A hook in the skin

Pull.

Pull it a little more.

Burn marks. On the chest, right over the heart.

Pain.

A familiar laughter. Someone he thought was… what was he, anyway? He can't call him a father, as much as he wants to. A boss. Yeah. A boss. His boss, nothing else. There is a barrier that should never be ignored. Sometimes, in his mind, he does. He apologizes, but no one can hear him in his head anyway. It's just… he never knew what a father is. And he looks up to that man.

The hook is pulled again. Hurts. But he deserves that, right? His boss said so. That's what he gets for… what? For doing the right thing, it seems.

I'm sorry, he thinks. It won't happen again.

He's in his room now. Alone. The scars are healed. Well, at least the physical ones. In his head, where no one can hear him, he screams in pain to this day. His head hurts, it's hunger. At work, he gets to serve so many (supposedly, he never tasted them, he was forbidden by his boss) delicious dishes, but at home he barely gets to eat instant ramen. So he numbs his stomach. One drink, two, three, four… a cigarette on top of it, five more drinks. He has no idea what he would do if he couldn't drink. He wouldn't survive a day being fucked raw, doggy style, by life.

Doggy.

They call him dog now. A Mad Dog.

Yeah, he's mad. He's insane. He's savage, a menace, erratic, unpredictable, untrustworthy. At least, that's what people say. That's what he wants people to say, to think about him. Maybe this would make everyone leave him alone. More scars, more pain, but that's numbing now. Drinking doesn't do anything anymore, he needs his blood boiling. He needs to feel that burn in his cheek after a punch, the skin tearing up to a blade, he needs to…

He wants to die.

But he is scared to do it.

Maybe someone can do this for him.

Either that or maybe his fath… his boss will start looking at him like he's worth something. What? He doesn't know. Something. Anything. It doesn't have to be pride, it just has to be something other than disgust.

He feels small all the time. He's not at all. Not only is he insanely tall and strong, he reigns supreme in the city. The biggest leader everyone has ever seen. Men ready to kill and die for his name, enterprises making money he doesn't even know how or where to spend, women falling at his feet, a perfect surveillance system ready to find and erase anyone at any time.

And yet… he feels small.

Nothing matters. His head is still screaming. He's still that little fella being beaten up because he decided to do something good for once in his miserable life.

He's in his room again. Bigger, comfortable, shining like a pristine cathedral, expensive cars in his garage just for fun. He eats well now. Very well. Whenever and whatever he wants.

Why does he still feel so empty?

Why does he still hope that, someday, his ribs break and stab his own heart?

He has it all now. He surpassed his late boss. And yet…

He's tired.

So fucking tired.