'I am useless. I am worthless. I am unlovable,' he reminded himself as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, it mocking him in return.

His dark green eyes glimpsed the bruises on his wrist that were inflicted upon him by his brother in another one of his aggressive 'rough housing', words spoken as an excuse by his mother.

His chest then tightened at the remembrance of his sharp, stone-like fist pounding his body, a lump forming in his throat and his eyes watering; drops of salty liquid threatened to escape.

In an immediate, swift motion, his hands clenched the ends of the sleeves of his shirt and pulled it down to hide the source of his misery.

He had only gotten up to get another bottle of paint, then why was he rooted in front of the mirror like a statue? His emotions were a thunderstorm, all causing chaos within him, roaring like a madman.

The moment he passed by the mirror to get over to the table where the rest of his bottled paint was, he knew he had to stop and take in the image of the man that was currently darting back at him.

He had to see, well, tried to see whether whatever he was told all those years was true. If he was truly useless, truly worthless, truly unlovable, and truly unwanted.

His eyes roamed over his body, taking in his appearance quite keenly. He scrutinized every feature he possessed, wishing he could change everything of his dislike. It was then he deduced an answer.

He was everything they said he was, and despite his internal refusal to accept the fact, deep down, he somewhat believed it to be true.

It was the wet feeling of the paintbrush that touched his skin due to his slight hand movement that took him out of his thoughts.

Moving over to the table in the corner of the room, he searched for the shade of blue he was looking for to properly bring his painting together.

It was his escape. It was a better reality than his current one. All his imagination bundled together on one big canvas, it was a world he wanted to be in, however, not all paintings were the same.

Finally finding the color paint he wanted, he grabbed it and headed back to the stool that sat in front of the easel.

After a few seconds, he continued to paint, each stroke the brush took illustrating a different detail all leading up to a subtle perfection.

He had only wanted it for the final details, and soon, it all came together.

It was a rabbit, fluffy and brown struggling to keep its head afloat above the strong, raging water it was trapped in. A body of water that was surrounded by the tall, dark-green trees of an inescapable forest, and bold, blue tears ran like a river down its eyes.

With a smile, he got up and began to clean and pack up his things, noting to himself to return to the room after it had dried to sign the bottom of it.

"Hey, shithead, Dad is calling you for dinner," came a loud, insulting voice. "What crap are you working on?"

"I'll be down in a minute, and this isn't crap. It's my new painting," he replied without making eye contact with the man who proceeded to walk around the room.

"I always knew you were a dork but I never thought it would be this bad." Pushing his paint bottles over, his eyes skimmed the room and the paintings that decorated it. "They are all ugly, I hope you know that. Complete and utter trash."

"Can you leave them alone, please? Hey, I just fixed that. Vansh, stop it!" He rushed over to the muscular man who was a few inches taller than him in an effort to stop him and his destructive ways. "Can you please just leave?"

"Shut up Ayaan, I can do whatever I want. What are you going to do now, cry?" came his mocking retort.

"Get out Vansh!" Ayaan's voice was strong and clear despite the now heightened fear that was seeping into him.

"Who do you think you are talking to like that shitface?" Vansh stood tall in front of him, his eyes darkening at the audacity of his step-brother as he grabbed him by his collar. "I'll knock the teeth out of your head the next time you talk to me like that. Son of a bitch! Don't underestimate me. I've beat the crap out of you many times before and I won't hesitate to do it again."

"Okay, okay, let me go!" he pleaded.

Complying, he shoved him into the wall with great force and headed toward the door just before knocking his brushes and paint bottles over for the final time.

A sigh escaped his lips as he began to clean up the mess that was made. He was surely disappointed with himself for not standing his ground but he knew he was no match for his visibly stronger older brother.

He knew he was weak and incapable of defending himself, yet the urge to fight his brother back never left him. It was the 'how' that was puzzling to him.

'You are a weak, powerless, emotional, son of bitch, do you know that. What kind of man will you be? Now, get the fuck out of my face.'

