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Mother walked up to the camera, clicking the button to start it after shooting a cursory glance back at he and his sister, Vavara, who nodded, correcting their somber looks to smiles, though it was clear that it was complicated for them to keep it "real," whatever that meant. How were they supposed to give a "real" smile when their entire bodies ached? Somehow. The same way they had been doing it for seemingly thousands of years, though it was really only three. Three years of hell.Stepping back, Mother nodded, opening her mouth and speaking loudly, practicing that weird intonation thing that all the Americans did, even though they were not, in fact, American, "Hello, guys! Today we will be seeing who can go without speaking-or making any noise, at all- for the longest! Whoever loses has to stay out in the snow for an hour." She paused, glancing back at the siblings again, who nodded, correcting their smiles-which had turned into frowns at the mention of a punishment for losing-into false grins again. She continued, looking back at the camera, then at Father, then at the camera, "Challenge starts... now!" Then everything went silent, with Father following them around as they began to walk away, stopping them to hook cameras on them, which recorded footage from all to make sure that they weren't cheating. After that, Father pushed each of their shoulders back, making them stand up straight, then dismissing them silently, causing them to scurry away without any more words. No one said anything to each other for hours, not even when they accidentally ran into each other, despite the way that Father would stare down at them, expecting them to apologise, even if it meant punishment. He clearly wanted them to lose. They would receive a beating from refusing to apologise, and would be sent outside anyway. It was almost laughable, the way that she had said that they would be sent outside like that wasn't already normal. Father must've set this up, not her. Mother would never do something that could get her beaten, along with her children. Vavara and Mother always had it the worst, getting thrown across the room and then told to stand up, just to get thrown again, or getting cut by Father, or having to do it for themselves, or worse punishment would be had. After all that, they would be told to wipe up the blood and remain indoors until the wounds healed. It was a torturous thing, so Fyodor had absolutely no right to complain when he got his dose of abuse, of pain, when he was the one getting thrown around and beaten and mocked, or sent outside with the animals in the dead of night, or being woken up at that same time and going to Father's bedroom and... he wanted to vomit at the thought. He ran to their shared bedroom, hoping not to be seen or heard as he emptied the contents of his stomach in the bucket, deliberately placed beside his bed, despite the way that Sister would always ask for it, he would never answer, only saying that it was a necessity, in fear of what Father would do to him if he told the truth. If they got punished for simply walking around, then he didn't want to find out what would happen if they actually did something wrong.On one occasion, when he was near eleven, he had ran into Father, playfully, as a joke, only to immediately regret it when he was picked up by his hair and walked over to the back door, which was then opened whilst he was screaming and fighting, kicking for his very life, though all his efforts amounted to nothing, as usual, it was futile, and he was thrown out back, landing hard into the snow. He had screamed and cried and banged on the door, apologising repeatedly and crying that it was cold, that he was cold, for no response. Soon, he had given up, walking back to their shrivelling tree in the back of the yard, sitting under it, and curling up, managing to force himself to sleep that night, alone, cold, and afraid of all the dangers. Inside was dangerous, with people constantly being thrown, and Father with his sudden bursts of rage, but outside was also dangerous; animals and weather and cold and more people. What he had learned from those dangers was that people, and practically any other living thing-even the entire world itself-was dangerous, not to be trusted. Everyone and everything was dangerous. The next morning, he had been let in after a thorough scolding of what he had done wrong, loss of privileges such as being able to go outside without permission, ability to eat without supervision, even the permission to sleep without permission and someone watching him. Him, at such a young age, had found that as the only acceptable thing. Now, though, he knew that it was uncomfortable for those to watch him even whilst he changed clothes, or tried to sleep. At that age, he had never wondered why he had trouble falling asleep, and when he did, he'd have nightmares, or when he'd wake up with bruises and blood dripping down his face.In the present, he shuddered