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- Herausgeber: BookRix
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Chilling story about a boy treated like a dog, who bites back. Timothy was not loved by his father. In fact, his father made it no secret that he thought the boy was nothing but trash. But Timothy has an amazing imagination, one which might almost seem...magical. But how far can someone be pushed and hurt, before they fight back?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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Timothy Volk
BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 MunichFatherly Affection
His walls were covered with pictures of wolves. Crayon drawn and colored fairy tales pinned on the painted and chipping surface were hung with meticulous care. Timothy loved wolves. His shelves contained books about them—Little Red Riding Hood, The Three Little Pigs, The Goat and The Seven Kids . . . all with the last pages ripped out of them. He spent most of his days coloring pictures of wolves, playing near the forest, running and growling like a wolf and howling when the wolves in the nearby forest howled. His mother only sighed and smiled when Timothy talked endlessly of how wise and clever wolves were. She pretended to listen as she peeled potatoes, nodding with several ‘um hmms’ and ‘oh really’s dotted with a few concluding ‘How nice’s. She was sure it was one of his many phases that he went through. Three months ago it was birds.
Timothy had always been a precocious child, curious and extremely attached to his mother. When he was born he would coo and caw like all children, and she would fawn on him with adoring pride.
His father had given him only one look and snorted. “He’s pasty.”
It seemed that Timothy did not grow fast enough for his father. When the boy had managed to walk, he was merely a nuisance. And when he was four, his father decided that it was time for him to earn his keep through chores. He was now eight.
When Timothy was barely seven he would eagerly scramble to complete his chores so that his father could see what a good boy he was.
It didn’t matter. Not really.
Each night when his father came home, half drunk and marching to the worn out armchair, he would glower at the boy. So much that Timothy started to watch for his father’s car through the curtains then made sure he was not in sight when his father came indoors. Frequently he hid in his room when his father came through the door. Somehow he knew his presence disturbed the man.
“Tim!” his father often shouted, bellowing angrily when the tip-toeing seemed most obvious.
Then Timothy would creep downstairs and stand on the last step, shaking while peering around the corner.
“Tim, you rodent! Git in here!” his father ordered.
Timothy whimpered, inching forward. He never had any idea what he had done wrong, but it was always something. Everything was his fault in his father’s eyes.
“I said git in here!” When his father eventually saw Timothy’s scared face, his father would grab his son by the scruff of his neck and yank him into the room. “You hiding from me? No, you don’t hide form your ol’ dad. Git in here you brat. I wanna talk to you, stupid.”
Timothy stared with wide eyes and obediently nodded, speaking in stutters and whispers.
“. . . Y . . . y . . . y . . .e . . . sss s . . . s . . . sir.”
“Shut up! I didn’t say you could talk!”
At times, Timothy was lucky to get by with only one bruise.
