Chapter Ten
All these years, my father has existed inside of me like a demon that couldn’t be exorcised.
The demon operates me like a puppet, moving my arms and legs, talking through my mouth sometimes.
It’s the part of me that can’t control my anger.
The part of me that clings so tightly to all the little hurts and scars that people have inflicted on me over the years, and uses that hurt to keep me warm at night.
Anger feeds the demon. Liquor, too. I know I should stop. I know I should starve it out, the way you deprive a fire of oxygen to extinguish it, but the demon’s in control too often. I let it take control, because both it and I secretly love to fan the flames. It makes me feel alive.
I don’t mean any of this in a dissociative or hallucinatory way. I’m fully aware that I’m responsible for my actions. All of them. Especially the worst ones.
But it feels like the me that is responsible was birthed from conflict and neglect, and the strength that this version of me developed by learning to survive is the only thing carrying the whole of me forward.
So, if I want to keep going and letting the better parts of myself exist, I need the demon to keep its residence inside me before my body crumbles like a rotten rooftop.
I feed the demon just enough to keep going. Just enough to keep the rest of me alive. Cutting it out would make me collapse from the inside out.
Or maybe I’m too scared to confront that part of myself, because I don’t know how much good there really is in me outside of it.
Does the ‘good’ really count if it’s only there to make up for all the shit?
Forcing myself to act good isn’t the same as holding it within myself the way someone like Silas does, so do I really get credit for faking it?
I mean, I’m the only one keeping track, so nothing really counts.
Either way, I cling to the one thing I know without a damn question.
Without Kyle and the chaos he created me from, this side of me wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t need it to. It seems only fair that I unleash it on him once in a while, and that’s the only fragile logic I need to move forward in that moment.
The arc of my fist is a thing of beauty, and I’d trade my beloved bike to see the look of shock on his face again.
It’s such a perfect punch that he crumples immediately, conscious but on the ground, and I don’t hesitate to climb on top of him and swing again as he tries to react and get in a hit of his own, grabbing at me anywhere he can reach.
He and I are interchangeable. We’re extensions of each other, a snake eating its own tail if the snake were made out of rage, and the rest of the world falls away as I search for nothing but the purity of flesh on flesh, destroying everything I can reach.
“Motherfucker!” I vaguely hear Dad growl, garbled around what I hope is blood in his mouth.
We’re on the ground, his body underneath mine, and I can’t even focus enough to think about where I’m hitting him, I’m just lashing out.
His hands flail, pushing me back even though it’s futile, until he seems to get over the shock of it and find a grip on me.
Silas is also pulling at me from behind, but it’s not enough.
One of my father’s hands is wrapped around my throat—not squeezing, but using it to push me away—while the other pushes on my chest. It makes my mind jump the rails for a second.
He used to do this when I was little. He never choked me—that I remember—but he’d use that gut-punch, instinctive pain that comes from pressure on your throat to push me away from him if he was pissed.
Nowadays, Silas is the only one who puts his hand there, and it’s in a very different fucking way. I hadn’t connected the two things until now, and I’m distantly aware of how fucked up it is.
It’s not news that I have daddy issues, I guess.
The whole cascade of thoughts is enough to break my concentration, so Kyle gets the advantage and keeps pushing.
He knocks me on my ass in the end, sending Silas careening into the wall in the process.
As soon as my back hits the tile I panic, but like father like son, because Kyle doesn’t let up.
He climbs on top of me, straddling my hips while I get so panicked I’m doing more scratching at him like a frightened creature than throwing punches.
He tries to grab my wrists, his weight still pinning me down, but he can’t.
I’ve sense-memoried my way right back into being a toddler—flailing and thrashing with the unrestrained fear that comes from operating on instinct before your brain is even fully formed.
There are a lot of different ways to fight.
Even if it looks the same from the outside, the vibe can be different.
In retrospect, I could pick out a lot of fights from my past that were charged with a heady, sexual energy I wasn’t able to name at the time.
Fighting other guys my age in high school, especially, had a much different motive than I was consciously aware of in that moment.
This is not like that. This is rough and painful and feels like I’m a fractious calf being wrangled and tied up by the rancher that secretly can’t wait to slit my throat.
