Chapter Eight
Zander
“Sixteen years old and you still can’t pop the cap off the beer bottle. Pathetic.” He snatches the bottle from my hand, using his yellowing teeth to pry the metal top from the neck, before spitting it onto the floor. “Make yourself useful and pass that leftover pizza, will ya?”
Chills run through my body as I stand frozen to the spot, my back to him.
Whilst his behaviour towards me hasn’t been of a physical nature in years, his patience has been getting thinner as of late.
The insults have been getting sharper and more personal, and the way he’s started ending every confrontation with a shove or a shoulder barge has become more and more frequent.
I can feel the old him slipping back into place.
Like the act he’s been putting on for the last five years has become too tiresome to maintain, and the rage is starting to bubble over.
I’m not foolish enough to think that I can take him on now that I’m older, but he’s also smart enough to realise that it might not be as one-sided as it once was.
“I threw it out…” My voice is barely above a whisper as I slowly start making my way toward the kitchen, hoping I can find an alternative to offer.
“You threw it out?” I hate when he does this. He repeats it back like he didn’t hear me correctly, when in reality, he just wants me to admit to my failures over and over.
“I can make some soup or… Or some–” The tightening of my t-shirt around my neck cuts off the words as my body is yanked back.
“I don’t want fucking soup! What I wanted was the pizza that I left for myself last night.
Where is it?” He hisses out between gritted teeth, spittle flying all over my face as he twists the shirt tighter between his fingers.
I flick my eyes over to the bin at the end of the counter, my face growing hotter and my palms slick with sweat.
Sharp tingles run the length of my arms, all the way down to the tips of my fingers, and my heart thrashes hard against my chest.
Blackness starts to seep into the corners of my vision while colourful dots flicker like static, matching the fuzzy feeling on my face.
Just like an old movie fading to black, my eyesight starts to fade before a sudden rush of air forces itself into my lungs, and my legs buckle from beneath me.
The neck of my t-shirt hangs loosely as I heave in and out, pressing my fingers into the linoleum and will the feeling back into my hands.
The shadows that had blurred the edges of my vision start to recede as I watch his tired leather boots stomp across the small space.
There’s clattering and rustling coming from across the room, but all I can focus on is my next breath as my heart starts to slow.
“Dad, I–”
“Shut the fuck up,” he silences me with his tone alone. I push my back against the counters and rest my head against the drawers, praying that once he sees the pizza for himself, we can stop this whole thing. A fool's dream.
The smell of stale food and grease assaults my airways as he crouches in front of me, dangling a half-chewed slice of pizza just inches from my face.
“We don’t waste food in this house, boy. Until you pay for it, you eat every last bite.”
No. Please…
He presses the cold slice against my cheek, smearing the grease and sauce into my hair, before pulling it back again.
“Dad, please…” It was a stupid mistake. Asking him for mercy never worked before, but opening my mouth only invited him to shove it straight through the gap.
It doesn’t taste like pizza at all. It tastes similar to the smell of week-old garbage. The split teabag I had thrown away earlier adds to the sloppy texture as it rolls around in my mouth. I know the game; he won’t stop until I’ve done as he demands, so against all my natural instincts, I chew.
I think of the homemade stew Theresa makes.
Imagining the day-old cheese that’s sticking to my teeth is actually the doughy dumplings that bob along the top.
The mirage conjures up Jules pouring lemonade into my waiting glass– What I wouldn’t give to hear him whining about it right now.
He always comes to me in moments like these.
My mind has made his memory my safe place, like he’s right here with me, holding my hand.
I push myself to swallow when I can. The force in which he's stuffing the pizza against the back of my throat causes me to heave and gasp for air.
Tears streak down my face, making my skin a greasy, wet canvas for his viewing pleasure.
Despite the fear flooding my body and the feel of his hand holding my mouth open, I managed to shut my mind down; something I've been mastering over the years.
Each bite transforms into something familiar and comfortable, whilst Jules' smiling face fills my mind.
Cheese-spread sandwiches and matching pyjamas…
Breakfast buffets and odd shoes…
Popcorn and deep blue eyes…
I gulp down the last bite as dad releases his grip on my face, pushing me away.
He stands and exits the kitchen, satisfied that his punishment has been fulfilled, yet enraged at the lack of resistance.
The slamming of doors rattles the entire house, and keys jingle in the distance, promising the relief of a few hours of solitude.
He’ll go to the local boozer, no doubt. Feeding his rage with cheap cider and heated arguments, before releasing his tension inside the first willing woman.
I’ve heard the whispers surrounding his behaviour, they've even made their way into the lunch hall at school on occasion– usually when the ‘lucky lady’ happens to be someone's very married Mother.
His destruction isn't limited to the confines of this house; it travels with him like a companion.
My stomach churns with unease and upset, forcing me to drag my body up from the floor and make my way to the sink.
The steady whooshing sound of water streaming from the tap fills the kitchen as I stare vacantly at my reflection through the window above.
