Dark Heart, Gentle Hands Chapter 2: you are a curse!

Trigger Warning:

This Chapter contains depictions of physical abuse, homophobia, and emotional distress. Please proceed with caution.

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Enzo’s POV

It’s been a week since Dad and I had that argunt in my room. The room feels smaller every ti I think about it, suffocating with the weight of what he said. He’s been busy, so we haven’t had a chance to talk about it again, but I don’t know what I would say anyway. What could I say that would make him understand?

"...Am I right, Enzo?"

Miranda’s voice cuts through the fog in my mind, dragging back to reality.

"What?" I blink rapidly, trying to refocus. I hadn’t even realized I’d zoned out.

"Where is your head, Enzo? You’ve been spacing out a lot lately. What’s going on?" She closes her book with a soft, almost hesitant thud, and looks at , her brown eyes filled with concern.

My stomach churns, guilt flooding my chest. "It’s nothing," I say too quickly, my voice flat and unconvincing. "I’m just tired. Maybe we should call it a day."

She studies for a long mont, brow furrowed, like she can see right through . Her lips part as if she wants to say sothing more, but then she simply nods, her eyes filled with quiet worry. "Okay... but if you ever need to talk, I’m here."

I give her a small, forced smile, but it’s hollow. I can feel the weight of my secrets pressing against my ribs, the emptiness of not being able to share them with anyone.

"Bye, Miranda. See you in class tomorrow," I mutter, my voice distant.

She hugs briefly before I walk away, the warmth of her arms around doing little to chase away the cold that’s taken root inside .

---

When I get ho, the familiar, sharp scent of alcohol hits before I even step inside. It’s sickly sweet, stinging my nose, and I feel an imdiate wave of nausea rise in my throat. It’s almost suffocating—the sll mixes with the stale, stagnant air that always seems to linger in the house. The house feels colder than usual today, like it’s waiting for sothing. Or soone.

Dad is sitting in the living room, slouched in his chair, the dim light from the TV flickering across his face. His expression is unreadable, but there’s an edge to the silence, a tension that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Good evening, Dad," I say quietly, trying to keep my voice steady. But it shakes, just a little.

No response.

"Good evening, Da—"

Before I can finish, he stands up. His movents are slow, deliberate, as if every step is calculated. The bottle of liquor hangs loosely from his hand, swaying with his unsteady steps. But it’s the other hand—the one gripping the whip—that freezes in place. I can almost hear the sickening crack of it cutting through the air, the sharp sound that always makes my heart race.

A cold, sick feeling settles deep in my stomach. I want to run, but my feet feel like they’ve been glued to the floor. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I can feel it in my throat, my hands clammy with sweat.

And then I see it.

The box.

Those magazines. The ones I thought I had hidden safely under my bed. But now they’re there, exposed. It’s like a cruel reminder of everything I’ve tried to bury.

"Dad, I can explain," I stamr, my voice trembling as I take a step back. My throat feels dry, tight, like the words can’t escape. "It’s not what you think—"

His eyes lock onto mine, cold and accusing. There’s no warmth in them, only fury. "What do you want to explain?" His voice is low and venomous, as though each word is ant to tear down. "That you’re a fag? That you like to be fucked in the ass? Huh?"

The words hit like a slap, sharp and stinging. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel like I’ve been struck, unable to find my footing. I want to argue, to shout back, but my voice is trapped in my chest, suffocated by the weight of his hatred.

"Where did I go wrong with you?" His voice cracks, filled with rage and sothing darker—maybe regret, maybe sorrow—but mostly just disgust.

"Dad, please..." My voice is barely a whisper now, cracked with the weight of everything I can’t say. "Try to understand . Please."

"Understand you?" He laughs bitterly, a humorless sound that cuts through the air like broken glass. "What is there to understand? You ungrateful piece of shit. I wish you were never born. You’re the reason I lost the only woman I ever loved. You’re a disgrace. A curse."

Each word lands with a force that feels like a physical blow. I can feel the heat in my face, the flush of sha and pain rising in my chest, the hollow ache that spreads through with every accusation. It’s like his words are crawling under my skin, sinking into my bones.

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Suddenly, without warning, he lunges.

My body reacts before my mind does. I try to run for the door, my legs unsteady beneath , but he’s faster. His hand shoots out, grabbing my arm with a grip so tight it feels like my bones might crack. He shoves back into the room, and the door slams shut behind us with a jarring, final thud.

I’m thrown across the room, my body slamming into the edge of the coffee table. The impact knocks the wind out of , and the air feels thick, like I’m suffocating. The room spins for a mont, but I can’t focus on anything but the cold terror seizing from the inside out.

"Dad, please don’t..." My voice is weak, barely more than a rasp. My hands tremble as I push myself up from the floor, but before I can even think to run again, he’s there.

The whip cracks through the air.

The sound cos before the pain. I feel it before I can process it, the sharp, burning sting as it strikes my back. It’s as if the very air around catches fire. My body jerks involuntarily, and I can’t even scream. My throat is too tight, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Dad, stop! Please, I’m begging you!" I cry, but my voice is swallowed by the sound of the whip hitting my skin again, and again. The pain slices through with each strike, tearing at my flesh and my resolve.

The scent of leather, sweat, and alcohol mingles in the air, thick and suffocating. My back burns, every nerve on fire, the pain overwhelming in its intensity. It feels like my body is being torn apart, piece by piece.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

I can feel the blood, hot and sticky, trickling down my back, pooling where I lay. My body shakes uncontrollably, but I can’t move. I can’t fight. The weight of his anger, of his hatred, presses down on until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but take it.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he drops the whip. The sound of it hitting the floor is like the final nail in the coffin. My body goes limp as he lets go, but I can’t make myself move. I collapse to the floor, my face pressing against the cold, hard ground. I can feel the blood still oozing from my back, warm and sticky against my skin.

---

I stay there, curled up in a ball, too broken to move. The pain in my back is unbearable, but the worst part is the emptiness—the knowledge that this will never end. It will never stop, not as long as I’m here.

I can’t do this anymore.

I need to get away.

He won’t stop. He won’t stop until he’s destroyed everything I am, until I’ve disappeared completely.

Or until I’m dead, so I ran far away from ho, from him.