Warning: Mentions of abuse and for future chapters... physical abuse. Be warned!

The shrill screams of the sea creatures used to keep me up at night. They would deafen my mothers cries for help as my father beat her. The punches coming down like rain does in this piss-poor excuse of a seaport.

When I was younger, I used to fear the unknown. The ill-shapes lurking in the deep sea-green water. Tales of pale unseeing eyes, razor-sharp rows of teeth, and stomachs with the capacity to swallow a ship whole haunted my nightmares. 

Tellings, with creatures so vile and vicious, made me fear for the sailors trying to conquer the sea. Now, I wish for nothing more than for one of the cruel monsters to take my father, hoping that one day, he won't return.

My father is not a good man. He never was. But the rest of the town thinks so. The women used to look at him with an unspoken desire, a glint in their eyes. Some still do, wishing to replace my mother, calling her ungrateful. If only they knew how he treats her behind closed doors. 

The men of the town are different, though. They admire him. Their respect is loud and vocal, always has been. “The great sea-beast hunter of Eeltown” and “A living legend” are titles they throw around after one too many pints at the local bar. Again, I keep telling myself, if only they knew. If only they knew what kind of monster truly walks among us. It’s certainly not the monsters of the sea. 

When the sun sets sail and the moon takes the spot, the hits fall like water out of a waterfall. The vase by the kitchen counter has been knocked over and replaced one too many times. The belt around my father’s waist is more familiar with my back than it is with the loops in his pants. And if you were to ask my father why? He would say, to make me a man, to teach discipline. I call bullshit. 

The thought of standing up to my father is an ongoing battle in my mind. I gave up using my words a long time ago. They don't work against a man with no reason. The truth is, even at the age of fifteen, I'm not much of a man. My father is bigger than me, he is taller and stronger too. 

Although my imagination has always been lively, and some wishful thinking has never hurt. That’s why I sometimes entertain the thought of killing him. As crazy as that sounds, and as guilty as it makes me feel. 

I sometimes think about strangling him. When I close my eyes, I imagine wrapping my hands around his neck and not letting go - not until he’s all blue in the face. 

Around the dinner table, while my mom is slaving away in the kitchen, I imagine my father choking on one of his sausages. The ones he always stuffs his face with - like a hungry pig. It’s almost comical how his face becomes expressionless in my mind, smacking down onto the table and cracking the white porcelain plate, dead to the world. Gone and out of our lives forever. 

Other times my thoughts aren’t so detailed. Sometimes it’s just a simple heart attack, an accidental stabbing, or the best of them all, a drowning down by the harbor. 

I don’t always just think about his death. 

Sometimes, I let my mind wander in another wishful direction. Thinking about how my mother and I would live on. The wrinkles on my mother’s forehead would be fewer, the tightness in her shoulders would ease up and she would finally be a free woman. She would even be able to marry that accountant she’s been seeing in secret for a while now. The lanky one with the square glasses. The one that resides in the fancier parts of town. At least he treats her right if the smile on her face every time she returns is anything to go by. 

I will never come to understand what my mother saw in my father. I’d say a witch spell if anything - and now she’s trapped. 

I’ve often distracted myself with the thought of her leaving me for a better life. And to be honest I wouldn’t be mad about it. I might be dragged down in my father’s miserable footsteps. As I’m meant to be. Forced to hunt and kill sea-beasts. Like father, like son. But at least I’d feel better knowing she’s in a better place. 

My fingertips pinch the sandpaper-like page of my newest novel, turning a new page. Yesterday's shipment brought all sorts of new stuff from the other world. One that Eeltown is struggling to follow. 

My mother got me the novel. She likes to make me read, even if I’m not very good at it. She typically tells me that a man is no man, if a man can’t read. If my dad heard that, he would be fuming, red-faced, and with smoke coming out of his ears. I wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly grew devil horns from that alone. 

I stare at the words on the yellowish page. It’s mostly just a bunch of gibberish. A jumble of words, long and short. It’s prestigious and not intended for a boy that can’t read above a certain kid's level. Yet, I still try, hell-bent on not ending up like my father. I keep reading a sentence, only to reread it again when suddenly, there's a sharp knock on my door, dragging me away from the ink smudges at the end of the page. 

My father pounds into my room, nostrils flared and out of breath. “Oh, so you’re doing nothing,” He huffs an annoyed breath of air, smacking his thigh with his old and ragged gloves in one hand, “I see.” 

There’s a silence following his few words. His dirty hands now resting on his cocked hips as he takes in the sight of me on my bed, book in my lap.

“I’m reading,” I reply, mouth forming a tight line as I fight the urge to not answer back with more vigor. 

He chuckles. It’s low and void of any humor. “You’re doing nothing of that sort,” He walks over to me with heavy steps, boots thumping against the oak floorboards. The book flies off my lap, landing on the floor with a loud thud. The rest of the house is silent, either my mom isn’t home or she knows not to intervene. 

I can feel his hand clasp its usual tight grip around my arm, gaining a good hold on my bicep. He pulls me up and off my bed. The bed springs squeak in reply. “Now that you have nothing better to do, why don’t you come to the harbor and help me fix Erving's boat?” 

It’s more of an order rather than an invitation. 

“Mom said I should practice my reading,” I say as a last way out, trying to shrug out of his hold. I would do anything to get out of working with my dad and Erving on his stupid boat. It’s a bunch of scrap at this point and no work on it will ever make it sail properly again. That boat had set its sails to heaven a long time ago, now nothing but an empty shell that Erving is trying to uphold for dear life.

