//Trigger warning for domestic abuse, child abuse
Atticus remembered how light his mother would take all of this.
The abuse, the constant screaming, the endless panic, the nightmares, flashbacks, and hallucinations his father always was tormented by. They lead him to do horrible, inhumane things, things that were frowned upon but yet they were taken for they were always threatened, always beaten.
Atticus remembered being a little boy watching his mother being kept under his father's fist and at the sight of black and blue upon the soft olive skin of his sweet, gentle mother, Atticus remembered crying. His mother would always come over, broken and bruised to comfort her youngest son who'd always ask
"why? Why does daddy do this?"
"Daddy's real sick."
Atticus could remember his mother say in a gentle coo in his ears, a hand placed around his head as she cradled the sobbing little boy close to her chest, close to her beating heart as if the sound of every pulse could mask the grunts and cries from his delusional father, as if the gentle sound of life could mask the terror that was home.
"He's seen hell an' he don't know how to deal with it."
Atticus grew to fear his father, to fear his rage and his power. Blood was thicker than water, Attie knew he had to respect all of his family but he could never forgive everything his father had done. To his mother, to his brother, to him.
His mother used to say that he was once the sweetest man that ever walked upon earth. She said that he loved poetry and going out camping in the fields - a lover of nature was what she described him as. He loved birdwatching and tending to horses, he loved going out on hikes and picnics and every time she spoke of the reminiscence of the man who he used to be she'd smile and swoon. but everytime Atticus saw his father, his face reddened under whiskey's influence, his face wrinkled and fist clasped tightly against a belt, he'd desperately try to look past his eyes and see that gentle soul his mother spoke of.
But it was never there. The man's image forever tainted in his son's eyes.
The image remained even as Adulthood came. Atticus reached the age where most men would've moved out, most would have found a wife, a job, a home, something Attie did not see in his future. He was too busy staying home to watch over his family - his mother and father. He had to tend to his mother's bruises and monitor his father's alcohol to make sure he didn't simply poison himself to death.
A child taking care of his own parents. This was no way to be, this was not living. This was not a family.
Nighttime was always the worst, a constant state a Limbo.
Any second something could trigger an episode in his father, any minute his mother was at risk and the fact that she constantly had to handle this man made Attie's heart twist up and ache in his core - he thought his life was miserable, no, his life was nothing compared to his mother's pain. He had no right to complain.
After leading his drunken father over to the livingroom couch, Atticus sent a quick glare down to his blubbering mess of a parent. His eyes filled with vile disgust, brows furrowed with anger and hatred. The man's cheeks flushed a bright pink, his breath strong, his skin shining with sweat, the veteran was a mess and Atticus could see no beauty in him, no goodness. His father's fists were red and cracked fro being worn and used day after day - the holes in the walls, the bruise on his mother's cheeks, the redness on his clavicle was all proof of that.
With a low scoff Atticus would turn around to look at his mother who was standing by the doorframe dressed in an old nightgown, brown eyes wide and reddened with hurt and pain, her fingertips shook and her lower lip trembled as she looked over her husband and then onto her son who walked over and rested a gentle hand upon the woman's cheek that wasn't swollen from a punch.
"Amah, you've got to stop him from doin' this to ya."
The young adult would say to his aged mother who raised her hand to place over that of her son's, holding his palm close to her skin and leaning into the loving, gentle touch. Softness and affection she was denied from with her husband.
"Atticus, you know I can't."
The woman would say, her voice hitched with the sadness that lingered in her chest, her brown eyes raised to meet the olive irises of her beloved youngest son as he raised his finger to brushed the teardrop that ran from the angle of her cheeks. With a sigh, the weary woman took her sons hand and pulled it away from her visage and with a nod, Atticus brought his hands to his sides and sent a nod over to his mother.
"Get some rest while you can have it." He'd say over to the lady, a weak and weary smile now forming over his face before it was followed by a low sigh.
"I'll watch Abba tonight."
His mother's lips would part to speak to her son, she wanted to argue with him but she reluctantly nodded and quietly stepped away to hide into the obscurity of the master bedroom and with that, Atticus sighed and pivoted his stance to cast yet another piercing glare towards his father's slumbering body.
At least he wasn't with her tonight.
Taking a few steps over, Atticus would pull a chair out from the small old dining table to pull it in front of the couch and as he sat down, the old wood of his aged home creaked under his weight and with that, the young man sat and stared over his father with exhausted, darkened eyes that screamed of sleep deprivation.
The exhaustion took the best of him.
His lids was dragged down by the heavy weight of sleepiness, they fell, fell, fell shut.
