52. Father Figure
CHAPTER 52
FATHER FIGURE
NATE
April 2004
17 years old
The slamming door rips through the silence like a gunshot, jolting me awake. My heart slams against my ribs as the sound reverberates through walls so thin they might as well be paper. The familiar surge of adrenaline floods my system—a well-practiced dance with fear that leaves my fingertips tingling and my mouth desert-dry. His voice cuts through next, each word slurred and venomous, crashing together in a violent symphony of anger and something stronger than just whiskey.
Coke, maybe. Or pills.
These days, it's harder to tell what demon is riding him.
Mom's voice follows—soft, pleading, desperate. The sound makes my teeth ache. How many times have I heard this same scene play out, like some sick theatrical performance where we all know our parts but can't escape the stage?
The clock on my nightstand reads 01:58 AM, its red digits burning into my retinas like a countdown to chaos.
A wave of relief washes over me as I remember the one blessing in this nightmare: Jake isn't here.
My little brother's safe at training camp, chasing his dreams far from this hellhole. The thought gives me some form of peace, even as bile burns the back of my throat and my pulse thunders in my ears.
Jake—the kid who still believes in heroes. Who sees Scott as some kind of mythical father figure, straight out of those movies where dads teach their sons to throw perfect spirals and give sage advice about life.
Jake never saw the bruises blooming across Mom’s skin, never noticed how her hands trembled while pouring his cereal, never caught the way her eyes would dart to the nearest exit whenever Scott’s voice rose above a whisper.
The memory of us—the last time we felt like brothers—hits me out of nowhere. Teaching Jake to skateboard when he was ten. His determined little face scrunched up after each fall, tears threatening but never falling because he wanted to be “tough like his big brother.” The scrapes on his knees were battle wounds, his persistence a shield against failure.
“One more time, Jake,” I’d said, steadying the board beneath his feet, my hands firm on his shoulders. “I’m right here. I won’t let you fall.”
When he finally got it, the triumph in his eyes could’ve lit up the whole damn world. He’d jumped off the board and thrown his arms around me, grinning so wide it made my chest ache.
“You’re the best big brother ever.”
That moment sealed a promise I’d been keeping since the day he was born: I’d always be there to catch him. I’d never let him see how ugly the world could really be. It’s why I pushed Mom so hard to send him away whenever possible—training camps, competitions, anything to keep him out of this house where monsters wear the mask of family, and love comes with a price tag of bruises and broken spirits.
A floorboard creaks outside my door, and my pulse spikes. The bruises from last week's "lesson" still burn beneath my skin, my wrist screaming with every slight movement. But I push through the pain and stand. Because this is what I do. This is who I am.
The shield. The protector. The punching bag.
It's been my role since I was eight years old, and I've played it perfectly. Back then, I thought I could be a hero too—naive enough to believe I could actually stop him. But I'm not that little kid anymore.
He made fucking sure of that.
I shove the door open, its hinges shrieking in protest. The kitchen light spills into the hallway like toxic waste, casting long shadows that feel like prison bars closing in. Scott's silhouette looms against the wall—massive and monstrous, a physical manifestation of every nightmare I've lived through.
For a heartbeat, I falter because of the sheer size of him. How the fuck am I supposed to face down a man twice my size? The rational part of my brain screams at me to retreat, to hide, to survive.
Then I hear it—the sickening thud of something hitting the wall, followed by Mom's strangled gasp.
The fear evaporates, burned away by something colder. Sharper. A rage so pure it crystallizes in my blood, turning every heartbeat into a war drum. There's no time to think, no time to plan. There's only the split-second choice I've made a thousand times before: step into the line of fire and pray I can take the hit.
My vision narrows to pinpoints of red and black, my pulse thundering in my ears. My hands clench so tight my knuckles scream, but I don't dare loosen my grip. If I give an inch, if I let go for even a second, I'll lose whatever control I have left.
"Stop!" The word rips from my throat, raw and sharp as broken glass.
