21. PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA #2
Flashing memories of agonizing hunger hit me so hard my stomach cramped, bringing up a phantom echo of bile in my throat.
I was suddenly trapped in a violent, suffocating reel of trauma: panicking blindly as he held me underwater in the grimy porcelain bathtub, screaming for oxygen while his calloused hands gripped the back of my neck with lethal force.
I was forgetting how to inhale as the crushing pressure of his forearm collapsed my windpipe against the living room floor, my vision going black and starry while I desperately clawed at his wrists for a mercy that never came.
A high-pitched ringing started in my ears. The walls felt like they were shrinking, closing in rapidly on my chest. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. My 250-pound, heavily tattooed, and normally imposing frame suddenly felt fragile, like cold glass. I vibrated with panic.
And then, I looked down.
Near the edge of the hallway, illuminated by a sliver of grey light, there was a dark, rust colored stain sunk deep into the frayed fibers of the carpet. My blood.
My eyes snapped up. Directly below a crooked picture frame, perfectly preserved in the yellowing drywall, was a massive indentation. The exact spot where he had thrown me before he brought me into the kitchen and beat me until I lost consciousness.
A deafening roar ripped from my throat, tearing through my vocal chords and echoing off the walls. It was the sound of pure, blinding rage, and so raw, I didn’t even recognize it as my own.
I grabbed the wooden side table next to me, and as my fingers dug into the wood, I hurled it across the room with every ounce of strength I possessed. It shattered against the opposite wall, a violent explosion of splinters and drywall dust.
“Cal!” Silas shouted, his voice laced with shock.
I barely registered. I couldn’t see him through the haze that had taken over my vision. I was trapped in a blind blackout of torture and trauma. The fourteen-year-old boy who couldn’t fight back was dead, and the man who now bled for a living had finally been unleashed.
I grabbed a wooden dining chair, swung it like a baseball bat, and smashed it over the kitchen counter.
The legs snapped into jagged pieces flying around the room as I continued my rampage.
The coffee table was next, I kicked it and sent dozens of empty bottles shattering across the floor.
Every piece of furniture, framed photograph, and remnant of Ewan Kincaid, was becoming dust under my bare hands.
My chest heaved, each breath felt like dragging an anchor through quicksand as I stalked into the hallway.
Squaring my shoulders, I pulled back my arm and drove my fist directly into the dent in the wall.
I punched my own bloodied history so hard, the wooden stud splintered under the force of my knuckles.
Silas was still trying to get to me, dodging flying debris and shattered glass, although there was little to actually avoid.
Even in my completely blinded state, my subconscious knew exactly where he was.
He was my anchor, and my body rotated around his grounding force.
Every time he stepped close, I’d pivot aggressively, throwing my destruction in the opposite direction.
Even while consumed by absolute madness, I would never, ever put aggressive hands on him.
The same way he wouldn’t let me continue to harm myself in this spiral.
Lunging forward, he ignored the danger of my flailing fists and collided hard with my back. His arms tightened around me, locking me in a vice grip as he used his momentum and massive 6’3” frame to tackle me safely to the dusty carpet.
We hit the floor hard, sending up a thick, choking cloud of dirt. Silas scrambled instantly, shifting his weight to pin me down. His forearms remained locked around my torso like steel bands, grounding my thrashing body in the safety of his embrace.
“I’ve got you!” Si yelled over my desperate attempts to break free, his words violently cracking from his own tears. He buried his face in the back of my neck, holding on for dear life as his body trembled against mine.
“Cal, stop! Look at me! He’s dead! He’s dead, baby, he can’t ever touch you again!”
Only two words penetrated the blackout.
He’s dead.
The fight drained out of me all at once, and my body slumped as if someone had severed my strings. A hollow crater was all that was left in my chest as the blinding rage evaporated into thin air.
My shoulders began to shake as the dam finally, and irreparably, broke. I let out a gut-wrenching sob, an ugly and broken sound that carried twenty years of repressed agony. Tears flowed relentlessly, creating lines through the dust that coated my face.
Silas held me against the floor, trying to protect me from the memories of my childhood hell, while his own tears rapidly soaked the collar of my shirt. He rocked me gently, whispering a litany of sweet nothings into my skin until my cries subsided into exhausted, stuttering breaths.
“Grab a box,” I croaked as I picked myself up off the floor. My voice sounded like I swallowed crushed gravel.
Silas didn’t hesitate. He navigated the wreckage, found an empty cardboard box in the kitchen, and brought it to me.
I started walking through the ruins of the house with a chilling precision and emotional detachment. I wasn’t angry anymore. The tears had dried up, leaving my eyes with a steady burn in their wake.
On a dusty bookshelf in the corner of the living room, I pulled down a small, intricately carved wooden box. It was the only thing I owned that had belonged to my mother, and the only memento I wanted of her.
As I turned for the bedrooms, my eyes caught a polished brass and wood plaque hanging proudly on the wall. It was somehow missed by the carnage.
“Officer of the Year. For Outstanding Service and Protection to the Community.” A scoff fell from my lips, bitter, sick, and dripping with irony.
“He was a hero,” I muttered darkly, staring at the acknowledgement that gleamed in the dim light. “A decorated cop. They gave him medals and applauded him while he was coming home and drowning his own kid in the bathtub.”
I raised my bleeding hand and casually, but forcefully, swiped the plaque off the wall. It hit the hardwood floor, the protective glass shattering over his engraved name.
Stepping over the ruined lie, I moved toward my old room. Surprisingly, it was untouched. It looked exactly like the prison cell I’d abandoned. There was a cheap twin bed with no sheets, a small battered dresser, and holes punched through the thin wood of the closet door.
I walked over to said closet, needing to force open the door thanks to the wood sticking from non-use.
Tucked beneath an old, moth-eaten blanket was a stack of faded Polaroids.
They were photos of me when I was four years old, smiling and sitting on my mother’s lap.
It was before Ewan’s drinking had consumed the house, before Fiona walked out the door, and before my life became an endless nightmare.
I picked them up and dropped the images into the box. “Let’s go,” I said flatly.
“You know,” I murmured as we skulked through the hallway, my voice echoing quietly. “He was a miserable, violent, deeply-homophobic bastard.”
I stopped to stare at our reflection in the cracked, grimy mirror hanging by the front door. Two large men with careers in fighting, entirely devoted, and undeniably in love.
“I hope he’s rotting in hell. And I hope he’s screaming his lungs out seeing me standing in his fucking house with my husband,” I whispered as a dark, victorious smirk finally touched my lips.
I turned around and pressed a lustful kiss to Silas’s mouth. “Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”
As I swung the door wide, my breath was instantly stolen from my lungs. Standing on the weathered planks of the front porch, with her hand raised as if she’d been about to knock, was Fiona.
My blood ran cold.
The last time I saw her, she was vibrant, but the passing years had carved deep lines into her face. Still, even with her new crow’s feet and laugh lines, she looked polished. Too polished for this neighborhood.
She was wearing an expensive trench coat with a designer handbag slung over her shoulder.
Her hair was the same dark color as mine, perfectly coiffed to hide the greys.
There was visible shock on her face when our eyes met, and she took a small step back.
I was paralyzed, staring at the ghost who had abandoned me and left me with the devil.
“Callum?” she breathed, her voice a fragile, questioning rasp.