The house stood dark, a hollow shell,
Each room a chamber, forged in hell.
A child crouched beneath his bed,
Too scared to breathe, his spirit dead.

His father’s voice, a drunken roar,
The sound of boots across the floor.
The air grew thick with anger’s weight,
A child braced for his bitter fate.

The boy had dreams once, soft and bright,
Of laughter, love, and peaceful nights.
But dreams dissolved in fists and pain,
A storm that broke him, time and again.

“Come here!” his father barked with wrath,
A trembling shadow crossed his path.
The belt came down; the strikes were swift,
Each blow a wound no time could lift.

He...