wouldn't get his way. "Daddy! Go away!" I try and yell at him, but it turns more into a shriek.

He grabs my by my arm and pulls me up, slapping me like a toy when it is broken. I scream for my mom, and she answers my desperate call just as his fist goes up in the air. I see her eyes turn from fearful to pure angry. She begins to do more of the yelling now. She tells my father never to touch me again, and if he does, she is going to make sure he pays. My father doesn't like being threatened, especially when it means ending something he hasn't finished. He hits me again, and I cry out for my mother. "Mommy! He's hurting me!" I call out for her, and she grabs me by my arm and picks me up like a baby. I cry over her shoulder, and she wraps her arm around my head. She begins to walk away with me. My father yells for her to return, but she runs out of the house with me wetting her shoulder.

After that, I hardly saw my father. I understood. My father beat my mother (and later on me). She did it so I didn't have to get hurt. She didn't want it to come to the point where she had to run out. It's my fault that she got beat every day be Raegan. My mother and father didn't speak much except for my birthday. They never officially said they weren't together, but it was apparent to my cousins that I only lived with my mother.

My mother said that it was my fault she endured all that pain. This only made me feel worse about myself. Now, it wasn't just me saying it, but it was my mother confirming that it was over me. My father didn't like the man I was being molded into being. He was going to do all that to me, but thankfully, my mother loved me enough to stop it from happening. I can't be grateful enough for that. She still blames her permanent injuries to her eye on me even though she didn't have to practically sacrifice herself for me. I would've taken Raegan's rage rather than watch her receive it.

table by ghosty