I GUESS WE COULD PRETEND 2.

Ben's POV.

As I stepped through the front door, escaping the drudgery of a day cut short by illness, I was met with a scene that would shatter my fragile calm. Rainbow, that tiny, tousled bundle of energy, sat perched on the kitchen island, her small back a defiant wall between us. The glow of the iPad cast an ethereal light on her curls, and the sound of her mama's voice drifted through the air, a gentle hum that seemed to reverberate deep within my chest.

Something about the scene felt off, like a discordant note in an otherwise familiar melody. And then, like a cold wind on a winter's night, I heard it – a single word that made my heart stumble, my feet root to the spot. "Adoption."

The room seemed to tilt, the colors bleeding together as my mind reeled. Adoption? What did it mean? Was Rainbow...was she leaving me? The thought was a knife to the gut, a searing pain that left me breathless. I felt like I was drowning, unable to process the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me.

I'd been bracing myself for this moment, anticipating the inevitable conversation that would shatter the fragile facade of our family plans. My wife's mother had always been vocal about her desire for grandchildren, and I'd assumed that the topic of adoption would eventually arise, a convenient smokescreen to conceal our own fertility struggles.

But nothing could have prepared me for the visceral impact of hearing her utter the word "adoption" out loud. It was as if the ground beneath me had shifted, leaving me reeling.

The truth, hidden behind a mask of assumptions and unspoken expectations, was that we'd never actually discussed children. Not once. I'd always imagined that it would happen naturally, an effortless progression from the euphoric highs of our honeymoon phase. But now, confronted with the harsh reality of our childless marriage, I felt like I was staring into an abyss, the silence between us a deafening reminder of our unspoken doubts and fears.

The moment our eyes met, time froze. The air was heavy with unspoken words, unresolved emotions, and the weight of our fractured relationship. I felt like I was drowning in the depths of her gaze, unable to escape the anguish that seemed to radiate from her very being. After an eternity of silence, I blinked and, without a word, turned and walked away.

The sound of her cries echoed through the hallway, a heart-wrenching reminder of the pain I'd caused. But I couldn't bring myself to go back to her. The chasm between us had grown too wide, the hurt and resentment too deep. I'd lost the ability to communicate with her, to navigate the treacherous landscape of our emotions without inflicting more harm.

Before Rainbow burst into my life like a ray of sunshine, my existence was a desolate wasteland. A never-ending cycle of pain, fear, and desperation. But perhaps it's time to confront the ghosts of my past, to unravel the tangled threads of my story, and to reveal the scars that have shaped me into the person I am today.

My mother was the quintessential small-town girl with big-city dreams, my mother's story was supposed to be a fairy tale. She left her humble beginnings behind, bound for the bright lights and bustling streets of the city, with aspirations of becoming a country singer. And then she met my father...but that's where the fairy tale ended.

My childhood was a grim reality, a far cry from the happily-ever-after I'd seen in movies. The only times I saw my father at home were when he was wreaking havoc, his addiction-fueled rage directed at my mother. I remember the sound of his fists pounding against her fragile body, the sickening crunch of bone on bone, and the anguished cries that still haunt my dreams.

There were times when he'd beat her so mercilessly that she'd lapse into unconsciousness for days, leaving me alone and terrified, clinging to her battered body as I wept uncontrollably, praying for her to wake up.

The smallest spark could ignite my father's fury when his drug supply dwindled and his pockets were empty. His anger was a raging beast, unleashed upon my mother whenever he couldn't cadge more money from her or couldn't scrape together enough cash to feed his habit.

The vile names he'd call her still echo in my mind, a toxic litany of hatred and contempt. And then, the beatings would start again – merciless, brutal, and relentless.

But my mother, battered and bruised, would always find the strength to shield me from his wrath. She'd position herself between us, a fragile barrier against the storm of his fury. At least, when she was around, he never laid a hand on me. But the memories of those terrifying moments, the sound of her screams and his snarls, are forever etched in my mind.

The venomous names he spat at me were only the beginning. As I grew older, his cruelty escalated, and his fists began to find their mark. I endured the brutal beatings until I was around ten years old, but it was what happened next that would forever sear itself into my memory.

I recall the night my mother left for her gig at the club, the sound of the door closing behind her seemed to unleash a malevolent energy within him. His voice, dripping with sadistic intent, called out to me, "Benji boy...daddy's got a surprise for you." The sickly sweet tone sent shivers down my spine, and I knew I had to escape.

I ran, my hands clamped over my ears as if they could block out his voice, his existence. I told myself that if I ignored him, he'd go away. I hid under my mother's bed, my heart racing, my breath caught in my throat. But he found me, his sinister presence suffocating, crushing me beneath its weight.

No sooner had I caught my breath than I felt his grasp on my ankle, yanking me out from under the bed like a rag doll. I kicked and screamed, my pleas echoing through the room. "No, no, please stop! Mummy, save me! Please don't hurt me...I'll be a good boy, please!" My voice trembled, my heart racing with terror.

And then, I felt it - a chilling sensation on my neck, like a cold breeze on a winter's night, but this was different. This was a cold that seeped into my bones, froze my heart, and numbed my spine. Fear paralyzed me.

His voice was low and menacing, a sinister whisper that sent shivers down my spine. "Shh...Benji boy," he cooed. "You're a good boy, aren't you?" I nodded frantically, desperate to appease him. "Yes! Yes, I am."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Good, very good," he whispered, his words dripping with malice.

"Good boys do as they're told, you know that, right?" His voice was low and menacing, making my skin crawl. I nodded again, my voice trapped in my throat by fear.

He leaned in closer, his grip on my face tightening. "Alright, I'm gonna need you to listen very carefully, alright?" I nodded, my heart racing, and managed a barely audible "Yes."

A sly grin spread across his face, his eyes glinting with a sinister intent. "I need you to help me get money from a friend downstairs, so your mummy won't have to work so hard anymore, alright?" The thought of my mother's weary face, her exhausted eyes, and her perpetual worry, all began to lift. A spark of hope ignited within me.

"How?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and desperation.

His response was casual, almost dismissive. "Go play with my friend downstairs." That was it. Those five words hung in the air like a challenge, a test of my obedience, and a harbinger of the horrors to come.

I'd thought that this simple task would be the key to keeping my mother by my side, to having her warm smile and loving arms envelop me every night. With a naive determination, I steeled myself and walked downstairs, my heart pounding in my chest.

But what awaited me was a nightmare. A giant of a woman, twice my mother's size, loomed before me, her presence suffocating. Fear clawed at my throat, and I desperately wanted to flee, to hide under my mother's bed and pretend this was all just a terrible dream.

But when I turned to escape, my father's menacing figure blocked my path, a glinting knife held menacingly in his hand. His voice was a cold, calculated whisper: "Go ahead." My heart shattered, and my spirit was crushed. I took a step forward, and with that, my innocence was lost forever. I was groped in places a ten-year-old kid shouldn't.

I remember her sloppy attempts at kissing me because I was trashing and screaming. I remember slaps to get me to stay still as she tried to undo my pants.

After she was done with me, Father wasn't happy because she didn't pay in full but pardoned me, saying it was my first time and that I'd do better next time.

Two years later, I'd been repeatedly molested by different men and women brought home by my father each night my mum was out; she didn't have a clue of what was happening behind her back until my twelfth birthday.