The Second Wave of Thoughts

Papa was a good man, but a hard one—stern and uncompromising. He believed a boy needed to learn responsibility through struggle. A man's worth, he'd say, came from his work, his ability to provide for those who depended on him. No exceptions. Papa's house was a far cry from the middle-class homes John had seen on TV—a sagging, creaky structure that seemed to groan under the weight of time. The air was thick with moisture, the floors swollen with age. The walls creaked as if holding onto secrets. But it was home. And for the first time in years, it felt safe.

Sharing a room with Marc, his older cousin, on the second floor was a small comfort compared to the nightmare he'd endured only a few years ago. At least here, he wasn't alone. Even though the demons still came in the dark of night to haunt his dreams, John could sleep knowing someone was nearby—someone who could hear him if he cried out.

But tonight, something woke him.

John's body was still heavy with the weight of sleep, but his senses stirred, alert to the silence around him. Something wasn't right. His heartbeat quickened, and he lay there, straining to hear. Was it the wind? A noise downstairs? Or was it something else?

Then, he felt it. A steady, unmistakable drip, drip, drip.

John's eyes snapped open, his stomach sinking as his body reacted before his mind could. The sheets were soaked. His heart lurched. He'd peed the bed again.

A rush of shame swept over him, sharp and sudden. For a moment, he froze, unsure of what to do. Then, he quietly slid out of bed, moving carefully so as not to wake Marc. Every step felt like a betrayal—another crack in the fragile mask he'd built to hide his vulnerability.

In the dim light, as he tried to peel the wet sheets from the mattress, Bobby's voice cut through the stillness.

"Let's go, buddy. Let's get this cleaned up before Papa finds out."

Bobby was everything John wasn't: strong, confident, effortlessly funny. He could make people laugh without trying, and John envied him for it. To John, those traits felt like foreign concepts—things he couldn't hope to grasp.

But tonight, Bobby wasn't the protector he pretended to be.

They crept down the stairs, the old wood groaning underfoot. John's heart pounded in his chest, fear crawling up his throat. Something in the air felt wrong, like the ground beneath him was slipping away.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Bobby reached for the door handle to Papa's room. With a sudden yank, he flung the door open and shoved John forward.

"John just pissed the bed!" Bobby shouted, his voice thick with mockery.

The room seemed to tilt, and for a brief moment, John thought he might collapse. His stomach twisted, a cold rush of betrayal filling him. Bobby's laughter echoed off the walls, but it sounded hollow, distant. The trust he had in Bobby shattered in that instant.

Papa stood up from his chair, his large frame towering over John. His usual stern face flickered with a trace of doubt, a question he didn't want to ask. Slowly, deliberately, he undid his leather belt. The sound was sharp, final.

"As a man," Papa said, his voice low and steady, "you'll be responsible for your actions. You will carry yourself with honor."

Before John could fully process the words, the belt came down with a sickening crack.

Wack.

Wack.

Wack.

The pain sliced through John's skin, deep and relentless. His body jerked with each strike, his fists clenched tight to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. The leather seemed to tear not just at his body, but at his very soul. Every lash felt like a piece of his dignity was ripped away. The strikes, each harder than the last, built like waves crashing against him. The pain was unbearable—but it was the sense of injustice, the confusion, that gnawed at him the most.

"Now go clean yourself up," Papa's voice cut through the haze of pain, final and unemotional. "And don't let me see that again."

John didn't speak. His back burned, every step up the stairs an agony, but it was the weight in his chest that hurt the most. His world felt like it was crumbling, the foundations shifting.

At the top of the stairs, he stopped, the tears finally coming. They fell silently, hot and relentless, as his body shook with the pain he couldn't escape.

"Why?" he whispered, looking at Bobby, who had followed him silently.

Bobby just shrugged, his lips curling into a smirk. "Things get boring around here. Had to spice it up, grab a laugh."

The words stung worse than the beating. John couldn't understand how Bobby could be so indifferent, so callous, as though his pain was just another joke.

Without saying anything else, John turned away, the sound of Bobby's laughter echoing faintly behind him. The house seemed to settle around him, the creaks of the old walls the only thing left in the air—reminding him that everything here was fragile, like the cracks in the plaster that couldn't be fixed.

John crawled back into bed, but sleep didn't come. His mind raced, questions swirling around him like a storm. Was Papa right? Did I deserve the belt? Why didn't Bobby care?

The tears slowed, but the ache remained. His thoughts drifted to the next morning. The hot water from the shower would wash away the physical pain, but the emotional scars would linger far longer.

Later, as John reached for the fridge, his stomach twisted with hunger—a gnawing emptiness he couldn't ignore. He grabbed an apple, its cool skin a brief relief in his hand. He took a bite, the crispness momentarily easing the ache in his gut. But it was fleeting.

He glanced at the time on his phone. Late for work. Guilt churned in his stomach, tightening his chest. He tossed the half-eaten apple in the trash, the feeling of Papa's harsh words weighing on him like a stone. Not finishing his food at Papa's table meant punishment. It always did.

But now, he wasn't sure what punishment scared him more—the one that came from Papa or the one that came from himself.