I've been mute for as long as I can remember—
or maybe since the day I stopped remembering.
I'm a scrawny kid with fogged-over eyes and brown hair that never quite listens when I try to comb it. I tell myself I don't care about style, but maybe I just don't have the energy to.
Ohh yeah My name is Liam—though my parents only ever call me "kid," like they forgot I had one. Every day feels the same: my father shouting, swinging, desperate to force a voice out of me that isn't there. My mother leaving me in the car while she disappears with Tom, her "trainer."
When I'm not living through that, I'm at school, where the beatings are quieter but just as cruel.
I'm alive.
At least, that's what everyone says.
But sometimes, I wonder if I really am.
Let me get something straight—
I can talk.
Yes, I have a voice.
I just choose not to use it.
Even though I want nothing to do with my short-tempered, giraffe-necked excuse of a father, I can't deny he passed down his stubbornness—and his talent for holding grudges. That's the one thing I didn't have a choice in.
But I swore a long time ago: he and my mother will never hear my voice again.
When I was barely a year old, he came home drunk out of his mind, raving about something I couldn't possibly understand. He screamed in my face and—somewhere between one breath and the next—dragged a knife across my eyebrow. Left a scar deep enough to remember him by.
I only know the story because my mom told me once—slurring apologies through a bottle she couldn't put down. She said she froze. Couldn't move. Couldn't protect me.
So yeah. I can talk. I just don't waste it on them.
The only time I use my voice is after school—when I'm doing the one thing that actually feels like mine.
My parents signed me up for tutoring because my grades dropped, and they didn't want to deal with their "failure of a son" any earlier than they had to. The tutoring place is twenty-seven minutes away, in some small plaza.
They think I'm studying.
In reality, I take the money and spend it on kickboxing and judo lessons.
The only reason I haven't been caught? My father could never tell the difference between a sparring bruise and one of his own.
Guess that little streak of mischief comes from my mom.
Honestly, the only thing keeping me going is the sound.
That rhythm.
The swish—then the bang.
Again.
Swish. Bang.
My leg slams into the heavy bag, the chain rattling from the impact. Sweat burning my eyes, but I don't stop.
"Give this last one all you got!" Shank yells.
I breathe in deep.
Swish. Bang!
The sound echoes through the small gym like a heartbeat that refuses to die.
Shank grins, handing me a bottle of water. "Good work, kid. As always."
He wipes his hands on a towel, watching me catch my breath. "Not a lot of kids got your drive, son."
Then the grin fades. His tone shifts—serious now, heavy.
"I'm not pressuring you, but… whenever you wanna talk—or if you need me to handle whoever's leaving those marks—just say the word."
I look at him.
He means it.
But words don't come easy for me.
So I give him the same hollow smile I always do and say quietly,
"Everything's good. I'm fine."
The lie hits harder than any punch I've ever thrown.
Shank looks at me like he knows everything.
Like he's lived through seven of my lives.
No movement—just that piercing gaze.
Then he smirks.
"Alright, kid. You've been coming here for three years now. I can count on one hand the number of times you didn't walk in here with a bruise."
He starts circling me, his voice steady, almost casual.
"Head. Arms. Legs. Face. Stomach. They really never get tired of hitting you, huh?"
He stops. For a second, he's somewhere else—eyes distant, jaw tight. Like he's remembering something he wishes he could forget.
"I care, Liam," he says quietly.
He starts walking again.
"You used to come in here screaming—tears running down your face while you pounded that bag like it was the world itself. But lately…" He pauses, studying me. "There's a calmness to you now. A calculated calmness. That scares me more than the yelling ever did."
He steps in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him.
"I'm banning you from training for two months."
I blink, unsure if I heard him right.
"You've got your first day of middle school tomorrow," he adds, softer now. "You can still come here, if you need to breathe. But I want you to try—just try—to enjoy your youth while you still can."
Every now and then, I feel this strange warmth from him.
Something that makes me want to cry.
I'm not angry—just sad. Sad for lying to someone who actually cares.
When I finally got home, the house is quieter than usual. No shouting. No crashes. No sound at all.
I shower, eat, and try to convince myself this peace isn't temporary.
By now, I'd usually have a bruise or two. But tonight, nothing.
Even my parents look… different.
Something's definitely changed.
I draw in a slow breath, the kind that trembles on its way out.
This place was never home.
Truth is, I don't even know what home is supposed to feel like.
Warmth? Safety? Or just the absence of fear?
The closest thing I've ever had to family is Shank — a man with scars older than my dreams.
There's a flicker of a grandmother somewhere in my memories — gentle hands, a soft voice, maybe even love. But the image is warped, buried under years of sickness and silence. Only recently has she begun to feel human again.
And me?
In a few hours, I'll walk into another battlefield.
Different walls, same war.
Sometimes the thought crosses my mind —
to just end it all.
Would anyone care?
Would anyone even notice?
The room drowns in silence.
I sit there, stealing myself piece by piece, whispering lies I hope to believe.
Enough.
Sleep. Just sleep through the panic. Through the noise.
First day of middle school.
Another cycle. Another fight.
"Ah… here we go again."
Authors note #1
Story is definitely something "simple "
Hope you enjoy :)
All music is real no copyrights it's made for the story. Just search the name and artist.
This story should be short maybe 800 -1000 chapters.