He turns, bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. That glare used to freeze me solid when I was a kid, but I'm not that scared little boy anymore. I stopped being him the first time I watched Scott raise his hand to her and did nothing.
"Get your fucking hands off her." My voice comes out steady, despite what’s raging inside me.
His lips curl into a sneer, his words dripping venom. "What the fuck did you just say to me, son?"
Son. The word is acid on my tongue. This man has never been a father to me—just a nightmare wearing the mask of family.
"You fucking heard me."
A smirk twists his features. "Well, would you look at that? Did you finally decide to grow a pair?" He steps away from Mom, whose trembling form is pressed against the wall. Blood trickles from her split lip, and something inside me fractures at the sight.
His bloodshot eyes bore into mine. "Look me in the eyes and say what it is you need to say. Like a real man."
"Fuck. You. Dad. "
The words barely leave my mouth before his fist connects with my jaw. Pain explodes across my face, the taste of blood flooding my mouth—metallic and bitter, a familiar flavor I've grown to hate.
"Scott! Stop! Please, I'm begging you!" Mom's cries echo in the background, but they're drowned out by the thundering in my skull.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Each impact of his fist sends shockwaves through my head.
Once, twice, three times.
I don't have anything left to fight back with. Even if I did, what's the point? The punches would keep coming anyway.
One more hit.
Just end it.
Please.
Just fucking end it so it stops.
His attention snaps back to her, his voice pure poison. "This is all your fucking fault to begin with."
Then his hand wraps around my throat, squeezing just enough to remind me who holds the power. "And you—if you ever dare speak to me like that again, it won't end well for you. You hear me?"
"Go to Hell," I spit through blood-stained teeth.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement—Mom, trembling but determined, a kitchen knife clutched in her white-knuckled grip.
What the fuck is she doing?
"Get away from him now, Scott." Her voice shakes, but there's steel underneath.
The sight of her standing there, weaponized desperation in her hands, sends ice through my veins. He's not in his right mind. He's going to kill her.
The instant his grip loosens on my throat, I explode into action. We crash to the ground together, and my fist finds his face. Something snaps—his nose or my hand, I'm not sure which. Pain shoots up my arm, but adrenaline drowns it out. If I don't stop him now, he'll go after her next.
"Nate, stop. Please."
Her voice cuts through the haze of violence, and something in my chest splinters. Why does she keep defending him? Why does she always choose his side? Why does she stay after every nightmare he puts us through?
"I fucking hate you." The words taste like truth and shame.
"You're just like your mother." His hand finds my throat again, and suddenly I'm on my back, the full weight of the devil himself crushing the air from my lungs. "Weak."
When he finally releases me and storms out of the room, I wait for the door to slam shut before my knees buckle, and I drop to the floor. Spitting blood onto the pristine tile, I gingerly massage my jaw, wincing at the sharp ache radiating through my skull.
Mom rushes to my side, her hands trembling as she reaches for me. "Nate, honey, are you ok??—"
"Mom, don't." My voice cracks, but I don't look at her. I can't. If I see her broken like this, it'll destroy whatever piece of me is still holding on. "Just don't."
She swallows hard, her voice shaking. "He just… he had too much to drink, and he??—"
"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Anger surges, momentarily drowning out the pain. I force myself to my feet, glaring down at her. "You're seriously going to feed me that bullshit again? Look around, Mom! Look at you. Look at me!"
Her silence is deafening, her eyes shining with tears she won't let fall.
"It's not just the bruises, Mom," I continue, my voice trembling with rage and exhaustion. "It's the fucking humiliation. The way he makes you cater to his every whim like we're nothing more than props in his fucked-up play. Smiling for his friends, dressing up for his parties. It's all a sick joke to him. We're just collateral damage in his fucking game of power and control."
She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.
"I'm tired, Mom. I'm tired of the lies. The excuses. The pretending. I can't do it anymore. I'm fucking done."
Her tears spill over, and she reaches for me again, but I pull myself up off the ground and step back.
