The Forth Wave of Memories

John's thoughts tumbled back to the days before the scars—before the betrayals. Before he understood that love could be twisted into something sharp and suffocating. It was just after the arrow incident, when Bobby had turned their childhood game into something far darker. That day, John had learned that love, even in its most broken form, still had the power to wound him.

The sun had hung high in the sky that afternoon, its warm light filtering through the trees. The kind of day that called children out into the world with the promise of adventure. John and Bobby, with their makeshift bows and arrows, had spent hours lost in the fantasy of Cowboys and Indians. The laughter that rang through the air was the kind that only children can make—bright, unburdened, and loud. For a time, it felt like the world was nothing but possibilities.

Bobby had always been the one with the plans, the one who knew how to navigate the world before John had even figured out how to tie his shoes. John never questioned him, not even when Bobby suggested they use real arrows. He'd seen them in the shed, sharp and glinting in the sun. It felt exciting. Dangerous. But mostly, it felt like something to prove.

But then the day took a sharp, unforgiving turn. Bobby's aim faltered.

The arrow snapped from the string with a sudden force that tore through the air, and before John could react, it drove deep into his skull. The pain was instant, blinding, a fire that spread through him like wildfire.

He didn't even see Bobby's face as the world spun around him. It wasn't the blood running down his face that shocked him. It wasn't the raw, burning pain in his head. It was the look in Bobby's eyes—a mix of disbelief and horror—as if everything they had built, the trust they shared, had cracked open in a single moment.

Bobby's voice broke the daze, panic lacing his words. "John! I—I didn't mean it!" His hands shook as he tried to reach him, but it didn't matter. John could already feel the weight of it. The sting wasn't just physical—it was something deeper. Something much harder to bear.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO, BOY?" Papa's voice thundered from behind, shattering the fragile silence. The anger in his voice was a force that nearly knocked the air from John's chest. Papa didn't need to see the situation to know what had happened. He didn't care about the accident. He cared about control. About the mistake.

John's vision blurred as he felt Bobby's presence retreat, his cousin retreating into the safety of whatever punishment would come next. He was left alone with the pain and the weight of Papa's eyes on him.

Without hesitation, Papa grabbed Bobby by the arm, pulling him into the house, the door slamming shut behind them with a finality that shook the house.

John didn't understand. It wasn't Bobby's fault. But Papa never asked questions. There were only consequences. Papa didn't speak as he dragged John into the house by the collar of his shirt. His grip was unyielding. There was no gentleness, only the suffocating pressure of his hands.

The belt came out with a snap. John barely saw it, only felt the sharp crack of it against his back, the burning pain blooming across his skin. He could barely breathe between the strikes, could barely think. His skull throbbed, and blood still oozed down his face, but Papa wasn't done yet.

"You'll learn responsibility, boy!" Papa growled. "You'll learn what it means to be a man. A real man doesn't bleed for nothing."

John's body shook with the pain, but it was the words that dug in deeper. Papa's punishment wasn't just about discipline—it was about erasing weakness. About destroying whatever was left of John's childhood innocence.

When the belt stopped, the air shifted. Papa stood over him, breathing hard. His eyes were cold, distant. A look that John would carry with him for years.

Then, surprisingly, Papa's hands softened. He wiped the blood from John's forehead with a damp towel, his fingers rough but strangely gentle. His voice was firm, but it lacked the bite it had before. "Lay down, boy. Don't make me repeat myself. Be a man."

John didn't want comfort. He wanted answers. He wanted to scream that it wasn't his fault, that he didn't deserve this. But instead, he felt a strange, gnawing thing deep inside him. A desperate need to prove that he was worth something. That maybe, just maybe, this cruel love was how he would learn to be strong.

But that's the way it had always been with Papa. Cold, unyielding, and demanding. It was the only way John had ever known love.

And then one rainy afternoon, it all shifted.

The house—Papa's house—had started to feel smaller, tighter, like it was swallowing him whole. The walls seemed to close in on him, and the coldness seeped into everything. There was no warmth left, no comfort. Just a constant ache.

It was around this time that John's mother began to fight for him.

John had never seen her this way before. She'd always been the quiet, reserved woman who carried her pain like a secret. But now? There was fire in her eyes. A kind of fire John had never seen in anyone else. When she stood in court, calm but resolute, he saw it clearly.

His mother was no longer just a victim of her circumstances. She was a fighter. And for the first time, John realized that she wasn't just fighting for herself—she was fighting for him.

When the ruling came down in her favor, John sat in the back of the courtroom, his heart pounding in his chest. He saw the disbelief in her face, then the quiet joy. She had won. And with that, she gave him the one thing Papa never could: hope.

The next few days felt like a blur as they packed up and moved out of Papa's house. John didn't look back—not even once. He didn't have to. The house that had once held him captive now felt like a prison.

Their new home was nothing grand, just a small house with fresh paint on the walls and floors that creaked underfoot. But it felt like freedom. It felt like air in his lungs.

That first night, as they sat down for dinner, just the two of them, John felt something unfamiliar stir inside of him. It was a warmth that had been absent for so long. It was the kind of peace he never knew could exist.

His mother's smile was small, but it held everything—love, promise, and the quiet assurance that she had given him something Papa never could. Safety.

For the first time, John realized he didn't have to be like Papa. He didn't have to follow the same path. And as he sat there with his mother, eating the food that wasn't forced upon him, he felt something shift inside him. A whisper of freedom. A glimmer of something he could finally claim as his own.