Chapter Seventy Four (Kayden’s Backstory)


    Kayden’s POV.


    Twenty–two years ago…


    I stood still as my father kept hitting me over and over again. I knew he wasn’t going to be satisfied until


    I shed a tear and showed him that I was in pain, but since that wasn’t going to happen, I prepared to


    continue getting hit until he would eventually get tired and leave me alone.


    “You should never forget whose son you are, you bastard!” he yelled angrily before punching me in the


    face. Since I didn’t expect the impact of the punch, I staggered backward, and when he realized that I


    was no longer steady, he did what he did best. He kicked me on my knee, causing me to fall t,


    and that was when it started. Again.


    The drunken kicking was a habit my father had whenever he was drunk, upset, or unsatisfied about


    something. This time, I was unfortunately the scapegoat of his rage, because he had gotten a call


    earlier from one of my teachers who had reported me for failing ss.


    He started to kick me everywhere he could, and I simplyy there, knowing that there was nothing I


    could do to stop him. I closed my eyes at a point, trying not to see his feete into contact with


    my skull, but I could still feel it.


    I continued to lie still as my father’s boots collided with my body over and over again. The pain seared


    through me, leaving me helpless and broken. Each blow felt like a physical manifestation of my father’s


    disappointment and anger. I tried to shield myself to protect my body, but it was futile. His rage was


    relentless.


    I could hear his voice, filled with venom and contempt, echoing in the air. “You’re useless, Kayden! I


    won’t tolerate your ipetence! You’re a disappointment!” His words cut deep, embedding


    themselves in my consciousness and fueling the self–doubt that had be my constantpanion.


    As I remained on the ground, my body aching and trembling, my father’s onught only intensified.


    The merciless kicks kepting, driving me further into a realm of despair and hopelessness. Each


    strike struck at my core, shattering whatever remnants of dignity or self–worth I managed to hold onto.


    In that moment, I remembered my entire life–a life dominated by fear, pain, and inexplicable rage.


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    (Kayden’s Backstory)


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    The abuse had be my nom, whispering lies that convinced me I was inherently wed and


    deserving of the torment that gued my existence.


    Lying there, battered and broken, a voice inside me whispered, “You deserve this. You’re worthless.” It


    was a voice that had grown louder with each passing day, echoing my father’s cruelty. It was a


    voice I hade to believe in with every fiber of my being.


    After he was finally satisfied, seeing that I was now bruised and battered, he finally stopped. He


    was done, and I was finally free–at least for now.


    As my father’s footsteps faded away, a heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the painful


    moans escaping my lips. I struggled to catch my breath, my body aching as if every inch of my skin had


    been set aze. The familiar taste of blood lingered in my mouth, a bitter reminder of the


    blows I had endured.


    Sighing in frustration, I pushed myself up from the cold, harsh floor, my muscles protesting with each


    movement. The pain shot through my body like an electric shock, but I gritted my teeth, refusing to let it


    consume me. Bruises adorned me like a macabre badge of honor, a visual reminder of my


    father’s rage and my weakness.


    Looking in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall, I winced at the sight of my battered face. My swollen


    eyes were starting to turn purple, and the cuts across my cheek were beginning to scab over. It was a


    sight that pained me not only physically but also emotionally–a constant reminder of how my


    life really was.


    Drawing in a deep breath, I mentally prepared myself for the next day. My father’s words echoed in my


    mind: I was to prepare for a guest’s arrival the next morning, and he expected me to hide the evidence


    of his brutality. I couldn’t afford to let anyone see any of my bruises, or else he’d kill


    1. me.


    With cautious movements, I rummaged through my wardrobe, searching for clothes that would


    sufficiently conceal my injuries. Long–sleeved shirts and sweaters–those were my go–to outfits


    whenever he hit me to the point where my bruises would take days, sometimes weeks, to heal. And I


    couldn’t afford for anyone to see the truth or get a glimpse of my reality.


    Carefully pulling the fabric over my fragile body, I winced at the throbbing ache that apanied every


    movement. I took a moment to study my reflection, adjusting the cor to hide the fading bruises on my


    neck. I looked like an average teenager, just another face in a crowd.


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    Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself of the excuse I had prepared football. If anyone asked, I would


    im that my face bore the marks of a rough game and that it was nothing serious.


    After preparing for the next morning, I sank into my bed, feeling exhausted. As I closed my eyes,


    attempting to sleep through the pain, the creak of the door broke the stillness. My mother entered, a


    guilty look etched across her face, her eyes filled with anguish.


    “Kayden,” she whispered. “Would you like some painkillers? Maybe it’ll help you sleep.”


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