Desmond stumbled across the wasteland of white, hanging onto the items he had scavenged from the woman like his life depended on it. Each and every step was like torture for Desmond, as he clutched onto his stomach, still tasting the rancid vomit in his mouth. He kept on moving and moving, not paying attention to a single thing around him, with his only goal being to get to a place with warmth, with shelter. The place he was going however, had none of those things, but it was the only place Desmond could turn to anymore, it was either his aunt’s and uncle's house, or begging on the streets.

As Desmond struggled to move forward, he could see it, his salvation, and his hell. Desmond knew that if they found him with the money that he had gotten from the corpse, he would get thrice the beating, and they would take all of the money. Desmond decided to pry his fingers away from his loot, and shove them into his cap, which he then tucked deeply into a patch of snow near his house. He had decided to take his loot back and place it into his room, but he couldn't do that until he got through his aunt and uncle.

As Desmond pushed through the crooked door, he could see his uncle, taking another shot of his whiskey with his aunt beside him. As they turned to face him, he could see anger in their eyes, but at the same time, a hint of happiness as he knew they would have fun beating him.

“Where... Were... You?”

Desmond could feel his legs turn to stone, as his lips were glued shut, he felt a different biting cold as waves of pinpricks washes over him, he could only stare at his aunt and uncle.

“I’ll Ask again, Where... Were... You?” Desmond’s uncle Matthew began to get off of the damp moldy wooden floor from beside the fireplace and stumbled towards him, his pupils dilated, he has already had too much to drink tonight, just like every other night. Desmond wanted to run, he had to run, but he couldn't, he was stuck in place, unable to move. Like a hollow statue made of slate, fragile.

Mathew raised an empty bottle of alcohol towards Desmond, and let the bottle fall. Once. Twice, and struck Desmond until the cheap glass shattered against Desmond. He fell to the ground with a cry of pain, he felt a sharp pain across his back, again and again, each time the pain increasing. Desmonde continued to huddle in a ball, as his back was continuously struck with the broken bottle.

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Desmonde stayed stuck in that position without moving at all and crying. He wished that the heavy smoky fire would once again erupt from his body and burn his uncle Matthew, burn his aunt Beatrice, burn down his home, burn away the fear within him and the evaporate the tears on his face. He faced a werewolf today, but he truly wonders who is the real monster. He did his best not to make a sound, it only makes it worse. Giving his uncle a reaction would only entice his uncle to enjoy it more, hopefully soon his uncle would get bored, hopefully.

After what seemed like hours to Desmond, the thrashing stopped for now and his Uncle went to fetch another bottle for himself. His Aunt doesn’t drink but she seems to laugh with glee just watching Desmond get beaten, he doesn’t know if that makes his Aunt a worse person for it. Desmond dared not to move, barely allowed himself the risk to breath, he waited patiently. Biting his lip and holding back the reaction to cry out with his voice and blinks away the tears in his eyes. Desmond stayed in the fetal position until deciding to head back into his room, it was when his Aunt went to the toilet and his Uncle was thoroughly enjoying his new bottle. Slowly but surely, Desmond crawled while lying down on his stomach towards his room, he could feel everything. He could feel every splinter from the wooden floor, every bleeding cut, every pulsing bruise, every laceration, every tear and graze. Desmond continued to crawl towards his room until he was able to enter.

Desmond’s room was nothing but a small enclosed space, which one might presume to call a ‘small closet.’ Desmond leaned up against a corner of his wall and put his knees to his head and stayed there, waiting, waiting for the next hit, waiting for the next assault, the next injury, the newest harrowing and beating. Desmond clenched his fists as he realized that he had wished to hurt his Aunt and Uncle when he was before the werewolf, wished. He would no longer wish, he will and would. He had the key to his salvation it was taken in desperation to begin with but now everything is a weapon or item to be used for this purpose. His purpose is yet to be known to him, but it is much more than this, whatever he has released from the streets was still with him, and with that and the money he had gained from the dead woman. Desmond would escape his Uncle Matthew and his Aunt Beatrice. He would rise above them and make them beg, then he would burn it all, everything they owned, everything they were.

Desmond would burn it.

All of it.