4. Shane
Shane
Sophomore Year
My hands shake as I dig through the stash I dumped out on the kitchen counter.
I’m not sure how much longer I could have waited. Last night was the first time in six months I’ve gone without. I took my last one during the day for the mangled hand I have from hitting him back two nights ago.
Sometimes things aren’t so bad. Sometimes he drinks so much he just passes out, or he’ll drink little enough that he’s able to stay out until after I’m in bed. Sometimes a week will go by without any problems, but other times everything I do sets him off.
That’s how this week has been.
Sleep was just a distant memory as I tossed and turned unable to get comfortable well into the night. The desperation was so bad, I even got up at one point willing to risk getting caught just to snatch one, but he was asleep on the recliner in the living room mere feet from the kitchen.
I chickened out and went back to bed. If he caught me, I’d be so dead. So, I laid in bed the rest of the night, awake.
I was on edge all day at school, and it’s all I could think about on the way home.
I should just wait until bed before taking one, but he’s usually not home from work for at least a couple hours, and I don’t think I can wait any longer.
Opening up a baggie with what I now know is Oxy, I dump a few into my trembling hand before moving to the sink to fill a glass. I’m careful not to take too many at a time because I don’t want to tip him off, but I need to start my own little stash, so this doesn’t happen again.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he booms from the doorway, startling me.
The pills fall from my hand and tumble down the drain as I stand frozen, the air growing thick and my stomach dropping.
Shit.
He’s home early.
I whip around, heart pounding, and try to think of a lie. Unable to think with the sound of my pulse raging in my ears, I just stare at him wide-eyed.
“Don’t tell me you’re a fuck up and a druggie.” He scoffs, walking toward me and ripping the plastic bag from where I’d set it down on the counter to inspect it like he doesn’t already know what it is.
The insult doesn’t even sting.
He makes sure to tell me how much of a screw up I am daily.
How I screwed up so much that my own mother didn’t want me anymore.
He paints this delusional picture where he’s a great father who still loves his son even though he’s so worthless.
Jokes on him, I’m well aware that neither of my parents give a shit about me.
“No, I wasn’t—” I mumble with my heart clawing up my throat, my hands shaking, and my palms sweating.
He’s a couple of inches taller than me, and I tilt my head to look up at him, trying to take a step back.
He grabs the back of my neck, yanking me forward, his fat fingers pressing into my skin. “I know what the fuck you were doing!”
Alcohol wafts from his lips as he yells into my face. “You don’t think I know someone’s been stealing from me? Do you really think I’m that fucking stupid?”
He shoves me away, and I catch myself, bracing a hand on the counter.
No part of these outbursts rattles me anymore because I know what’s coming next.
He’s going to hit me, probably more times than he ever has, and I’ll walk away with bruises and cuts, causing everyone to look at me with eyes full of pity for a few days.
Then, we’ll do it all over again.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I turn to face him.
It’s funny because everyone always says I’m a spitting image of him, but I don’t see it. We have the same dark hair and eyes, the same build, minus the beer gut, but when I look at him, I see a monster.
I see a man I’d rather die than become.
He grabs something off the counter. “You wanna be a piece of shit? You wanna be an embarrassment to your family more than you already are?”
I just stand there watching. His thick neck’s painted a deep crimson and veins bulge from both sides, but he doesn’t raise his hand. Instead, his jaw works as his boots clomp against the linoleum floor.
A crease forms between my brows as I watch.
It takes me longer than it should to realize what he’s doing.
Even as it dawns on me, I’m sure I must be mistaken, but then he dumps the white powder on the table before tossing the little plastic bag to the side.
Holding my breath, I watch the clear plastic float to the ground.
Silverware clatters, snapping me back to reality as he rips open a drawer beside me and starts throwing things onto the floor.
Once he finds what he’s looking for, he turns back to me.
“Then be one.” He shoves a plastic straw into my chest, and my stomach does a backflip.
Nausea rolls through me, and I just stand there, staring down at it with my mouth open.
This is crazy even for him.
Opening and closing my mouth, I shake my head and try to clear my thoughts. “No. I’m not—” I swallow. My words come out rushed and shaky. “I don’t want—”
He shoves me back. “I don’t care what you want, boy.” Closing in on me, he leans down into my face. “You want to be a big man and steal shit that doesn’t belong to you?” Between gritted teeth, he adds, “So, fucking do it.”
My scalp burns as he grabs a fist full of my hair and slams my face into the table with a crack. Pain erupts across my cheek, but I don’t react.
Gritting my teeth, I bury it all, not willing to give him so much as a wince or a cry.
My focus stays on the cool feeling of the table on my skin as I stare blankly ahead at the outdated floral kitchen wallpaper.
“Do it!” he shouts.
When I don’t move, he tugs me up by my hair.
Everything happens in a blur as he flings me backward into the counter a moment before the back of his hand connects with the place my cheek just hit the table.
As he lays into me, I’m here but I’m not. Like I’m watching it play out from someone else’s body.
I’m frozen before his elbow connects with my brow, and I fold in on myself, holding my face. “Please—”
“Please what? You wanted drugs, right? That’s what you were in here for! Why are you whining about it now? You only want them if you can steal them?”
Blood trickles into my lashes, and he pulls me up and pins me into the counter, the edge slamming into my back with a crunch. His dead eyes burn into mine as he shoves the straw at me again.
It shakes in my hand, and my pulse pounds in my ears as I lean over the table, breathing in the white substance. My rib cage screams as my lungs expand. It burns my nose, and I have to blink to keep my eyes from watering.
When I start to stand, still sniffing to clear the feeling in my nose, he shoves my head down again, my cheek slamming into what’s left on the table. “You can do better than that.”
My eyes flick over to him, but I don’t know what I’m hoping for. He’s grinning like a predator, sweat dotting his upper lip. This isn’t a man who feels anything for anyone but himself.
He’s not going to back down.
I swallow. He finally releases the pressure on my neck, and I lift the straw and do it again.
After the second, he shoves me out of the way before putting what’s left back into the bag.
“Get out of my sight. I don’t even want to look at you,” he snarls.
I can’t get to my room fast enough, stumbling over my own feet. Air doesn’t feel like it’s moving in my lungs anymore, but I’ll be damned if I lose my shit in front of him.
My hands numbly fumble with my doorknob, and blood whooshes in my ears.
After closing the door, I rest back on it, sucking in breath after breath, but it does nothing to slow my heart.
Shaking my hands to try to stop the tingling, I take the couple of steps forward to my bed and drop onto it.
As I stare up at the ceiling, my eyes sting, and I squeeze them closed.
Fuck him.
Fuck him and his stupid club.
And fuck my mother for sending me here.
But mostly fuck him.
If I’m a piece of shit, it’s because I’m his son.
Wait—
I’m a piece of shit because he’s a piece of shit.
A grin spreads across my face before a throaty laugh bursts from my throat, drowning out the way my heart is beating a million miles a minute.
I bet he feels so stupid.
My insides warm, almost like the pure joy I’m feeling is made of sunlight.
That’s fucking hilarious. He hates me because I’m a piece of shit. God, I hope I’m the biggest disappointment of his miserable life. I keep laughing and stand. The room tilts for a second, but I get my balance and shake it off.
Shit.
I feel good. Better than good.
Like I’m soaring above my miserable life.
Someone’s finally taken all of the fucked up shit off my shoulders, and I can breathe.
I can fucking breathe.
Jumping up and down, a wide grin spreads across my face.
I want to feel like this forever.