Chapter Text
~Wylan's PoV~
It was happening again. The same dream, the same nightmare that was responsible for Wylan's recurring lack of sleep.
He knew it was that specific dream because he was all too familiar with his old bedroom's layout. The pristine walls, the expensive furniture, the newly-made bed, and his desk with the stack of useless books sitting dead center.
—Wylan turned away from those hastily and took a deep breath in, attempting to calm himself. He was fine. It was a dream and it wasn't real. It wasn't real. It was fine.
...Just as he actually began to calm down, it happened. As predictable as ever. His stomach growled painfully and he hissed uncomfortably in response, trying to ignore the lingering feeling.
Damnit. It wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't—
His stomach growled again and he pinched himself this time, but to no avail. The empty pain in his abdomen was so much worse than he remembered. And still so very familiar. Saints, he was so fucking hungry. How long had it been this time? A day? Two? Three? He couldn't tell, he never could. There was no clock in his room and even if there was, he wouldn't be able to read the damn thing.
He turned back to the books, glaring at the one on top. The cover featured artwork of a freshly made dinner, still steaming. Shepherd's pie, his favorite meal. As for the title, well, it didn't matter. He flipped open to the first page and stared at the mess of words, trying desperately to make sense of them. Maybe this time…
After a solid minute of pure, unproductive staring, he yelled out in frustration and threw the book at the wall. The first tear fell at the same time as it always did and he curled in on himself, crying into his knees.
Idiotic waste of space. He would never amount to anything. A broken mess of what could have been someone special. A Useless, defective disgrace to his family's name. Doomed to die alone. He would destroy the Van Eck legacy. Worthless.
The loud bang on his door came right on time, but Wylan still startled all the same.
"Are you finished with your temper tantrum?" His father's voice demanded, loud and cruel. Wylan stared at his locked bedroom door and slowly stood up. His legs collapsed under him, but he managed to catch himself on the dresser. Useless.
He hauled himself over to the door and tugged at the handle briefly. It didn't budge. It never did. And it never would. Not when he wanted it to.
"Yes, Father." He finally spoke up, voice sounding just as desperate and exhausted as he felt. A small huff was all he got in reply for a moment, and then the door rattled sharply again. He didn't jump this time and instead just closed his eyes at the sound, leaning heavily against the wall behind him. He knew his father did that with the only intention of scaring him. Sadly, it still worked.
"Are you hungry, Wylan?" Jan Van Eck taunted and the younger merch didn't have the strength in him to be angry anymore.
He just nodded and murmured out a weak, "Yes, Father."
"The chef just finished dinner; he's finishing up the plates now. It's your favorite. Would you like to join us today, Wylan?"
"Yes, please." He could smell the food now and the scent alone made him want to curl in on himself in response to the echoing pain.
"Then, can you please read to me the first sentence of your book?" There it was. The same question his father asked him every day. Sometimes Wylan would make up something random that he knew likely made sense. Other times he would plead for forgiveness. But, most times, he would just stay silent, looking at the book that had magically appeared back in his hands.
The book was open and the page was there, clear as day… But there was nothing but messes of blurry, overlapping lines. He closed his eyes again, "Please…"
"What does it say, Wylan?"
More silence. He couldn't think of anything to say and he knew well enough that begging would get him nowhere…
"Please, Father." And still, it was all he could do. The smell wafting through the air was beginning to make him weak and dizzy. He honestly didn't know how much longer he could take this taunting. "Please." So he waited, knowing what would happen, but praying to the saints that they would grant him mercy this time.
"...I'll come to check on you in a few hours," and with that, his father was gone, heading down the hall and tuning out his pleas and cries and screams.
He hated this more than the beatings, more than the insults, and more than the stacks of pointless books in his room. If he could just read one sentence, then it would all stop. Everything would get better. He would be sitting with his father eating his favorite meal and discussing the plot of the book. Ghezen, maybe his mother would still be alive; painting a picture of him as they laughed and joked about the last mercher meeting. Maybe he would play the flute for them or read them some poems he had wrote.
It could happen. Or, more accurately, it could have happened. He could have been worth something. He could have stopped the endless nights of pain and hunger and suffering. It would all change if he could even read that very first sentence.
But he couldn't. He wasn't more anything more than exactly what his father had claimed he was. Worthless. And, right then, he truly felt like he had no one else in the entire world to blame for that, but himself.