“DO IT AGAIN! And if you miss this time, I swear boy… “
His father’s voice stung against his ears like the leather strap that struck the back of his hand, yet he dare not whimper or cry - for that would only ensure further punishment. Shaky hands clutched tighter unto the bow and Gaston aimed yet again. He prayed to God that he hit the mark this time, for he couldn’t endure another lashing. It was hard enough to see straight due to the intensity of the rain and the wind that accompanied, but there was never any excuses allowed for one’s m i s t a k e s.
It was always like this, practicing EVERYTHING - he had to be perfect at EVERYTHING, for his father would not allow their name to be tarnished by any faults. Thus he would sculpt his son into the man he wanted him to be, uncaring of how many times he would have to undergo scrutiny, for in the end he would beat all the imperfection out of him and what was left would be a true paragon.
The string pulled back and with a quick snap the arrow was released - time slowed until finally the tip pierced the surface of the target. Lips fell agape and the young Gaston flinched, arms and hands instinctively shielding his head and face, knowing what would follow. His father’s eyes narrowed, lips pursing and teeth grit - focused far too intently on where his son’s arrow had struck… all that mattered was that it was not a bulls-eye , which meant it was wrong.
Fingers had tightened over leather and in a fit of rage the patriarch released his anger on the flesh of his child. Anywhere he could manage, he hit - the sound echoed through the thicket, meshing along with Gaston’s screams - a perfect serenade of torture, that was the only reward his son would receive this day. When the brutality had ceased and Gaston’s flesh was red and swollen , decorated with black and blue welts - only then had his father been satisfied. Without even a word of remorse and only a look of disappointment to soothe his son - Monsieur Legume departed, leaving Gaston to see the error of his ways in solitude.
Gaston hadn’t moved, for every time he had, the pain returned and though he had grown accustomed to the agony he still hadn’t been impervious to the entirety just yet. Instead he allowed the rain to wash away his tears, his body covered in mud and muck, cradling that bow as if it were his mother. He knew he had to become stronger, he had to be perfect - for only then would his father love him… All he wanted was his approval, to have both his parents love him, but before he could have such a luxury, he would have to bury these emotions that held him back. It was in that moment that Gaston realized, he had to become just as vile as his father if he were to ever be strong enough to endure life. For fairytales did not exist.
2087
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