The Fractured

Ten years ago

Dean

"You're an embarrassment," Gio Calacoci hissed as we stepped out of the Kings County Criminal Court. His hands remained at his sides in clenched fists, and his dark eyes were glazed with anger, lack of sleep, and traces of his booze fest from last night.

I buried my fists deep in my hoodie pockets and squinted at the afternoon sun reflecting off the sidewalk.

The remnants of my hangover were beginning to fade, but I still felt like shit.

I was arrested after being charged with car theft and underage drunk driving last night.

At the time, it was tempting to debate that it wasn't theft if the owner had left the car unlocked and I had technically returned it.

The parking attempt wasn't great, but they got it back.

I spent the rest of Thursday night and most of Friday in a holding cell, sobering up and nursing a headache before my arraignment in the afternoon.

Gio didn't appreciate getting that call on his day off and having to drive to Downtown Brooklyn to bail me out. He preferred I spend the rest of the weekend locked up, but somehow, Mom talked him out of it.

We rounded the corner of the large stone arches at the building's entrance before he grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop.

"Wait here. I need the bathroom." His accent was a blend of Italian and New Yorker, the latter of which he had picked up since we moved here.

We had lived in Brooklyn for the past six years.

My English was decent enough that I could speak without pausing to find the right word and not worry about making a fool of myself when I said the wrong thing.

My accent was changing too. Mom said I had developed a habit of dropping letters when I spoke.

Maybe mimicking the speech habits of the locals was my brain's way of trying to fit in with the neighborhood.

Just like Dad…

"You didn't think to use the bathrooms when we passed 'em?" I muttered.

He glared and jabbed a finger at my face. "Don't be a fucking smartass, Deano—"

"Dean."

His nostrils flared. I only deadpanned back.

I could see him contemplating hitting me.

The bruises on my ribs from the last time were beginning to turn yellow.

It wouldn't surprise me if he refreshed the color again.

But I knew he wouldn't hit me in public.

The smack upside the head I received as we left the courtroom earlier hadn't counted by his punishment standards.

"Wait here," he repeated with a little more bite before trudging back inside.

I leaned against the exterior wall of the courthouse with a heavy sigh. The guilt of last night's events slowly began to wind through my insides, mixing with the anger and resentment I already had.

The judge had said I only did these things for attention, and I hated that it was partially true.

Yes, I wanted my deadbeat father to notice, but only so he could understand how much pain he put us through.

What I did was my way of getting back at him.

The more he hit, the more I acted up. At least when he was focused on me, Mom was safe.

But I also genuinely enjoyed the thrill of the chase and doing something against the law. It's not like my life was getting better anytime soon, so I may as well enjoy it.

My fingertips skimmed over a lighter and a cigarette wedged in my pocket.

The court officers confiscated them before I went to the holding cell, but returned them when I was released.

Then Gio took them for himself. While he was busy flirting with the attractive desk clerk, signing me out, I stole them from his back pocket.

I brought the cigarette to my lips, cupping a hand over the end to light it as a breeze kicked up along the sidewalk. I drew back deep, and the smoke burned my lungs in a way that felt good until I coughed, spluttering into the crook of my elbow. I still had to work on my technique.

A city bus pulled up to the stop further to my left, and I watched lazily as several kids got off. Some were my age, others were younger, and all had backpacks and books tucked under their arms.

I forgot today was a school day, but junior year for me was beginning to look like a waste of time anyway. I spent most of my school life in the principal’s office, either for talking back, sleeping in class, or fighting other kids.

The latter was always done in defense, more often at the defense of someone else. I never started fights, but would finish them. It was just last month that I defended a kid from a jerk named Scotty Richards.

Scotty was a bully who picked on the weak to boost his ego. So, I bruised his ego and punched him hard enough that he fell back and split his head open on the wall.

He lived and received a half dozen stitches.

The kids getting off the bus looked like they had their lives sorted, or at least fat trust funds to rely on when they fucked up. They were the kind of people whose paths I stayed out of so long as they stayed out of mine. But even staying in my lane, they couldn't help but judge from afar.

