It's excellent, your word choice is superb, the description is amazing, the plot line is engaging, the characters interesting. Happy? :3
Our father didn't use to be the malevolent man he is today. As hard as it is to believe, I used to be one of those little boys that believed with all his heart that there could never be a better father in the whole, entire world. It has only been 4 excruciating years since I'd last had those thoughts. My father chose to keep his sandy blonde hair short, but with long enough bangs to spike them if he desired. He was a fit man; visited the gym daily. His attire, being a stay at home father, generally consisted of, well, whatever he pulled out of the closet each day. My father was a man who prided himself on his intellect. He taught me how to play chess when I was 6. Always striving to help me perfect my skills, we often went to the park a block away and played at a picnic table, the sing-song voices of the birds gliding around us filling our ears, and often soothing me when I'd lose, yet again. Those were some of my happiest memories. My mother was a lovely woman. She always wore her auburn hair at shoulder length. Being the manager at our local three star hotel, she typically dressed in a black blazer accompanied by a sleek black skirt, approximately 4 inches above her knees. Not a single blemish could be seen on her face. Instead, her stunning ocean blue eyes paralyzed you where you stood. She was beautiful, intelligent, funny; basically anything my father could ask for. When you find the perfect person in your life, you don't expect to lose them before you reach middle aged. 4 years ago, on my father's birthday, my mother left us. I'll never forget that day. We'd all packed into our small Honda Civic. My father was at the wheel, my mother in the passenger. I, who was only 7 at the time, sat behind my father. Elle, who was only 1 year old, was to my right. We were planning to enjoy dinner at my father's favorite Italian restaurant in town. But the weather was unusually harsh, and it was becoming increasingly harder to steer straight on the right side of the road as wave after wave of rain mixed with hail pelted the windshield. Our father lost control and drove off the rode into a nearby oak tree on our right. Of course, by now, me and Elle were both wailing. I could barely hear my fathers panicked voice as he shouted my mother's name. "Melissa! Melissa! Answer me!" But there was no saving her. No one could survive the impact of the collision with a faulty airbag. It's amazing what I can recollect now, when that night all I could remember were my own tears streaming down my cheeks. But being able to cry and hope for daddy to make everything better won't do me any good now. At 11, I'm my own sister's father figure. And certainly not as naïve.
I dot care if its boring. It's needed. Your building up the characters. This is important. You're doing fine. All good stories start slow.
Am I the only one sadistic enough to want to read the boy's POV while he's being beaten? ._. ITSSS GREAAAAAAAAAAAT.