at the thought, full on flinching when he noticed Mother and Father staring down at him, Father, with a victorious smirk on his face, and Mother with a sad expression, "Sorry Fyodor. Outside time," she said in her best jokeful tone, though her face showed her concern. She always tried to hide it when on camera, when they lost the challenges, or when she lost the challenges-something that Father never did, due to him deciding said challenges-yet failed when she saw the suffering of her children, or when she felt the pain of her cruel off-camera punishment, which differed depending on the challenge. He sighed, standing up and taking the camera off his clothes, walking to the back door once more and stepping outside, walking under that some tree that he had six years ago, and taking a seat, hoping to sleep for the hour that he had to be outside do the the weakness, the fatigue, almost painful, the cold brought him, like a disease waiting to spread, yet unable to. No one new about his suffering, and that's probably why they still used it as a punishment. Though, something told him that they would come up with something a tad more creative if they did find out about his illness. After about thirty-fourty minutes, he felt his eyes, slowly shutting until he passed out, fading into the realm of unconsciousness, only to be awakened in what felt like seconds, being informed that his time was up by Father, that he was going to come inside, yet also that he was not supposed to fall asleep, and would therefore be facing consequences for his insolence. To this, he shuddered again, yet got up and followed in fear of worse punishment for disobeying an order. He began to walk inside, only subtly flinching when Father slammed the door behind him, grabbing his collar. At this, the torment that he had long since gotten used to, he stared down, trying to hide the fear in his eyes, trying to hide the way that he felt his eyes widen, glazing over and dimming-perhaps darkening-at the edges when he felt his head slam into the wall, when he heard the sickening thud of it, heard the sound of bones cracking, felt the way the pain reverberated through his entire body, a tight, throbbing pain that, he, too, had gotten used to. He wanted to apologise, though he knew that it was no use. Apologising never worked. It certainly wouldn't now. So, instead, he simply sat against the wall, trying to comprehend the blurs, the sound of screaming, and the pain, aching, all the things that were going on around him. He didn't know anymore. He couldn't comprehend any of this. Nothing made sense in his throbbing head. The only thing that he could comprehend was the blurring of his vision, and the pain, and the ringing in his ears as he tried to stand up, simply falling back to the ground once more, as though his body had became limp, fluid as water. "Get up," Father barked, his tone twisting with the rage of a thousand bulls, then beginning to laugh, then yell. It was as though his mind went from one person's to another, as though he was being possessed left and right. He was an unpredictable force, laughing, yelling, smiling, then breaking down in tears, crying as though he had just realised what he had been doing to his family was wrong. Then, after his loud, long sobs ceased, he began laughing again, standing up and walking over to his son and grabbing him once more, repeating himself, "Get up," louder this time, a near yell. Fyodor, on the other hand, having begun getting tired of this game of cat and mouse, did stand up, yet did not look Father in the eye. Instead, his gaze flicked back and forth between the front door-his exit-and Father, who tapped his foot impatiently, clearly waiting for something to happen, and gesturing to the butcher block, full of bloodied, sharpened knives, wanting his son to cut himself again, wanting to see the blood dripping down his already scarred wrists that he made him cover with a black sweatshirt. Suddenly, stupidly, he made a run for it. It felt like the world was passing by right there, right then, like he was running faster than he ever had in his life. Then, he unlocked the door, much, much faster than he clearly ever had in his seventeen years of life. He was really doing it, escaping the abuse, the torture. He was finally going to escape the living nightmare that was his life-he would finally run away. He would leave, and he wouldn't even turn around. He'd say good riddance without looking back. To his surprise, Father didn't chase him, only stared at the now closed door, probably fuming and wishing that he could run after his son and drag him back inside and throw him and yell. No, he wasn't doing any of that, was only, obviously, staring at the door. It was all shocking, but the brown-haired had no tine to dwell on that, and he ran. He would go to where he knew that a nearby gang was, even with his spinning head and bare feet. He'd do it anyway, and perhaps they'd help him. The chances were grim, but grim chances were better than none at all.