• He drew in a shaky breath, trembling quietly. The force of his father's words slammed him, a weight of imperfections stabbing into the very dephs of his chest cavity. A pile of inadeqecies growing heavier with each passing moment. Shudders wracked him. He gasped, heaving in desperate, panicky breaths, soft animalistic wimpers seeming to tear themselves from his very soul. He rocked back and forth, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tightly about them. His head shook slowly back and forth in fervent, heartbroken denial. He couldn't stay strong. He couldn't keep hearing the words, couldn't bear the incessant repetition of insults. The agonizing jibes. A sense of dejection and self-loathing welled simultaneously within him. The wimpers morphed into haunting, mournful cries. Shame pricked instinctively at him. Men didn't cry. However, the soft, feral yowls continued to strike out into the air, fading into anguish-thick nothingness, only to be swiftly replaced with yet another. He was cracking, broken. Slowly dying. His soul shattered, the fragments tearing him apart from the inside out. The poisonous words intoxicated him, drawing him into their searing embrace, burning him silently. Softly it ended. His soul died, withering in its neglect.
    He was only seven.