Minutes passed by and he packed away the last of his brushes in the holder he had made a year ago.

Fixing his disheveled shirt, Ayaan made his way downstairs and to the dining room where the rest of his family was currently dining with the exclusion of his mother who was at the store.

"Look who finally decided to show up," spoke his stepfather, Vikram, who was glaring at him from his seat.

"Vansh messed up my things so I had to fix them." he sat in the chair that was the farthest from Vansh to avoid any hits, kicks, or punches he would receive.

"Don't lie about my son you slimy piece of-" Before he could finish, he was cut off.

"Don't waste your breath, Dad, especially not on him."

Ignoring their harsh words, he started to eat the meal that was prepared by the cook.

"Dad can you pass the-" he voiced hesitantly but was immediately cut off by a firm 'Get it yourself.'

With lowered eyes due to embarrassment, he reached for the salt but accidentally knocked over a glass of water that he quickly picked up to prevent further mess.

"You clumsy idiot, can't you do one thing without causing a mess! You are truly useless! I don't know what kind of stupid, incompetent child your mother gave birth to!"

Though he was used to such words, it hurt nonetheless, especially coming from the person he was desperately trying to find a father figure in.

He flinched the moment he heard the strong exclamations leave the mouth of his father, and by instinct, he profusely apologized.

"Just take your food and get out of my face. Leave!"

"It won't happen again, I promise."

"I said leave Ayaan."

Tears welled up in his eyes as he got up from his chair, his lips quivered and his hands slightly shook clenching the plate.

Being out of their presence was all he wanted, but the desire of being accepted by the people who, though he was thrusted into sharing familial relations so quickly, he still shared ties with them nonetheless, was strong.

All he wanted was to be accepted as a part of the family. To be seen as a Raichand rather than the 'plus one' or 'the baggage from another relationship' of his mother.

It was a lot of change to handle as a 9-year-old. New things, a new environment, new people and a new life to adjust to, all while still grieving a recent loss, nevertheless he gave it a shot, only to be outcasted and pushed away at the very beginning.

Ayaan entered his room which was dimly lit and sat around his desk, continuing to eat his dinner in now absolute silence, a silence in which he had grown to love.

The snow cushions the earth like the clouds cushion the sky, lying like a bed on the hard ground, white, cold and soft. A few attached themselves to his window, peeping inside at his world.

The beige paint of the walls matched the sheets of his bed that had a mixture of white. Paintings he made with much pride, decorating the walls, big and small like a family unit altogether, and frames containing pictures of false smiles and pretense.

To the right of his bed sat his nightstand, housing a picture of him and his biological father, one taken days before his inevitable demise. A picture he cherishes and one his mother said he held onto too dearly.

Behind the frame was a lamp, one he had for many years, given to him by his father. It was still covered in Spiderman and Iron Man stickers, depicting the interest of his youth.

A sofa occupied one of the corners of the room with plants on either side of it, a place of comfort and safety and a place where his crocheting hands came to life.

And finally, a closet where his clothes resided, Turtle Necks, Polo Shirts, Tee-shirts, Plaid Shirts, they were all hung in order. They were all clothes that complimented him, Ayaan Raichand.

They took it all in. It was a room filled with luxuries in a home of luxury, however, for him, the Raichand house was no home, it was a battlefield. In return, he started back at them intently slowly clouding his window.

The night was enthralling. The sky was illuminated by the stars that were scattered across it, twinkling like cheerful children and the bright moon watching over them like a parent.

Then there was the snow, making everything complete with its beauty.

He was always fascinated by snow. How it felt and how beautiful it was. Now, he was completely intrigued having realized that it was snowing. He moved with his plate once again and sat by the window sill, watching the snowflakes aimlessly drop to the sheet of white comfort it made below.

It was one of the many wonders of New York City, one that had him captivated and mesmerized.

Hi guys I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Remember to like and comment. 😉

5454tiffany