Franklin Guerrero’s first memory was seared into his mind by terror and false hope. He didn't remember the office, though he knew it was his father's. He was standing before a fine desk with his two younger sisters. They were all lined up shoulder to shoulder, looking at their father. Even at this young age, he was almost a perfect mirror of the man. While both had black hair, grey-green eyes, and thin lips, the young Franklin’s hair was grown to his shoulders while his father kept his short.
His sisters reflected their mother, not even allowing a hint of the man before them to be seen. But in this moment, all six of their young eyes held his reflection, and the cold, chilling stare he gave them seeped into their bones. They didn't know why they were called to his office, nor why their usually warm father was furrowing his brows at them, a thin frown pulling his lips.
He let loose a dissatisfied tut before running a hand through his hair. Renaldo Guerrero finally spoke, breaking the long silence that enveloped the room. Yet his words did nothing to break the chill. “Worthless,” he muttered, before speaking aloud to them. “I knew you all left me wanting, but I would have never imagined that you are nothing more than little disappointments.'' His words confused them, but none of them dared to speak. So the head of the family continued. “Well, I guess I can find some use for some of you.” He looked between the two girls before eyeing his fourth son. He shook his head.
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Franklin’s heart fell. It would have been lost on the carpeted floor of his father's office were it not for the rich oakwood door being shoved open with a loud thud as it opened with enough force to damage the frame. “Renaldo Guerrero!” a voice hissed with malice and dangerous warnings. A woman entered the room like a hurricane. She stared at her husband with fire in her green eyes while her burning red hair whirled around behind her. She wore an open light blue dress, one not of the kingdom, allowing everyone to see much of her bronzed skin. Even in her burning rage, she held a certain allure that no man could ignore.
She was the hope that warmed the young boy's dying heart, the pride of his life, and the hero of his soul. Yet, this was not a happy memory. A sharp sound echoed through the room, turning their mother’s face when she stood between her children and her husband.
“How dare you shamelessly stroll in here after what you did!” he softly shouted.
She held a hand to her cheek, a soft smile forming on her lips, something scarier than a face full of rage. “Children, why don't you return to your rooms for now,” she said so warmly that the air stood still. The young kids needed no further prompting. They hastened to their rooms as their mother turned to face her husband, whose eyes sharpened. Their words could be heard in the hallway even after the heavy door was closed.