Richard's first memories were not filled with warmth or laughter, but a cold silence that seemed to freeze the very air in his childhood home. The walls were painted a dull cream, but years of neglect left them stained and cracked. The furniture was old and worn, with scratches and chips that whispered stories of careless hands and forgotten moments.
From the moment he could remember, Richard was treated like a burden. His mother's face, once soft and smiling, had hardened into something sharp and distant. She never looked at him the way a mother should, with tenderness or pride. Instead, her eyes carried an endless well of disgust.
She wore gloves — thick rubber gloves — whenever she had to touch him. It was as if he were a disease she was trying to avoid.
Richard could still remember the smell — a harsh, chemical scent that clung to the air whenever she came near. He hated those gloves. They made her touch feel colder than winter.
"Stay away," she whispered once, her voice like ice shards as she pushed him back from the kitchen table.
His father was no kinder. His jaw was always tight, his face carved with frowns and scorn.
"You're nothing but a mistake," his father said one evening, voice low and cruel, as Richard stood frozen by the door.
Richard had barely spoken since he could talk. He learned early to make himself as small as possible, to fade into the background.
'If I don't move, maybe they won't notice me,' he thought, pressing his back against the cold wall, holding his breath.
At night, Richard's room was his only refuge — but even that was no sanctuary. The window was cracked, letting in the chill wind that whispered secrets in the dark. The pale light of the streetlamp outside cast long shadows across the peeling wallpaper.
He would lie on the thin mattress, clutching the threadbare blanket, wishing for the warmth he never felt from his parents.
The only comfort came from Elisa, his scruffy, loyal dog. Elisa's warm body curled beside him, her steady breathing a quiet promise that Richard was not completely alone in this cold world.
Sometimes, when the silence grew too loud, Elisa would nuzzle his face, pressing her furry head against Richard's cheek.
'Thank you,' Richard would whisper, even though the dog could not understand.
The cruelty was not just in words but in small, painful acts of neglect and contempt.
Meals were sparse and cold, barely touched by care. Richard ate alone, often with his head bowed, trying not to let his parents see his hunger or sadness.
His mother's hands would push the plate toward him like it was a punishment, and then she would pull away quickly, as if afraid he might stain her perfect skin.
The gloves — always the gloves.
One day, when Richard accidentally dropped a glass, shattering it on the floor, his mother's face twisted in disgust.
"Clumsy," she hissed, brushing past him without a second glance.
His father's voice rang out sharply from the next room.
"You're pathetic."
Richard knelt to pick up the shards, his fingers trembling.
'Why am I so worthless?' he thought, eyes stinging with tears he refused to shed openly.
As the years passed, the coldness in the house grew heavier.
His parents never celebrated his birthdays. No gifts, no kind words. Just a day like any other — a day he wished he could disappear from.
At school, Richard was quiet and invisible. He didn't want to draw attention, didn't want anyone to see the brokenness he hid beneath his thin exterior.
Every day was a battle to survive — to endure the whispers, the stares, the loneliness.
Yet even in the darkest moments, Elisa was there — faithful, warm, a steady heartbeat in the endless silence.