Blackness took over and the Virginian had fallen asleep right on the chair he sat upon, his legs crossed over one another and his head hanging down to his chest from his shoulders. A few snores escaped from his parted lips, his throat ending up rather sore from taking in the dry Virginia air through snorts.
Like most times, his rest was cut short by a panicked scream and immediately the boy's head shut up with a grumble as he sent a tired look over to the couch.
His dad was gone.
Immediately Atticus stood up onto his feet, the heels of his shoes smashing into the wood flooring as he turned to look at the master bedroom which now had it's lights on.
"Please, you have to put the gun down."
Gun? Oh lord no, the man immediately rushed over to the scene, feet stomping against the ground angrily as his hands balled into fists and his jaw clenched in fury. Slamming a hand against the doorframe Atticus practically pulled himself in the room only to see him mother curled on the ground, pressed against the wall with his father at the other side of the room, he was shaking, holding a revolver in his hands. As he heard the loud steps of his son he jumped and pointed the weapon towards his child's way and immediately Atticus heard his mother shriek in panic.
"No! Please! I know it m-make you feel s-safe but please!That's your son!"
Almost instinctively, Atticus stared his father dead in the eyes, his panicked green eyes, reddened from tears and shaking with pure and utter terror. He raised his empty hands in the air as if he was submitting to an officer of the law, but the very instant his name was mentioned the man was quit to snap his aim over to his wife who reacted with a scream and that immediately raised red flags in Atticus and his heart pounded a hundred miles an hour, the pulsation in his jugulars only felt ever more prominent. His face twisted up in a furious scowl and he'd step forward, closer, closer,
BANG
A scream escaped both Atticus and his mother, his heart raced to his brain and for a moment he swore he had passed out, but he didn't. the shock of the sound left his lungs empty, his heart racing, his mind fuzzy. Thank the lord no one was shot. His father had sent a warning shot into the roof of the house, woodchips fell from the whole that had been formed under the force of the bullet shot into the atmosphere. The veteran was shaking, panicked. His free hand was outstretched and a thin index finger was pointing at his son's direction.
"Don'tchya dare get any closer t'me, boy."
The alcoholic would say, his voice trembling with fear and desperation but yet it carried the deepness and hostility of a sincere threat. He closed his lips tight as he kept his eyes over his son who was stiff and still, unsure of what to do or to say. Anytime here and now he could die, his mother could die. This man was not fit to have any weapon let alone a firearm but he could not let this man have this much power.
If I were to die, so be it. Mother doesn't deserve to die by her husband's arm.
With a quick, sudden lunge forward Atticus shifted over to place his body between his father and his mother who immediately began yelling in Hebrew, desperately begging her son to stop! Please! Don't do this!
He saw his father's finger latch around the trigger of the revolver clumsily and immediately he reached in to grab the wrists of the man, raising his arms up to the sky and-
BANG BANG
Two shots followed by more screaming, more loosened debris fell from the roof and now Atticus was eye to eye with his father.
The two same exact shades of green irises locked into one piercing showdown, but only one set of eyes held the power now.
The youngest man quickly stepped onto his father's foot and immediately he moaned in pain and released his grip on his firearm for Atticus to take, holding it awkwardly in his hands with his finger over the trigger he watched his drunken mess of a parent stumble onto the floor and immediately he pointed the barrel of the pistol onto the man who had started to sob violently, tears leaking from his face, broken tears but Atticus never saw a good man within his father and he wouldn't now.
His hands shook as his finger rested over the trigger, pointing directly at the sobbing Veteran on the ground who raised his eyes and spoke:
"You'd be doin' me a damn favour!" He'd scream with a crack of his voice, accent heavy on his tongue and words slurred from the abuse of alcohol. "Pull the damn trigger!"
It was ever so tempting.
Atticus held his breath, steadied his aim, pointed the barrel between his fathr's eyes, allowed his finger to tense and-
"Stop it! Azrael! You're better than him!"
At the vicious outcry from his mother and the desperate mention of his birthname, Attie immediately dropped the weapon and allowed it to clatter on the ground and at that he heaved out heavy breaths, eyes wide with nothing but pure and utter shock as he watched his father curl onto the ground and heard his mother sob in the background.
Staring at the revolver, Attie felt a shame like no other, pure guilt, pure shame
He nearly killed a man today. His own father. The greatest sin of all.
Using the side of his shoe, the young adult kicked the gun away and immediately his trembling legs gave out underneath him and he collapsed on the ground, his back knocking into the wall behind him as the scene was blurred all around him, the crying sounded distant and the pain all muffled. He stared right into the void, his eyes blank and lips barely parted and even as his mother crawled closer to place a hand over his knee, he did not notice her, the boy said no words.
He felt nothing but guilt and heard nothing but a thought
I was acting just like him.
I am better than him.
I never want to be like him.