"You need to send Jake away," I say, my voice breaking.
Her brows knit together in confusion. "What?"
"Send him away, for good." I repeat, firmer this time. "Get him out of here. Send him to a different fucking state. For once in your fucking life, do the right thing and protect your son from that piece of shit before he does to Jake what he's done to us. I don't care where he goes—just force him somewhere safe. Please, Mom."
Her face crumples, and she shakes her head. "Nate, I can't??—"
"What do you mean you can't? Pay whoever you have to whatever stupid money. It's not like we're short on cash. Jesus fucking Christ. You have to," I snap, desperation clawing at my chest. "He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve…" My voice trails off, choked by the lump in my throat and the pending concussion.
"Nate, sit. You look like??—"
I don't hear the rest of what she says because the room slowly starts to fade to black.
The hospital room feels like a prison cell.
Sterile and suffocating.
The kind of quiet that wraps around your chest and squeezes until black spots dance at the edges of your vision. Every hum of fluorescent lights, every faint beep of monitors down the hall, every squeak of nurses' shoes on linoleum—it all grates against my raw nerves like sandpaper on an open wound.
I focus on the ceiling, counting uneven grooves between each tile. Anything to block out the throbbing in my wrist and the steady drumbeat of pain at the base of my skull. The smell of antiseptic burns my nostrils, mixing with the metallic taste of blood I still can't wash from my mouth.
I don't want to be here.
Mom dragged me in at 3 AM, her grip on my arm desperate, like she could hold all our broken pieces together through sheer force of will. Credit where it's due—it's the first time she's actually brought me to the ER after one of Scott's episodes. I should probably feel grateful for that small mercy. The lie she told the nurse rolled off her tongue with practiced ease: I fell.
Might have rebroken my wrist and obtained a concussion with additional bruises. Her voice was steady, believable—you'd think she actually bought into her own bullshit.
A fucking fall. That's the story this time.
She'd managed to clean most of the blood away before we left, even changed my shirt. Anything to hide the truth. The perfect wife, the caring mother, protecting her family's reputation like it's worth more than her son's broken bones.
I wanted to scream the truth. Wanted to tell them it wasn't a fall, that she was lying to protect the monster who did this. But the words lodged in my throat like shards of glass. Because I've been lying for Scott my entire life too. Every black eye, every fractured rib, every time I went flying into a wall—I covered for him.
Football practice. A rough tackle. A stupid accident. The lies came easier than breathing.
But hearing her tell those same lies, watching her carry on this sick performance like we're both method actors in a tragedy—it makes me feel like I'm going to explode.
I sit up too fast and the room tilts sideways, pain shooting through my skull like lightning. Swallowing back nausea, I glance at Mom. She's perched in the chair by the door, arms crossed tight like she's physically holding herself together. She hasn't looked at me once since we got here.
I'm not sure what's worse—the silence stretching between us or the way she keeps pretending this is normal. Like ending up in the ER at three in the morning is just another Wednesday night in the Sullivan household.
"Nate, sit down," she says, her voice clipped. Her eyes dart toward the hallway like she's afraid someone might overhear, might see through the cracks in our carefully constructed facade. "You look like??—"
The rest of her words fade as darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. The room spins, and for a moment, I let it all go—the pain, the lies, the weight of pretending. I collapse back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as realization hits me like a physical blow.
This is how it's going to be.
Nothing will change.
She'll keep going back.
He'll keep tearing us apart.
And I'll keep ending up here—with broken bones, a broken spirit, and nothing but lies to stitch me back together.
Hours blur together under harsh fluorescent lights. I shift on the bed and flex my wrist experimentally. Sharp pain shoots up my arm, pulling a hiss through clenched teeth. My head throbs in time with my pulse, each beat a reminder of why I'm here. The doctor who walks in looks like he's been practicing medicine longer than I've been alive. His expression is carefully neutral as he studies his clipboard, but there's something in his eyes that makes my stomach clench.
"How are you holding up, Nathaniel?"