The grease smeared across my skin reflects the growing repulsion within; the lingering shame and disappointment will be harder to cleanse, though.
For a moment, I consider purging the spoiled food from my body, expelling it into the sink to rid myself of his victory.
But the idea of rebelling against him is enough to stop me.
I know he's not here to witness it, but the fear is carved so deep, my own shaky fingers won't obey.
I must have fallen asleep once I had carried my tired body up the stairs and into my room.
It’s easy to assume that once the threat is gone and the house falls silent, the fear goes right along with it.
If only it were that simple. The silence only gives way to the intrusive thoughts, the ones that fill my mind with whispers of failure and disappointment.
Every noise is amplified, each movement is exhausting, and every moment of existence is overwhelming.
Blinking the haze away from the sleep that rescued my tormented mind, I move to sit on the edge of the bed.
A loud groaning noise pitches from below my shirt, and the rumble that follows vibrates its way through my core.
I instinctively wrap my arms around my middle, trying in vain to keep the contents down until I can reach the bathroom.
The scorching burn of bile starts to rise in my throat, my mouth waters, and my lips tremble.
Just when I think I’m not going to make it in time, a loud banging noise interrupts my impending sickness.
“Alexxxxx,” a voice calls, slurred and lazy. I close my eyes tight and press my lips together, hoping it will be enough to stop whatever is working its way back up.
“C’monnn I just wanna– Ahh fuck!” The sound of something crashing to the floor interrupts his pursuit. It’s okay, I’m safe. I remind myself that he never comes into my room.
“Alex! Stop being a little bitch and answer me when I’m speaking to you!
” His voice is getting closer; each thud of his boots hitting the steps sounds like a countdown.
I shuffle back, pressing myself into the corner my bed rests against, wrapping my arms around my knees.
Even my stomach has grown timid at his presence, the rumbling taking a backseat to the whoosh of blood pumping in my ears.
Four steps…
Three steps…
“Your Mom would be ashamed of you,” he snorts, slapping the shared wall between the stairs and my room. “I’m glad she never got the chance to watch you grow up. If the cancer didn’t kill her, the disappointment would have.”
Be strong.
Hold on.
His words are worse than any beating.
I can’t disprove what he’s saying because she was taken way before my memories of her could stick.
I think I remember her face, but it’s always stuck in the same expression as the photo hanging in the living room.
She looked like the kind of Mom other kids wished they had.
I think Jules would have loved her, just as I do Theresa.
Why didn’t you ask me? His broken plea floods my mind and stings my eyes.
Two steps…
I tear my eyes away from the door and glance at the drawer of my bedside table, the one where my phone is buried.
One call… Theresa’s presence in my mind swaddles me in assurances and comfort.
“You’re really starting to piss me off, boy!”
One step…
His pause tells me that he’s reached the landing. I train my gaze on the door and hold my breath.
I’m safe, I’m okay.
His shadow eclipses the light creeping under the door– he’s not the bringer of darkness, he is the darkness.
The sound of his vicious laugh isn’t dampened by the barrier.
If anything, it’s excruciatingly loud; I can almost smell the sour beer and rotten teeth.
Something feels off; he doesn’t normally linger for so long.
A buzzing noise snags my attention, and in the same split second, the door explodes inwards, a large figure engulfing the space.
“What the fuck was that?” He seethes. I swear his eyes are glowing red, matching his demonic presence.
“W-what?”
“Don’t be a smart arse with me,” his voice is a low grumble, a warning. The phone buzzes again, and a nasty smile spreads across his face. “Sounds a lot like a phone to me…”
“It’s– It’s just the pipes…” He takes a slow and calculated step forward, tilting his head to the side.
“Get it.”
“Dad–”
“I said, get. it.” The realisation that he’s fully inside my room hits me.
“You were meant to ask for help.” My chest aches, and my eyes water at my own stubbornness.
I used to seek comfort in the memory of Jules, but now all I want to do is hide in shame.
I turn slowly to the drawer and pull it open.
My hand wraps around the phone as I rummage with the other, buying myself time as I quickly hit dial.
I’m not too proud to admit that in this moment, I’m scared.
“Hurry the fuck up!” He snaps. I release the breath I’ve been holding when I notice the faint dialling tone has stopped.
“...Zander?” A sudden rush of calmness envelops me, cradling my weary mind.
For a moment, everything falls away; the air that was so heavy only seconds ago clears.
For the first time all night, I take a steady and unhurried breath.
My shoulders drop and my eyes close as I tip my head toward the ceiling.
Head up, be strong, ask.
“Zander, what’s wrong?”
“I need help–”
The phone is ripped from my hand.
I don’t realise I’m falling until my body lands against the wall opposite the bed. My head is spinning, and my vision is blurred and hazy. Noise fills the small space; the sound is pained, like that of a wounded animal.
The first impact steals my breath as his foot connects with my ribs.
The second sends my limp body sliding across the floor.
The third is a searing pain to the side of my face.
The fourth… Well, I think the fourth knocks me out.