Desmond let out that short, broken, colorless laugh as if his throat were trying to mock the pain
or drown it before it rose again as sobs.
But even he didn't know where it came from.
He only knew it hurt like something tearing inside.
He took a deep breath, and with a slight wobble in his step, he left the kitchen for the outside.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door that led to the back garden a door that groaned as long and low as his day had been.
As it creaked open, the cold air struck his face, making him blink.
It was barely dawn, but there was no warmth in that pale sky.
The clouds hung low, thick, and dull-
like a wet blanket draped over the world.
The ground was damp with early morning dew, and the grass crunched softly beneath his feet.
The cold crept up from his heels to his thighs, an icy current knotting his muscles, especially since he wore only shorts.
Desmond looked ahead to the stone path that circled the mansion.
It was long, uneven, with hidden turns obscured by tall hedges.
Ten laps.
His young mind tried to calculate how far that was but the number was confusing, hazy, like everything he felt.
He clenched his jaw.
His cheek still throbbed from the slap, and his hand ached when he tried to close it-still fresh with cuts.
Still, he stood upright, arms at his sides,
as if the weight in his chest might vanish if he just stayed straight.
And he began to run.
At first, his legs barely responded.
His body was still cold, trembling, his clothes growing damp-like his lashes and cheeks from the heavy morning mist.
Each step splashed water and mud,
soiling his shoes, socks, and bare legs.
Even his shirt became spattered with earth.
But he didn't stop.
The heart that had been racing with fear now beat to a tired, hollow rhythm.
He ran around the mansion, where even the birds had yet to sing, and the only sound breaking the silence was his gasping breath and the splash of hurried footsteps.
By the time he completed the first lap,
his knees were already buckling.
The blood in his thighs swirled hot, his arms dangled, numb with cold.
But Desmond didn't think of stopping.
If he stopped, he'd fail.
If he failed, the punishment would come.
And worse than that...
he would fail the small, fragile hope that still lived inside him. The hope that his father would notice his effort.
That he would say something.
That he would look at him like a son.
-"It's just... just a few laps..."
he whispered to himself as he passed the dining room's window.
He didn't know if his father was watching through the fogged glass, but he pretended he was.
He imagined those eyes were on him that every step proved something.
That every stride was a plea for acceptance.
The third lap was the worst.
His feet kept slipping on the curves,
and he fell hard on his right side.
He clenched his lips, silencing a cry,
desperate not to let his father hear a whimper or complaint.
He lay trembling on the ground, his breathing heavy through his nose, his body shivering in the mud.
The moisture had soaked through his clothes, turning them into a second frozen skin.
His leg muscles screamed in pain,
as if they might snap.
He coughed-once, twice and pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the burn with every breath.
His throat stung as if he had swallowed embers.
But instead of stopping, he rose, gasping, his body shaking violently.
And he ran faster.
His eyes, bloodshot, shimmered with tears-not from sorrow now, but from effort, cold, and helplessness.
By the fifth lap,his body gave out again.
He collapsed to his knees, his hands sinking into the mud.
He gasped, face lowered, watching his breath vanish in the icy air.
His arms and hands trembled.
Mud clung beneath his nails.
The cuts on his palms and finger had reopened, leaving a faint trail of blood in the dirt.
Still, he rose.
He pushed himself up with his elbows,
gritting his teeth.
Not from pride.
Not from strength.
But because something inside him screamed that he had to.
That there was no other option.
That if he didn't, he would be no one.
That if he didn't, he would remain that invisible creature his father despised.
He ran the last five laps like a ghost.
Like a hollow shell.
He could no longer feel his body.
His face was pale.
His limbs numb.
His lips had turned purple.
His eyes were fixed on nothing.
It wasn't a run anymore.
It was surrender disguised as obedience.
And finally, when he completed the tenth lap, he collapsed where he had started.
He wasn't even surprised that he couldn't move.
His chest rose and fell in spasms, his fingers numb and then he looked up.
Staring at that pale, colorless sky and for a moment, he felt just like it.
Pale.
Silent.
Empty.
He didn't cry.
He had no tears left.
He only closed his eyes for a moment.
And even then, a thought crossed his mind. A voice that was very much his own:
small, childish, broken:
"Maybe tomorrow...
if I smile a little harder...
he'll say I did well."
And he stayed there, breathing as if each breath was borrowed.