"Been better." My voice sounds like I gargled gravel.
"I'll bet. You took quite a fall." His tone makes it clear he's calling bullshit on that story. "Listen, Nathaniel??—"
"Nate," I correct him. "Just Nate."
He nods, something softening in his expression. "Nate, I wanted to see you before your mother comes back. You're over eighteen now, so this information can be shared with just you."
He starts examining the x-rays, but I already know what's coming. I can read it in the careful way he chooses his words, in the gentle tone that speaks of years of delivering bad news.
"Your wrist is fractured, so are two of your fingers, and there's definitely a significant concussion." He pauses, eyes meeting mine. "But from your x-rays, I noticed something else."
My throat closes, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.
"You've got older injuries—breaks and contusions—that didn't heal properly. It looks like they've been re-injured multiple times. In fact, that wrist looks like it's already had fresh fractures only weeks old." The weight of his gaze feels like another bruise forming. "I need to ask this," he says, voice gentle but firm. "Is someone hurting you repeatedly?"
The question hits like a sucker punch, but I keep my face blank. Years of practice make it easy.
"No," I say, my voice steady, rehearsed. "It's from football. I'm a quarterback. I've been playing for years. Injuries happen."
He doesn't look convinced. Leaning forward slightly, his voice drops lower.
"Nate, I've been a doctor for over twenty-five years. I've seen football injuries. These don't look like that."
I open my mouth to argue, to spin another lie, but the words die in my throat.
I'm so fucking tired of lying.
Dr. Colson reads my silence, sees the truth in my inability to meet his eyes.
"If you're not comfortable talking to me right now, I understand. But I urge you to find someone you trust. If things aren't safe at home, there are people who can help."
People who can help?
The bitter laugh rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. This guy clearly has no idea who my family is. The only help that's offered in my world is to clean something up or hide something, making it disappear to keep up appearances. I nod, jaw clenched so tight it sends fresh waves of pain through my skull. He watches me for another moment before leaving a card on the side table. The door clicks shut behind him with a finality that echoes in my chest.
The room feels smaller now, the walls closing in. I grab the card—a direct line to a domestic abuse hotline. I shove it in the drawer and retrieve my phone, scrolling to Nora's name. My thumb hovers over the call button, and for a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to tell her everything.
But I don't press it.
Instead of calling Nora, I scroll up to David's name and hit call before I can talk myself out of it. The phone rings twice, each tone stretching like years between heartbeats.
"Nate, how are you doing, kid?" His voice comes through warm and steady, so different from the cold fury I'm used to hearing directed my way.
I can't speak.
The words are trapped in my throat and I almost hang up, but then his voice comes again, calm and patient as always.
"Nate, are you okay?"
"I… I don't know anymore." My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. Hate how weak it makes me sound. Hate how much I need someone to ask that question and actually care about the answer.
David exhales softly, like he's been waiting for this call. "Talk to me, kid. I'm here. Whatever's going on, you can talk to me, I'll listen."
His tone doesn't demand anything. Doesn't judge. It's the opposite of everything I've known, and something in my chest starts to crack.
"Where are you?" He asks with genuine concern.
"In bed."
Not a complete lie. Hospital beds still count, right?
“Nate, what happened?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with everything I can't say.
David's always been different.
When I was six, he bought me my first CD—Oasis. I played it until Noel Gallagher's voice was etched into my soul, until the lyrics became a shield against the chaos in my house. The next summer brought The Beatles, then Nirvana. By thirteen, music wasn't just an escape anymore—it was oxygen.
David noticed, like he always did. The day he showed up with that acoustic guitar, something inside me sparked to life. It was the first time I felt excitement that was too big to contain, too pure to hide. Of course, it pissed Scott off. He hated that David saw me, really saw me. Hated that he gave me something to look forward to that wasn't football, that wasn't violence dressed up as character building.
David saw things others missed.
The way I limped after games. How I winced when someone slapped my shoulder. The way my eyes would drop to the floor whenever he visited. He saw what football—what living in my house—was doing to me, physically and emotionally. But he never forced me to answer questions I wasn't ready to face.
