FRAGMENTS OF THE BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER 1: BREAKING THE CHAINS OF DESPAIRS

The creaking door echoed through the dimly lit hallway as Michael hesitated before stepping into the suffocating atmosphere of the small, run-down house. The air was heavy with the pungent stench of stale smoke and cheap alcohol, a familiar scent that clung to the walls like a toxic residue. He sighed, the weight of his reality settling on his shoulders like an oppressive cloak.

His adopted father, a man weathered by the years and worn by vices, sat slouched in a worn-out armchair. The flickering light of a television cast eerie shadows on his face, revealing a disheveled beard and bloodshot eyes. The room itself seemed to groan under the burden of years of neglect, with peeling wallpaper and worn-out furniture bearing witness to the decay of both the house and its occupants.

Luke, Michael's younger brother, looked up from the corner where he huddled. His eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation, met Michael's.

"Get me more beer!" the old man barked, his voice slurred and harsh, cutting through the strained silence. Luke, frail and malnourished, mustered the courage to reply, "There isn't any more beer."

The response was met with an immediate escalation. The old man's temper flared like a spark in dry tinder, and he raised his hand threateningly toward Luke. The impending violence hung in the air, a volatile storm on the verge of breaking.

"No more beer, huh?" The old man's laughter erupted, a hollow sound that reverberated through the dilapidated walls. His gaze shifted to Michael, who had entered the room with a tense determination. "So, the prodigal son appears," he sneered, his words laced with bitterness. "How much did you bring back for me? Is it enough for a beer?"

Michael, accustomed to the routine dance of abuse, reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of crumpled bills. As he began counting, the old man seized the opportunity with predatory swiftness, snatching the money from Michael's hand. His laughter grew louder, a manic symphony of cruelty.

"Gambling," the old man declared, his eyes glinting with a feverish excitement. "I'm going gambling. Make sure you cook something when I come back."

The command hung in the air, a foreboding decree that sent shivers down Michael's spine. He glanced at Luke, whose eyes pleaded for solace, for escape from the impending storm. Michael's jaw clenched, the burden of responsibility pressing down on him like an insurmountable weight.

The old man stumbled to his feet, leaving behind the lingering scent of alcohol. As he staggered towards the door, Michael's mind raced with conflicting emotions—anger, frustration, and a deep-seated resentment that had festered over the years. Yet, intertwined with the bitterness was an enduring love for Luke, a determination to shield him from the storm that raged within the walls of their fractured home.

"Remember," the old man slurred, pausing at the door. "Cook something. And make it good."

The door creaked shut, leaving Michael and Luke in the dimly lit room, enveloped in the oppressive silence of the broken home.

"I hate him so much." Luke said as he broke down into tears, Micheal embraced his younger brother to comfort him.

"I know, I don't like him too but we have to endure." 

"He...." Luke sniffed.

"He is the reason why mom died six months ago, she couldn't take it anymore and she hung herself." 

Micheal could remember that day vividly, she was being abused by her husband and seen as an object, her mental capacity couldn't withstand his aggressive nature and due to that, she hung herself.

"Don't worry, things will better." Micheal said but like shoved him.

"You always say that, but nothing good happens. Stop lying to me!" Luke yelled at his older brother, micheal could feel the painful emotions emitting from Luke.

"I'm........sor........" There wasn't any point in apologizing, it wasn't going to change anything and Luke wouldn't care about his apology.

Luke's anger flared, and he unleashed his frustration on his elder brother. "Sorry won't bring her back! It won't fix anything!" His words hung in the air, a tangible echo of pain.

"I hate him so much, I wish he were died.....I wish, he could just leave us and never return." 

As the tension thickened, Michael knew that words were insufficient to heal the wounds o his brother. He nodded, acknowledging the futility of apologies, and steeled himself for what lay ahead. With determination burning in his eyes, Michael made a silent promise to turn their lives around.

Leaving the suffocating atmosphere of their home, Michael treaded the familiar path to the gambling center where their father squandered their meager savings. Each step fueled his resolve, and he clung to the hope that he could retrieve what was left of their family's stability.

The neon lights of the gambling den flickered, casting an eerie glow on Michael's determined face as he navigated through the dimly lit corridors. The cacophony of slot machines and hushed conversations surrounded him like a shroud, but Michael pressed forward, fueled by a determination to break the cycle.

"Where is he?" Micheal whispered to himself.

His eyes scanned the crowd for his father but, he couldn't find him. He decided to search outside, perhaps his father had passed out in the alley way with several bottles of alcohol beside him. It wouldn't be the first time. As Michael walked into the familiar path, a chill ran down his spine. The alley outside beckoned, and he hesitated before stepping into the darkness.

A shock gripped him as he stumbled upon a lifeless form sprawled on the cold pavement.

"Thank goodness" He took a deep breath, he was relieved that he found him at least.

"Fathe.....Da...... Father!" He forced himself, "I'm going to need that money you took from me."

The harsh overhead light revealed his father's disheveled figure, abandoned and broken. For a fleeting moment, fear paralyzed Michael. This time, it was different there was no bottle, instead there was just a body soaked in a poll of red thick liquid.

"No! Is he?" Micheal rushed over to the body and touched the liquid surrounding him.

"Blo-Blood. Is he dead? This can't be, he is dead." His eyes widened in surprise, his old man had met his unexpected end

But as the shock subsided, an unexpected emotion emerged – relief. Relief that their father could no longer inflict pain, that the cycle of destruction was broken. Michael wrestled with conflicting feelings, guilt intertwining with the strange comfort of liberation.