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A hollow win or a Pyrrhic victory is defined as a victory that inflicts such a devastating toll on the victor that it is tantamount to defeat. This Halloween, I wanted to channel Stephen King and craft a character-heavy short tale where no one comes out unscathed. Like all my other posts, this is an original piece that is exclusive to Steemit.

This is the first time I've written something so graphic, so a warning for innocent eyes. Strong language and mature themes are tackled in this story, so this is not an advisable read for children.

Originally written as a single short story, I had to divide this into two parts because of the length of the post. This piece also serves as a social commentary of the current state of the Philippines. Sit back, huddle up in a comfortable blanket and enjoy the tale.

Feel free to leave your thoughts and/or criticism in the comments section. If you do, feel free to post a link to a post you want to promote as well.

With one swift blow, the boy had reduced the helpless canine to within an inch of its life. Its nose was muzzled and its muted howling was drowned out by the speakers that blared deafening rock music. The child was about eight years old, but he had rage that stretched far beyond his age. The dog put up a good fight but it was no match for a kid and a lead pipe. It had been incapacitated for three days, but the boy only grew tired of its plaything that morning. What was once a cheerful pooch was now nothing but a bloody carcass being swept — literally — under a cheap, worn rug.

"School time! The bus is almost here," the boy's mother exclaimed, as she unceremoniously opened the door to the basement.

Startled, the boy scrambled to tidy up the scene of the gruesome crime. The stairs provided him some breathing room, but he had to hurry to cover up the blood-stained floor. "Coming!," he shouted back nervously.

"Couldn't you hear me?" his mother probed, agitated. "Turn down that infernal racket and get ready for school!"

The boy hurried up the steps, took a few bites of breakfast, then boarded the bus. He mostly kept to himself during the ride, staring outside sparingly. There was a nervous air that came over him as he alighted. It was not guilt, however. The feeling felt closer to dread. He gritted his teeth, and clutched his bag close to his chest.

As he turned a corner, his face was pummeled by a rampaging fist, that instantly knocked him to the ground. A flurry of kicks and stomps quickly followed. As far as he could count, there were three pairs of feet assaulting him at the same time. The boy could do nothing but curl up into a ball. One of his attackers lifted him up and nailed him against the wall. The three teenagers took turns to see who could land the strongest gut punch. To them, it felt like a game, and the boy was the only one who could decide who among them prevailed.

A small crowd gathered to witness the spectacle, but it quickly dissipated as soon as the school bell rang. Laughter filled the air, and it only competed against the thuds that landed on his body.

The boy tried to scream for help, but no one dared to lend a hand. His knees buckled, but the assault continued uninterrupted. One of the attackers pried open his bag and scattered his things around.

"Tell your mom I had fun last night," one of the teenagers taunted. "I came like five times inside her."

They gave each other high fives and laughed at the boy's expense. It was a ritual that they've practiced daily for the past two weeks. The teenagers took turns spitting at the boy, as they bid farewell.

The boy curled up into a ball and cried silently. Blood and tears mixed into a puddle that formed beside his face. His vision blurred, and he coughed up even more blood. In his despair, the boy clasped his hands together and prayed for the cruel deaths of his tormentors. Long, agonizing deaths that would go on for days. He sobbed, as he faded in and out of consciousness.

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Back at home, the boy's mother closed the curtains and fluffed up the pillows. Her hair was tied up in a loose knot, and she had on a worn-out, one-piece dress. She closed her eyes, bit her lip softly, and gently felt every fiber of the upholstery. Quiet times like these came few and far in between. She wanted to take advantage by breathing in every serene second of it.

The silence was interrupted by a steady creaking in the floorboards. Her heart pounded in sync with the footsteps, beating faster as the sound drew closer. She opened her eyes just as two arms wrapped around her waist from behind. The woman tried to turned around, but the tight grip impeded her.

The man buried his face in her hair, and proceeded to kiss the back of her neck. His right hand reached for her breasts, and the other slid between her thighs. He sniffed her, then spun her around.

The woman flashed a sly smile upon seeing the face of their next door neighbor. They've been carrying out their illicit affair for a couple of weeks now, and she had never felt more wanted. As a disgraced reporter, he had a face that many women desired, but he chose to be with her. Whenever he was, she felt like she was the luckiest woman alive. He placed his lips against hers, slid his hand down the small of her back, then gripped her firm backside tightly.

Her neighbor unfurled her hair and pushed her down on the sofa. It was a strange contrast from how she was usually handled. The cushion provided a much needed relief. Her back was so used to being push down the stairs by her husband, that she almost forgot that there was a much better alternative to the feeling of the jagged edges.

They took off each other's clothes, laughing as they struggled to unbutton the man's pants. It had been a while since the last time she had fun undressing. She only had a few decent clothes left, as most of it had to be thrown out because they were either ripped apart or the blood stains refused to come off.

"Shit," he sighed, upon noticing the fresh batch of bruises in her body. His eyebrows furrowed as he traced her slender body. "I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!"

"D-don't," the woman begged, stuttering. "N-not yet."

"I just," he argued, his eyes welling up. "I just don't want ... How can I? Help me to help you. I can't just sit idly by and let that son of a bitch hurt you. I just can't! I—"

"Shh," she whispered, grabbing the back of his neck. "This is plenty of help. This ... This escape. You're already helping me plenty."

"This isn't helping at all. How could you keep asking me to stay out of it?"

"One day, we'll get him back. But, right now, just shut up and kiss me."

He threw his boxers and leapt on top of her. Skin against skin, the man dove down and suckled on her teat. He licked her bruises, and then kissed them softly. There wasn't an inch of her skin that was unfamiliar to his taste.

The woman closed her eyes and bit her lip once again. Her body trembled, as electricty coursed through her body. She tousled his hair, and pulled him closer. It was unlike her husband's drunken nights, when she instead pushed him away.

He clasped her wrists above her head and held her down with one hand. The man was careful to not cause her pain, as she already had contusions in the shape of bracelets. They locked lips, as his other hand made her way down to her snatch. She jerked upon the hand's arrival.

"D-does it hurt?" the man asked worriedly.

"N-No," the woman assured. "Keep going."

Tears flowed down the side of her face, as she gasped with pleasure. It was a much needed respite. Her eyes were swollen from crying tears of agony, and her voice was hoarse from screaming in pain. She melted in the man's arms, in the best possible sense.

His tongue soothed her cracked lips, and his fingers forced her to gush. Her gasps turned into moans, a stark contrast from her usual groans. Their eyes met, and he slipped his manhood inside of her. The entry was unopposed, and her body answered with lubrication instead of blood.

He released her hands, and wrung her neck passionately. She nibbled on his lower lip as a sign of gratitude. By now, she would've been usually pleading for her life, while gasping for air, but she was too busy wailing in delight.

The man hoisted her legs onto his shoulder, and continued to pound her. Him penetrating her was way better than her husband pounding her with his fists, she thought. Her broken fingernails clawed against his back as she neared completion. They threw deliberate, sensual obscenities at each other, as opposed to the usual cruel profanities that her husband spewed as he beat her.

No words could give justice to the pleasure she felt. The man stiffened up as he ejaculated inside her. Their sweat and bodily fluids now intermingled with the dried blood in the many layers of the sofa. The pair sat quietly as they tried to catch their breath. Her scarred knees were still weak, and her body continued to tingle, but she wouldn't have it any other way.

Read #HollowWin (Part 2) >