Instead, he'd call randomly to talk about music, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Did you hear the new Foo Fighters album?" he'd ask, or he'd drive hours just to surprise me at a game, sitting in the stands like some kind of guardian angel in disguise.
But I knew he knew.
There was something uncomfortable about that—having someone see through the cracks I worked so hard to hide.
Last summer, before he and his family headed back home, he finally said something. It was late, the kind of night where cicadas drowned out everything else. We sat on the back porch, my bruises hidden under long sleeves despite the suffocating heat.
"Nate, if you ever need to talk about anything—anything at all—you can come to me. You know that, right?"
My throat had closed up so tight I couldn't answer. I just nodded, gripping the can until my knuckles went white. He didn't push after that. Just sat with me, letting the silence say what I couldn't.
Now, on the phone, that same silence stretches between us. He waits, giving me space to find my voice, to make the next move. I wonder if he can hear the hospital monitors beeping in the background.
"Do you remember when you gave me that guitar for my birthday?" I finally manage.
"Of course I do. You played “Time of Your Life” for hours. I thought your dad was going to lose his mind."
He did.
A quiet laugh escapes me despite the lump in my throat. The memory carries a sharp edge now—Scott had destroyed that guitar as soon as the Well’s left that summer. Shattering not just wood and strings, but the small piece of joy I'd managed to carve out for myself.
"I haven't picked up a guitar since.”
"Well, maybe this summer you pick it up again and we can have a little jam session. Is that what the kids these days call them? Jam sessions? Or am I that old now?"
I laugh, trying to ignore how it makes my head pound harder.
"Son, are you really okay?"
That word— son —coming from his mouth feels like warmth spreading through my ice-cold heart. So different from when Scott uses it like a weapon.
"Yeah, I'll be okay. I'm not really sure why I called. I'm sorr??—"
"Never apologize for calling me. I mean that. Okay?"
"Okay."
A few seconds of silence passes, heavy with everything unsaid.
"You know, you've always been more than what you think you are, Nate. You've always been special. I know parents say that all the time, but I mean it, kid. You have something inside of you just waiting to be discovered."
The tears come before I can stop them, hot and relentless. I swipe at my face, hating myself for breaking down, but I can't hold it together anymore. David gives me space, waiting until the worst of it passes before speaking again.
"You've got so much life ahead of you, Nate. Just remember that."
I close my eyes, letting that sink in, trying to believe it could be true. For a moment, I let myself imagine a different life. One where someone like David wasn't the exception. Where love didn't come with conditions, and I didn't have to wonder if I'd ever be enough.
"Thanks, Dave."
"Anytime, kid. You take care of yourself, yeah?"
"Yeah."
"I'll be seeing you, Nate."
The call ends, but his words echo in my mind, a lifeline in the sterile darkness of the hospital room.
I spend two more days in hospital until they finally release me. School's not an option right now because my face looks so fucken swollen still. I can't use my hand and this concussion is still lingering. So instead I'm sprawled on the couch, an ice pack numbing my wrist and a pillow propped behind my aching head. Mom hovers, asking every five minutes if I need anything, each question dripping with the kind of guilt that makes my teeth ache.
I finally wave her off, telling her she can go if she has things to do. She doesn't argue, but the guilt lingers in her eyes as she leaves.
Scott flew out to Minnesota this morning. No warning, no timeline—just gone. It should feel like a reprieve, but instead, it feels like a countdown. A ticking clock measuring the moments until the next explosion. At least the house is quiet. It gives me time to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next with my life, assuming I can piece together enough of myself to build some kind of future.
A knock at the door shatters the silence. The sound jolts through me, and I wince as pain flares in my wrist. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton thanks to the concussion, making every step toward the door a battle against vertigo.
When I pull it open, I freeze.
David.
He's standing there in jeans and a worn casual jacket, wearing that calm, steady expression he always has—like nothing in the world could shake him. Like showing up unannounced at my door is the most natural thing in the world.
