47. Mason #2
His eyes flash with anger, and then he shoves me back twice as hard.
I stumble, catching myself on the edge of the table.
I look across the table and hate how scared the boys look.
Are they scared of me, or him…or both?
My father steps forward like he’s going to finish it. And I’m ready for it. Ready for a reason to put my hands on him tonight—show him what it feels like to feel helpless around here for a change.
He might be bigger than me, but I promise you I could easily overpower him. I’ve taken down guys way bigger than him on the field, and I’ve been in enough fights to know how to throw a punch that’ll keep him down.
“Hit me,” he taunts. “Show me how tough you think you are.”
I can’t.
Not in front of them.
I won’t become him any more than I already have.
“Fuck this,” I spit, voice shaking from the anger. “I’m done here.”
I reach behind him and grab the wine bottle off the sideboard without even thinking. My hand closes around the neck like it’s a weapon…or maybe just a lifeline.
Rose’s voice goes shrill. “Mason! Put that down!”
Chill. I’m not going to hit him with it. Even though I really want to.
I just ignore her, staring at my father. “Next time you wanna hit somebody? Hit me. Leave them alone.”
His face goes blank again. “Get out of my dining room.”
I glance at the boys, and both of them are staring at me with wide eyes.
Asher looks like he’s about to cry, and it makes me want to scoop them up and take them away far from that bastard.
I hate myself for showing them I’m just like him—just as angry.
“Gladly.”
I turn and walk out with the wine bottle in my hand, up the stairs, and into my room, slamming the door behind me.
My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the bottle once I’m inside my room.
I stand there for a second just staring at it, feeling like I can taste the off switch. Then my brain starts doing what it loves to do—rationalize just a little:
Just drink it.
You already ruined the night.
You’re already the problem.
Might as well.
I swallow hard.
I want it so badly. I feel every part of my body aching for just a taste.
I walk over to the balcony doors and yank them open.
Cold air hits my face, and I welcome it.
It calms my nervous system slightly, and I’m glad for the small reprieve.
The backyard is lit up in soft lights. Everything looks peaceful from up here, like the world doesn’t know what’s happening inside this house, inside my head.
I step out with the wine bottle still in my hand and just stare at it. It’s the easiest way to turn this all off. Nobody’s really expecting that I can do this.
When did I become like this?
It feels like I can still hear the little boy inside me who’s screaming for peace, who wants to be happy, who wants to be free, who wants to be…fuck, who wants to be…loved.
I hate that I’m disappointing that little boy. Because I just don’t think I can feel much of anything anymore.
I grip the bottle harder and walk to the railing. My hands shake as I twist the cork and pop it open.
It kills me that I may never be someone the younger version of me would be proud of. But even if I can’t be that person for myself, I have to fake it like I am for those boys.
How will they ever escape the cycle if they have nobody to look up to, nobody they can turn to?
The smell hits me first from the bottle. It’s sweet, and sharp, and so achingly familiar. My mouth waters instantly. My stomach flips as my fingers close around the neck until they ache from how tight I’m squeezing it. My head hurts from the constant battle raging inside it.
I tip the bottle over the railing and watch as red pours out in a steady stream, splashing onto the concrete below.
It looks like blood.
It looks like letting go.
I keep pouring until the bottle is empty, and it makes my throat burn even more, like my body is mad at me for denying it.
When the last drop is gone, I hold onto the empty bottle for a second, like I’m wondering if there’s still a drop left in it I could get.
Then I set it down and grip the railing with both hands.
My chest is starting to feel too tight, like there’s a strap of bricks around it.
I stare out into the yard and let the anger move in.
Because anger is easier. Anger doesn’t make me feel like a little kid who can’t stand up or protect himself.
Anger doesn’t make me miss my mom so much that it feels like my heart might split open.
But then my face gets hot, and my eyes sting.
The anger turns into pain without warning, and I’m crying before I even realize it.
I wipe the tears away aggressively, like that’ll fix this, like that’ll put the emotions back in their place.
