Chapter 6
SIX
Callum
Twelve Years Old
“Bye, Cal!”
“Bye, Birdie,” I smile back. “See you tomorrow.”
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and hop off the bus. Most days, I get nervous before I walk into my house. I never know what kind of mood my father will be in. But lately, he’s seemed to pay less attention to me—which is a good thing. A very good thing.
For the past month, I’ve been able to wear short-sleeved shirts to school, which makes me happy. My skin gets all itchy and red when my father makes me wear winter clothes when it's hot out.
I lift my eyes, staring up at the home I was born in, the nicest house on the block. All the kids at school think that I have it made since I live in a wealthy neighborhood with two-story houses, perfect lawns, and luxury vehicles lining the street. If they only knew that I call my home the hell house .
My father, Brady Pierce, is basically a celebrity in Myrtle Beach. Since his law firm is one of the best in South Carolina, he’s on all kinds of billboards and community council groups. He volunteers on the weekends and makes public appearances whenever he can. Everybody loves Brady Pierce.
Except his own son.
When I was born, my parents were in their mid-forties and not expecting another child. They had my older brother, Grant, seventeen years before me. He was all they ever wanted—their golden boy.
When Grant graduated from high school, he went straight to college and eventually attended medical school at Johns Hopkins University. He’s an orthopedic doctor at twenty-nine years old, and my parents’ pride and joy. Grant lives in Maryland with his wife now, so we don’t see him much. Since I was only a year old when he went to college, we’ve never been close.
Even if we were close, my father would go to extreme lengths to hide how he treats me from Grant.
What it all boils down to is that I was a mistake to my parents. My father has voiced those words to me countless times. I’m the kid that my parents never wanted. In my father’s eyes, he should be traveling in his free time and enjoying life as an empty nester, not taking care of a twelve-year-old.
On top of that, my dad has a serious drinking problem. It started when Grant was in high school and has only gotten worse over the years. When my brother moved away, our father didn’t know how to handle losing him. So, he drank. And I’m always there at the bottom of the bottle, waiting to take on his wrath.
Sometimes, I think that my mom may love me. But other times, when my father is beating me to a pulp, I’m convinced that she hates me. Because what kind of parent stands by and watches their kid get hurt over and over again?
I’m distracted from my thoughts as the front door swings open with force. My father steps through the entryway, crossing his arms over his broad shoulders. He looks furious.
“Get inside,” he says in a flat but lethal tone. “Now.”
Oh no.
This is going to be bad. I don’t know what he’s angry about today, but I know it won’t be good for me.
Just nod your head and say yes, Callum. Just listen to what he says, and maybe he’ll let you go.
“Yes, sir,” I rush out, picking up my pace as I speed walk to the door.
Once I’m inside, he slams the door and shoves my much smaller body against the wall. My backpack falls from my shoulders, crashing to the marble floor with a thud.
When my eyes land on the glass table in the middle of our foyer, I see a crystal tumbler filled with a clear liquid. I instantly know that it isn't water.
I’ve heard that whiskey can make a person mean, but for my dad, vodka is what sets him off. Whenever I see nothing but vodka in his glass, I know that he’s out for blood.
“Do you remember what I asked of you last night?” His breath reeks of hard liquor.
My terrified gaze snaps up to his. My heart is beating out of control. I think I might throw up.
I try to remember. I try so hard. But last night, I spent hours studying for a test I had today. My brain blocked out everything else.
“N-no,” I croak, shaking my head.
“Think harder,” he demands through clenched teeth.
I finch at each word.
“I…” I stammer. “Dad, I had an algebra test today. I studied all night until I fell asleep.”
His nostrils flare.
“I don’t give a shit what you had today,” he spits, raising his voice. “I don’t want to hear another excuse come from your mouth. I asked you to clean your room after dinner last night, but you didn’t listen.”
He’s lying. If anything, I might have forgotten to make my bed. But my room is always clean. Always.
Because if it’s not, I know what the punishment will be. I learned that lesson the hard way years ago.
My father isn’t mad about my room. He just wants… needs someone to be angry with. And right now, that target is me.
“Why can’t you just do as I say?” he clips, his bloodshot eyes bugging out of his head. “Why can’t you ever seem to follow the fucking rules?”
His spit lands on my face with each word. I used to be able to control my emotions when it came to my father, but the older I get, the harder it is to contain my hatred for him.
“I told you,” I reply through clenched teeth. “I had a test.”
He narrows his eyes to slits.
“Excuse me, boy?” he asks in a menacing tone.
The next words fly out of my mouth before I have a chance to register what I’m saying.
“You probably don’t care, but I aced my test today,” I grit out, holding his drunken stare. “Pretty sad that you care more about my room than my grades.”
The instant the words leave my lips, I regret it. Not because I feel bad about standing up to him, but because he’s bigger than me. I couldn't stop him, even if I tried.
I don’t have a second to breathe before his hand collides with my face. My neck cracks from the strength of his hit, and the back of my skull thumps against the corner of a metal picture frame, knocking it clear off the wall. Glass shatters against the floor, a sad tune that’s become the soundtrack of this home.
I can already feel the hand-sized bruise forming on my cheek as blood drips from my nostrils and down the back of my neck. My fingers shake as I reach behind my head and feel the fresh gash on my scalp. My eyes widen in fear when I find my fingertips coated in crimson.
I miss school for the next three days. My father calls and tells my teacher that I’m sick.
I’ve been taught that boys aren't supposed to cry, but for the next three days, I do nothing but cry.
Scream and cry and wish I didn’t live in the biggest house on the lane.