He tilts his head, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "What, no hello?"
"What are you doing here?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Panic rises in my throat.
"Is everything okay? Nora? Ollie? Kat?" My voice tightens with each name. "Did something happen?"
David laughs, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Everyone's fine," he says, his tone easy and warm. "I was in town for work and thought I'd stop by."
Work? He's a lecturer at a university three states away.
What kind of "work" brings him here?
I narrow my eyes, but he doesn't flinch, brushing past my suspicion with practiced ease.
His eyes scan my face, taking in the bruises, the busted lip, the faint discoloration spreading across my jaw. The faint crease in his forehead deepens, and I see it—sadness. It's subtle, buried beneath his usual composure, but it's there, clear as day.
For a moment, he doesn't say anything, and I brace myself for the questions I know he wants to ask.
But instead, he shifts his weight, tilts his head slightly, and says, "Are you hungry?" like this is any other day, like I'm any other kid he's checking up on.
I blink, caught off guard by the normalcy of the question. "Uh… I guess?"
"Good," he says, clapping me on the back. "Let's grab something to eat. I’m starving.”
The drive-thru burger joint is quiet, a welcome change from the chaos I've been drowning in. David orders for both of us with the kind of certainty that comes from years of family dinners and shared meals. He slides the bag onto the seat between us before driving to a nearby park. We find a picnic table under an ancient oak tree, its branches spreading out like protective arms above us. The only sounds are distant laughter from kids on the playground and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
As we sit, I catch sight of a dad helping his little girl climb a slide. When she reaches the top, he cheers like she's just scaled Everest. She laughs, pure joy radiating from her small face as she throws her arms around his neck, and they slide down together.
My chest tightens with an ache that has nothing to do with my injuries.
I never had that.
Maybe I did once, in some distant past I can't remember, but those memories are buried so deep under years of yelling and bruises and broken promises that they might as well not exist.
David follows my gaze, his expression softening.
"I remember when Nora was that small," he says, his tone warm with nostalgia. "That little girl never feared anything."
I smile faintly at the memory of Nora as a kid—her wild hair always tangled from adventure, knees perpetually scraped from climbing too high and riding too fast.
"Yeah. Leni was always brave."
David's knowing smile makes something in my chest flutter.
"You always brought that out in her, you know. She always tried to impress you boys, to prove she was capable of keeping up with you lot.” I go quiet, unsure where he's going with this, afraid to hope. “You looked out for her whenever she wanted to do something terrifying. It brought out the best in her growing up."
I stay quiet, while watching the little girl on the playground make a second attempt at climbing.
"You ever thought about having a family of your own one day?" he asks suddenly, his voice gentle but intent.
I nearly laugh, pushing a fry around in circles. "Haven't really thought about it."
That's a lie.
I have.
More than I'd ever admit.
And every time, the same image comes to mind—a home filled with love instead of fear, a family built on trust instead of terror, and her standing beside me, hand in mine. But it feels too far out of reach, too much of a fantasy for someone like me, someone as broken as I am.
David studies me for a moment, then leans forward slightly.
"You're a good man, Nate. You've been through hell, but it hasn't hardened your heart. One day, you're going to make an incredible husband and father because of it."
I can't respond because I don't know how. I don't know why he believes in me so much when most people don't even bother to look past the surface.
Then he says it, casual as breathing, like he's commenting on the weather: "You have my blessing, by the way."
I blink, caught completely off guard. "Your blessing?"
"With Leni," he clarifies, his smirk sharp but somehow kind. "If that's something you want one day with my daughter."
My throat tightens as I stare at him, searching for any hint of insincerity, any trace of the conditions and catches I'm so used to. But all I find is calm certainty, an offer of belonging that feels too good to be true.
David takes another fry, biting into it as if he didn't just drop the microphone and walked off stage. As if he didn't just offer me a future I've only dared to dream about in my weakest moments.
And for the first time since I can remember, possibility exists.