My father lets go of me. The grip he had on me still burns, slowly being replaced by a dull throb. He walks back towards the door, his broad back the only thing I can see. I might not be able to see his face, but he can’t be happy. He never is. 

“And you think I care about what your mother says?” He asks without looking over his shoulder. 

“Of course not,” I answer, slowly. Thinking I dodged a bullet, I start to reach for my book on the floor - some of the pages already bent from what I can see - when my father’s suddenly all up in my face, hands gripping the front of my shirt tightly. He glares at me with stern and cold eyes, breath tinged with something bitter and alcoholic. 

“You think I’m fine with having a weakling of a son, one that reads?” His face gets closer, too close. It’s all twisted, mouth formed into a sneer. From here I can see his gold tooth, the one he got after drunkenly falling into the dinner table one night. He yelled and screamed bloody murder the entire night for me and my mother to not utter a single word about it. Instead, he went to the bar the next night just to pick a fight with someone and blame it on that. “Words are for the weak,” He adds as if that is reasoning enough alone. “It’s the muscle that counts, the strength.” 

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I hear you loud and clear.” 

“Good,” It’s final. He’s satisfied with the answer. My father releases his grip on my shirt and my feet touch the ground again. “Then get down to the harbor.” He ruffles my hair roughly before finally leaving my room, carefree as ever. He knows I hate when he does that, hence why he does it. I can feel the anger simmer in the pit of my stomach as I blow a blond strand of hair out of my face. I discard my book in my bedside drawer before leaving my room.      

My father is already out of the house as I make my way to the hallway. My mother is leaning on the window sill near the front door, a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and her arms cradled around herself, mimicking an inch of comfort. “Remember your scarf,” She adds, as I put on my jacket. 

“Do I have to?” I turn around to see her cock her head at me. “It’s not even that cold outside.” 

She takes the scarf from the hanger, handing it to me with slender hands. It’s dark blue and too thin to really protect from the cold, but she always insists. I put it on reluctantly. Before I can slither my way outside she plants her lips on my forehead, leaving a wet patch that I dry off with a disgusted groan. 

“Stay safe,” She says before opening the door and pushing me outside. “And you should hurry if you don't want your father to get mad, he’s already in a grumpy mood.” 

“Too late for that,” I mumble more to myself than her, already out of hearing range. I watch my boots dig into the mud as I walk down the uneven dirt trail to the boats. They’re not far off, and I've walked the trail more than a hundred times already… And hated it every single time.   

As I take the last turn around a brick building, I’m met with the sight of the sea. Boats litter the harbor, both big and small. They rock along with the waves, left unattended. All alone. Seagulls squawk inharmoniously, clashing against the peaceful sound of the waves meeting the shore. 

The ground beneath me turns from dirt and sand into wood. The floorboards creak as I step on them, the water visible through the many cracks as I near Erving’s boat. Both my father and Erving look up at the sound of me coming closer. 

“There he goes swaying his hips like a girl,” Erving comments as I step onto the boat. An unnerving smile pulling on the flesh of his gaunt face, yellow teeth visible past cracked lips. His overalls are dirty and he has a screwdriver in hand, pointing it at me as to make it any more obvious that it’s me he’s talking about. Not that any other kid would go near him in a 5-mile radius. 

My dad shoves him lightly, a chuckle falling from his chapped lips. “Don’t give him any good ideas now.” 

“You wanted my help and now I’m here, so what do you want me to do?” I ask, fighting off the urge to leave. 

Erving points over to a bucket filled with soapy water and to the mop on the floor. “These dumb birds think sweet Patricia here is a toilet, I want you to scrub her clean.” 

Both men return to their tinkering with whatever as I pick up the bucket and the mop and move to the other side of the boat. I busy myself mopping the floor, relaxing more with each wave that crashes against the side of the boat, rocking it lightly. 

The birds caw from above as the wind picks up. It’s cold and the sky is a pale blue. I breathe in the salty air, leaning against my mop. Maybe it was luck that I see him at that moment, or maybe it was just meant to be, but there he was. 

A boy, around the same age as me, yet smaller. He always stood out to me, no matter where in town. Not only because of his brown skin but also because of his pretty face, almost magical-like with unscarred skin and caramel eyes. 

He’s standing by the other pier - a bit further away - in nothing but a ripped shirt that falls over his slender shoulder and some loose shorts. He walks closer to the end of the pier. Nearing the edge.

“Be careful over there!” I yell out, trying to deafen the screaming birds and the crashing waves. “The currents can be really strong if you fall in.” 

The boy merely looks over at me, a soft smile on his face. He waves, hand following the motion of the waves. His behavior is odd and so is his movement. It’s like his body isn’t really his. It’s almost like he’s in a trance.  

I set into action before he even takes the next step, falling into the water. The bucket of water tips over as I drop the mop in a haste. Rushing over to where he fell in or jumped... 

I can hear my father’s angry yells to come back, but I ignore them. My vision is tunneled on one thing, and one thing only - where the boy once stood. I fall to my knees by the edge, scraping them against the wood. The pain is nothing compared to the fear I feel. I can’t see anything under the dark water. The waves make sure of that. I hear the heavy footsteps of my father behind me. Then a second pair, Ervings. 

I look back into the water, solely focused on finding a hint of the boy beneath. And that’s when I see it, a hint of a white ratty shirt. Without thinking, I jump in.