Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes Read Online Free PDF

poets' words because they
are a door into their souls. Everything is bare—the anguish,
angst, love and hatred—every minor detail. And yet, it all
still appears to be a mystery. Is it all fiction, who knows? And that
is the best part of all. If the poet can make another believe it to
be non-fiction to the point they empathize in every line, then all
the better—they have done their job. Either way, they tag him
in their work and he reads them all with gusto, becoming entwined in
their world.
    Most
of the poets on here are from backgrounds such as his, or not too far
different. They are all trying to find acceptance—not the type
that gets them attacked later when they turn their backs, but with
complete honesty.
    The
bed next door croaks again, only louder this time. His father must be
attempting to find something half decent to wear.
    Wonder
if he'll come in and pat me on the back.
Great
job on the tests, son!
Fat
chance of that happening.
    In
the pit of his stomach, he finds he longs to hear those words, as
much as he hates himself for it.
    His
father stumbles around, causing the drawer at the far side of the
room to rattle with each step. The door opens and the steps continue
on the landing before they come to a stop outside. He knows it isn't
his imagination, his father always stops outside Benji's room—he
often does the same thing. If he closes his eyes tight enough, he can
almost fool himself into believing the last three years never
happened. He can almost see Benji with his legs dangling over the
bed, listening to Oasis, or The Charlatans while
singing out of tune—something both he and his parents took for
granted.
    When
the weight descends with a husky cough, Bobby's stomach uncoils.
    If
his mother has started making dinner, will it decorate the walls of
the living room tonight? Or will his father opt for the pub before
his temper rears its ugly face?
    Looking
at his slim and pasty teenage body, he can still see the faded grey
and yellow clouds still linger on his arms, courtesy of his father.
He doesn't make a habit of it though. Bobby isn't sure whether that's
in case somebody sees it, or if he simply doesn't care enough about
him to waste his energy. These are because he got in the way while
trying to protect his mother. Maybe one day he'll know why he is so
indifferent towards him, when he dotted on Benji.
    There
isn't a day when he doesn't regret not intervening every time his
father gets handy with his fists, but there is little he can do. He
has been doing the weights Benji left and exercises he often saw him
doing. Yet, besides vague definition, he is still scrawny.
    Danny
put his ten pence in telling him he needs to eat more to see the
effects. But besides scrounging a meal here and there, around Danny's
most nights, there is little hope of getting anywhere near what he
would like.
    When
I get my own place, I will make sure the fridge is full and I've got
enough money to buy what I like.
    He
has had enough of looking at a body that's nowhere close to rivalling
anyone any time soon, especially his father.
    Opening
the built-in wardrobe, he shifts through to find a plain t-shirt and
slips it past his head.
    The
computer chimes, accompanied by a pop-up box in the right corner of
the screen. The message poses more questions than answers as he
contemplates his response.
    Am
I okay?
    He
hasn't given it much thought. Part of his mind wants to vomit out all
his problems, including his GCSE.
    Should
tell her his mother is not altogether there most of the time and
believes him to be a child in single digits? Does he say she comes
home with clothes for eight-year-olds and he has to hunt in the bin
to find the receipts?
    Or
should he tell her his father is a serial cheat and alcoholic who he
lives in fear of every day? Or that his father makes his mum cry, and
he knows he can do nothing to prevent it? Or that he is afraid one
day there will be nothing he, or anyone can do to help her because he
has gone too