It doesn’t.
I press my forehead against the cool metal railing and let myself fall apart in the only place no one can see.
I’m pissed at him. I’m pissed at Rose for pretending she cares only when it’s easy and looks good, and then sitting there and letting him do the awful things he does.
I’m pissed at my mom for leaving me with him.
I’m pissed at myself for still wanting someone to save me when I’m too old to be saved.
The emptiness opens its mouth again to beg for relief.
Go get a drink.
My eyes snap open. No.
I push off the railing, trying to outrun my own brain, trying to outrun what demons live inside me, inside my head.
I grab my keys off the dresser and walk downstairs, ignoring the eyes on me as I walk out the front door. I can’t quiet the anger; it needs somewhere to go…and I have the perfect place in mind.
I start the engine and just drive. The anger feels like a volcano ready to explode inside of me. And if I can’t drown it the way my body wants me to, then…well…let’s just say, somebody will be feeling it.
It’s pitch dark when I pull up to the building, and I put the car in park, just staring up at it.
It looks like power, like him, like disgrace.
I get out and look around before grabbing the bat that’s sitting in the trunk of my car.
Walking up to the entrance, I don’t even bother with my keys; I just swing the bat and smash the glass door.
The sound is loud and satisfying. It’s like my chest has a little more room to breathe now.
I let out this small laugh that feels good; it feels like a big fuck you.
The alarm starts wailing immediately, and I flinch at first, then laugh again, feeling drunk in this moment without the need for any alcohol.
I step through the broken glass carefully with the bat tight in my grip, ready to put my anger somewhere new tonight.
Alarm lights start flashing now, and a recorded voice comes through every speaker saying that the authorities have been alerted.
I don’t care. I’ll be done by the time they get here.
I walk over to the reception area and start swinging the bat again.
And again.
And again.
Nothing is safe—picture frames shatter, lights get slung off the counter, and everything in sight is smashed. Every hit feels like releasing something that’s been trapped inside me for years. It’s not even rage anymore; it’s relief, it’s therapy in the ugliest form.
I stalk down the hall like I own the place, like I’m the monster now.
I see his office once I get off the elevator, and smile.
When I reach his door, it’s locked, so I swing the bat straight through it until I’ve put gaping holes in it, and it comes off the hinges, swinging open in front of me.
His office is pristine, expensive, and cold.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city like he owns it.
He doesn’t. It owns him; it controls him.
He’s the real puppet in all this, and he doesn’t even realize it.
He’s let the world control him for so long that he wouldn’t know what normal looked like if it slapped him in the face.
I swing at the windows first, and they cave in.
The cold air rushes in, and the alarm screams louder.
We’re so high up that it should scare me to be so close to the edge, but I can’t seem to care.
I just keep swinging. I turn to his desk next.
Computer—gone. Monitor—gone. Awards—fucking…
gone. The stupid little pen holder with his initials on it?
Gone. I knock over his chair and start hitting it, imagining he was in it.
I don’t stop until my arms burn and my breathing is ragged and the room looks like something exploded in it.
Then I hear sirens getting closer. I freeze, bat still in my hands, chest heaving from the exhaustion and pain I always feel because of one man.
Fuck him, and fuck this place.
I take the bat and back out, stepping over glass, and walk slowly down the stairs and out the same broken entrance, cutting my hand on a shard of glass that I don’t even bother putting pressure on.
I get in my car and drive away as the sirens start to pull up, slipping out through a back road.
It doesn’t really matter—none of it. He’ll know who did it, if he doesn’t already. He probably sat at home and watched me do it on his security system. And I couldn’t care what he does about it. I got what I needed out. I’ll take whatever he wants to throw my way.
By the time I get home, the adrenaline has worn off, and all that’s left is exhaustion so heavy it feels like it’s pinning me to the ground.
I stumble into my room and collapse on the bed.
My body is buzzing, and my brain is still loud, but the exhaustion starts to win.
If I can’t get peace, I’d rather be unconscious.
So I let it take me.