Trigger Warning:
This story contains content that may be distressing to some readers, including themes of abuse, violence, trauma, and non-consensual situations. Reader discretion is advised.
(NOAH PAST FLASHBACK 1)
Noah's POV
Home was supposed to smell like soup and safety.
Mine smelled like vodka, sweat, and broken glass.
The kind of smell that clung to your clothes and curled inside your throat until you forgot how to breathe. I was six the first time I understood what it meant to be afraid of going home. Not the kind of fear that makes your hands tremble—no, this was quieter. The kind that made your stomach tighten when the sun dipped too low, when the door creaked open, and when footsteps echoed in drunk, uneven rhythm.
I was six. But I'd already learned how to hold my breath for a long time.
The apartment was small—one bedroom, one living room that doubled as a kitchen, and one bathroom that always dripped from the ceiling. Mold climbed the edges of the wallpaper, and the only light that came in was from the neon sign outside, blinking red like a warning. Home.
"Where's Mama?" I'd asked once, sitting cross-legged with a chipped spoon in hand, waiting for dinner.
My father didn't answer. He didn't like questions.
That night, a glass ashtray hit the wall just above my head. I flinched. He didn't even look at me as he staggered past, muttering curses at the air. That was the night I started sleeping behind the couch.
He used to call me a "mistake." Or "shit-head." Or worse, when the alcohol sunk in and there was nothing left to blame but me. I didn't understand what half of those words meant back then—but I knew they weren't kind. My mother, she'd always try to protect me. She'd stand in front of me, arms outstretched, voice shaking as she pleaded.
"Don't, please. He's just a child."
"Just like you," he'd sneer, grabbing her arm, twisting it. "Weak. Useless."
He'd hit her.
And she'd hit the floor.
Every time.
I learned that the floor always caught her, even when he didn't.
When she was quiet again, when the storm had passed, I'd crawl out from behind the couch or under the bed and press my little hands to her cheeks.
She'd smile. With blood on her lips, she'd smile and say, "It's okay. I'm here, baby."
But it wasn't okay. And I think she knew that too.
—
I remember the first time the men in black coats came. Debt collectors. They knocked like they owned the door. I was seven. I peeked from behind the curtain while my father opened the door and cursed under his breath.
They were tall, dressed better than anyone I'd ever seen in our building. One of them wore rings on every finger. The other carried a silver-tipped cane. They didn't talk—they threatened. With smiles. Polite voices. But the way my father's face drained of color, I knew these were not men who waited.
One of them glanced inside and saw my mother standing in the kitchen, clutching a tea towel. He whistled. Long. Low.
"She's a pretty one," he murmured.
My mother flinched.
"Maybe we can work something out," the man said, reaching for her wrist.
I saw her eyes go wide. My father didn't move. He just lit a cigarette.
That night, Mama locked herself in the bathroom and cried for hours. I sat outside the door, humming. My version of lullabies.
—
When the money ran out, the fighting got worse.
Some days, my father wouldn't come home. Other days, he'd come home with broken knuckles and empty pockets, muttering about betting slips and "those bastard collectors." Once, he threw our tiny TV out the window. Another time, he smashed every dish in the cabinet.
That night, I stepped on a shard of glass while trying to pick up the mess. It cut deep, but I didn't cry. I just sat on the floor, bleeding, while my mother wrapped it with a dish towel.
"You're too brave for someone so small," she whispered.
I wanted to say, "I don't want to be brave." But I didn't. I never did.
—
I started stealing food when I was eight.
A loaf of bread here. A can of beans there. The corner store clerk never noticed. I was fast. Slippery. Invisible.
One day, Mama found the stash under my bed. Instead of yelling, she sat down and cried, holding the stolen bread like it was gold.
She hugged me that night. Hard. "You're going to survive this," she said.
"I don't want to survive," I said. "I want you to be happy."
She didn't say anything to that. Just kissed my forehead.
—
But happiness was never ours to keep.
The worst night came in winter. Cold seeped through the cracks in the window, and the radiator barely worked. My father came home in a rage, louder than ever. His face was red, lips cracked, eyes wild. He smelled like gasoline.
"You fucking whore," he roared at my mother. "You're the reason they're after me! You and your bastard kid!"
He threw a beer bottle. It shattered against the wall, pieces flying like angry stars.
I crawled under the bed again.
My mother screamed this time. It was different. Not pain—fear. Real fear. She tried to run. He grabbed her hair.
I heard the thud. The sound of her body hitting the floor. And then silence.
When I peeked out, she was bleeding. Crawling toward the bedroom, one hand gripping her side.
She saw me. Smiled.
"Don't come out," she whispered. "Not yet."
That was the night I stopped believing in anything.
—
I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, my hands clutched into tiny fists.
And I thought:
Maybe I wasn't meant to be loved.
Maybe I was just meant to survive.
Even now, all these years later, I can still smell the vodka. Still hear the glass. Still feel the weight of my mother's eyes begging me not to grow up too fast.
But I did.
I had to.
Because the world didn't wait for little boys to heal. It just kept breaking them.
And I—Noah—I was already broken.
___________________________________
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