“Stop. Cade. Knock it the fuck off,” Dad’s saying over and over, still trying to get my arms under control as I lash out. It feels like I’ve heard that word a lot lately—stop—but that doesn’t help it land.
Eventually he gives up, changing strategy to smack me across the face.
Open-handed, like some people—abusive assholes, obviously—do to a “rebellious” child.
The sensation shocks me still, and he takes the opportunity to grab my face with one rough hand, the other finally getting a hold of my wrists.
I feel small. The anger that was fueling me before drains right into the floor, and it’s all I can do not to cower beneath him.
I have a split-second to truly feel scared—and scared for Silas, who is still pushing himself up from being knocked to the ground and is definitely about to fucking murder Kyle—before the bathroom door pushes all the way open.
Then chaos takes over again, but this time I’m shrinking away from it instead of letting it devour me.
Someone drags my dad off me, and the sudden space triggers a coughing fit as my throat spasms where he pushed me before.
I hear men and women yelling, then someone is grabbing my shoulders and pulling me.
I flinch at first, until the unmistakable scent of Silas hits me and I force myself to relax.
“Cade! Cade, look at me? Are you okay?”
His voice sounds more distant than it should, but I force myself to focus on him in the blur.
“Silas,” I croak, even though I’m not really saying anything.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you scared me,” he says, pulling me into his lap and wrapping his arms around me awkwardly.
There’s no heat behind his words though, instead he sounds sort of desperate and raw. I can still hear other people yelling, but Silas is filling up my vision.
“You really fucking scared me, you asshole. Let me see your hand,” he says, reaching for it with one hand while the other comes up to cup my face. But over his shoulder I can see Kyle being dragged away by Ford and Gunnar, red-faced and trying to buck off their grip.
His expression sets in rage. His eyes meet mine in between cries of, “Let me go, motherfucker,” and he pauses for a split-second. When he does, I become acutely aware of Silas’s hand on my face, and feel my cheeks flushing even more with adrenaline and something too close to shame for comfort.
No. I will not be this person. I will not care what he thinks of me, or deny how important Silas is in my life.
I can’t.
Dad looks grim as he yells over the guys to me, “Jesus Christ, you interrupt one fucking blowjob and suddenly the gay gestapo shows up to get you. I didn’t know you were so sensitive, boy.”
Flooded with adrenaline, all I can think of is getting him away from me and away from Silas. I lurch toward him, tearing Silas’s hands from me and reaching out like I’m going to restart the fight all over again.
The rage feels better than fear, but it makes my mind white-out.
“You fucking cocksucker, don’t make me kill you,” I yell, balling my fist to throw another punch just as someone snags my body and pulls me backward again.
A small, buried part of me winces. Cocksucker was my favorite curse word for so long.
I never meant it as a slur or used it against queer people, it was just something you said.
Eventually, I realized that it was a shitty, garbage-person thing to do, and how meaningless all my excuses were, and broke the habit.
It hasn’t come out of my mouth in years.
Apparently, I’m reverting to all the worst parts of myself I’ve buried. I can’t think about that now, though. Not when Kyle is almost within reach.
He looks taken aback by the insult though, which I don’t think I’ve ever called him before. Of course he would take extra offense. He’s just that asshole.
“Boy, I will wash your goddamn mouth out with soap if you keep talking to me like this.”
It’s a ridiculous thing to say. I’m not a little kid anymore, surely beating on him is worse than insulting him, and we’re both being held apart by bigger, stronger men who are shouting to each other over our conversation.
But the threat hits me hard. Again, I feel like a toddler, about to be dangled upside down over a sink in a public restroom by my dad while mom shoves cheap pink hand soap in my mouth, getting waterboarded as foam streams from my lips and I scream to passing strangers who don’t care, because for some reason, this is normal.
The surge of adrenaline is enough for me to pull one arm out of someone’s—maybe Tristan’s?—grasp and land my own open-handed hit on Kyle’s face, before we’re both wrenched painfully apart.
“That’s it, outside!”
I think it’s Gunnar shouting. It’s all too much of a blur.