Chapter 12
Twelve
My knuckles bleed where my father battered my hand with repeated strikes from his metal belt buckle. Bruises bloom on my shoulder where he held me immobile as he did it.
No one was home to save me tonight. Not that anyone can.
I’ve come to believe the old man gets extra special enjoyment from bullying the smallest and weakest in our household.
That includes me. And Mom. A sick gleam in his eye gives away how much he enjoys it.
And the bastard’s never apologized. Not once.
It makes me wonder if he was born this way or what happened to turn him into this sad excuse for a human being.
My mom and brothers are attending parent-teacher night at the junior high. I’m still in fifth grade, and despite pleading to go with them—anything not to be left alone with the tyrant—the tyrant thwarted it, insisting I make his cocktails and eat dinner with him at the table.
Is it normal for a boy my age to make his father a highball? To even know how? I’m not sure I make it properly because my dad demands half whiskey, half soda. It smells revolting. I dared to sneak a swig from that bottle once. Super gross.
I’ve learned three highballs is the average for my father to become belittling. Mean. Violent.
He rarely stops at three.
If I’m the only kid here, there’s no escape. I’m not allowed to go missing or be out of earshot, lanced to my father like a tetherball just waiting to get wailed until I unwind back to the starting position for him to take another punch.
My mind is my refuge. I go to fantastical places, anything to dull the reality, not let him win, rob him of the satisfaction he’s getting to me.
Tonight, all it took was accidentally dropping his utensils in his lap when I grabbed his dirty plate from the table. They slipped right off. His eyes turned so dark I couldn’t see where his pupils began or irises ended…it was like peering into an ominous black cave.
He rattled off the regular insults: “good for nothing,” “a klutz,” “never amount to anything,” and his often-hurled jibe that I was “a mistake” he never wanted in the first place.
Believe me, the sentiment goes both ways.
I wince, attempting to clean the blood. It stings like a motherfucker. Motherfucker is my new favorite word, even better because my parents would go ballistic if they heard me say it.
Randy and I say it a lot, along with shit, asshole, and variations of fuck.
He’s become a bright spot and my refuge.
When we’re not roaming the hills on our dirt bikes or blowing up random stuff with firecrackers, I practically live at his house.
His parents don’t seem to care and treat me nicely too, especially his dad.
His older brother is kind of a jerk, but he mostly leaves us alone.
I wish Randy’s parents would adopt me.
I’d give anything to sneak over there tonight, like I do whenever I need to escape. But I can’t. The punishment, if caught, would be far worse than the pain of staying. And it’s a stupid school night.
I quietly return to my room. I’ve gotten good at avoiding any creaking boards in the hallway…
allowing me to stealth around and not call attention to myself.
Pretending like I don’t exist, just like my father wants.
As I ease from the bathroom to my bedroom, the television blares from downstairs, canned laughter traveling up to my ears.
I pray the ogre passes out soon, so he doesn’t feel like coming back for seconds.