Terrified, Johnathon gripped his thin blanket, held it up to his chin, blue eyes round with fright. He looked about the darkened room, wondered if there were any "creatures of the night" afoot.
He then sighed deeply, remembering that he was a boy of fifteen, not six. He was way too old to be scared of anything, really, let alone, the dark; yet whenever it was dark out it seemed to bring the worst of the fear out. Seems that Johnathon had lived with this niggling fear for as long as he could rightly remember.
Didn't help that his big brothers thought it funny to scare the bejesus out of him at any given chance. They fancied Johnathon as a wimp, a soft touch. They were so much bigger and stronger than he; Johnathon was puny with noodles for muscles, a thin chest, and hardly any meat on his skinny body. He looked more like a boy of ten (or younger) than an adolescent of fifteen years.
It also didn't help that he had been sexually molested by an uncle (since dead) when he was a little boy younger than six; his uncle would oftentimes sneak into his room, where he would then start doing disgusting things to his nephew. Years later, Johnathon still suffered ongoing nightmares and was seeing a mental health counselor, but it didn't seem to be helping all that much. Johnathon was as scared now as he ever was.
Suddenly there was a loud crash. At the noise, Johnathon screamed a high-pitched "girlie" scream. Then there was the sound of raucous laughter. He recognized the laughter: it came from none other than his two older brothers, who probably thought it was a big joke to scare Johnathon yet again with their mischief.
"Goddamn it"! Cries of anger; it came from his mother, who was not in one of her better moods: she had had a bad night at the emergency room where she worked; she was not up to the boys' tomfoolery; all she wanted to do was sleep. At the sound of his mother's angry voice, Johnathon dived underneath the covers; he was sure he was going to get a beating; seems that he somehow always did, even though he was to be an adult in just a few short years.
Joynathon held his breath when his mother stormed into the room. Grabbing him by his hair, she hoisted Johnathon right off the bed and physically threw him against the wall. Johnathon started weeping when he tried to explain that it wasn't his fault that he had yelled; it was his brothers up to no good again; but his cries went unheard as his mother repeatedly kicked him in the ribs.
That ... and sharp, stabbing pains that made it very hard to brreathe ... was the last thing he remembered before everything went black.
~To be continued.~