Then again, I was also technically judging them.

As they got closer, they held onto their belongings a little tighter, sending sidelong, wary glances my way as they passed.

Because what I want more than anything is to mug a schoolboy for his geometry textbook.

From what I overheard, they were heading to the burger joint down the street.

All except one.

She looked around twelve or thirteen years old, probably only four years younger than me, and wore round glasses that kept sliding off her small, freckled nose. Stray hairs from her messy ponytail clung to her face as she concentrated on her watch, furrowing her eyebrows.

My eyes dropped over the heavy tote bag of books, the art folder tucked under her arm, the violin case in her left hand, and the large backpack on her back. It was a lot for one kid to carry. She also had a small Band-Aid under her arm, peeking out from her short sleeve.

I couldn't help myself when I began anticipating the moment she mistook her next step in her hurry and sent everything flying.

It wouldn't be so bad if her violin case knocked the self-absorbed nerd walking a couple of paces in front of her on the back of the head.

He had looked at me judgingly one too many times already.

Or I could ask her for the case and whack him anyway.

I focused on the girl again as I drew back on my cigarette.

She wasn't with those other kids. None of them bothered waiting for her, and she showed no sign of following them. Instead, her steps began to slow as she got closer, before her blue doe eyes flicked to me.

I expected to receive the same snobby treatment from her.

She was shy and gentle and offered me a smile. “Hi.”

All I could do was blink. I was left stumped by the polite interaction and watched as she took herself into the courthouse.

Suddenly, I wanted to know why she was going to the courthouse and why she bothered saying hello. Did her parents not teach her about stranger danger? At least in the city? Outside a courthouse, of all places? She didn't know me, so why be polite?

No one ever just said hello to me.

She lifted a hand to the door but stopped short when it swung inward, revealing my father on the other side. He plastered an overly generous smile on his oily face as he held the door for her, acting like he was the politest fucking man in the world.

The girl thanked him and then continued on her way.

Gio dropped his smile before he marched for me.

Once in reach, he grabbed me by the hood and steered me to wherever his truck was parked.

At the same time, he batted the cigarette from my fingers.

The gesture came across as a disappointed father giving a shit about his teenage son’s health, but Gio only did it out of spite.

He wanted to remove even the simplest things that might bring me joy.

The entire two-block walk to the side street consisted of him complaining about how long it took him to find a parking spot and how I was an ungrateful piece of crap. Or how I would never amount to anything, and that prison was my future if I kept going the way I did.

I learned at an early age to stay quiet when he went on these rants.

When we arrived at the truck, Gio grumbled, "I work my fuckin' ass off for this family," but climbed into the front seat before I could hear the rest.

I hesitated outside the passenger door, unable to reach for the handle.

Run for it. Get the bus home. Go anywhere but in the truck.

Gio's voice was a muffled yell from within the cabin as he glared at me with dark brown eyes. "Get in!"

I hated that I did as he said.

My shoulders were tense as I sat there, anticipating his next move. When he shoved the keys into the ignition, I flinched but was beyond prepared for what came next.

The first punch stung my left cheekbone before my head hit the window.

I covered myself with my arms as the hits kept coming.

Each one was angrier than the last as he spat hate through his teeth.

I begged him to stop, but my voice was too quiet — a broken whimper as tears stung my eyes and blood dripped from the split in my cheek.

He grabbed my shoulder and elbow and shoved me against the door as I shielded my face. It was his final bout of frustration before the violence stopped, and he casually turned back to the steering wheel. Smoothing a hand over his black hair, he composed himself and put the truck in drive.

I remained low in my seat for some time, wondering if it was safe to move yet, as if any sudden movements might start him off again.

It wasn't until we were halfway into the drive that I carefully tugged my hood up and slowly rose in my seat.

Every inch of where his fists had landed throbbed painfully.

It felt like they would bruise to the bone this time.

I lowered my head but stared out the windshield. Glassy-eyed and focused on nothing but the thrum of the heartbeat in my ears and his voice echoing through my mind.

You are worthless. You’re an embarrassment. You will never amount to anything.