Chapter 19
Nineteen
In the light of the moon, I scrounge up a few pebbles and toss one against Remy’s bedroom window. It’s late for a school night, but I can’t go home. Not when I finally got the hell out of there.
He pokes his face out from above. I’m sure he knows it’s me—it’s not like this is the first time I’ve shown up after dark. He gives me a silent nod and shuts his window. I walk to the sliding glass doors, and he lets me in.
His eyes do a quick scan. “You alright?”
What do I say? My father threw my mom into a wall tonight? The bone-chilling thump her body made upon contact was so unmistakable, I heard it three rooms away? The ungodly moans echoing in the kitchen where she lay crumpled on the floor even worse?
By the time I rushed in, he was kicking her. Kicking her. The literal translation of kicking someone when they’re down. In his polished, black leather shoes with the fancy stitching detail no less.
Everything inside of me detonated like a bomb. I lost my mind—jumping on his back, battering him with a stray fist, latching my arms around his throat. Anything to make him stop hurting her and deal with me. I didn’t slack off even once Townshend intervened, his screams merging with my mom’s.
My dad flailed wildly, jerking his body to shake me off.
But by then, I’d cinched my forearms tightly against his windpipe, hoping to choke him to death and doing my damnedest not to let go.
He finally smashed me into the wall enough times that I dropped to the floor like a sack of flour.
While I was on the ground, he kicked me repeatedly and slapped my melon so hard, I’m shocked it didn’t fly off my shoulders.
Townshend dragged me from the kitchen and shoved me out of the front door. “Run!” he’d ordered.
A part of me didn’t want to run. Or leave Mom unprotected. But more pervasive, more blatant, more alluring…was my vision swimming with all the ways I could hurt Bill Callahan. My blood blazed hot, energy surging through my veins with rampant, violent thoughts.
So, I fled. From my frightening bloodthirsty tendencies (am I like him?), from my ogre of a father, from the helpless woman who needed me, from the ugliness that is my life.
Like a coward.
“Mick?” Remy prompts.
Abruptly, his voice stops the replay of tonight’s atrocities and rattles me back to the present.
The pain rains down, zooming back with its sharp edges.
Everything hurts. My ribs. My arms. My head.
I’m not even sure if anything’s broken or cracked.
I’m not alright in the slightest. Still, I lie and nod my head.
Remy doesn’t push, just dips his chin in understanding before holding a finger to his lips.
We tiptoe back to his bedroom, and I exhale a held breath once he shuts the door.
My shoulders unhunch incrementally, as if my body understands I’m safer here.
I wriggle out of my Adidas and socks, my feet sinking into the thick shag carpeting.
Remy’s blacklight posters hang from the walls, their fluorescents currently dulled.
The purple blobs in his lava lamp glow as they bounce slowly inside their tapered glass cone, giving me enough light to guide me to the oversized bunk beds braced against one wall.
I’ve slept over so much it’s nearly second nature.
I leave the rest of my clothes on and start to climb to the top but groan when my body screams in protest.
“Take mine,” Remy whispers.
My inclination is to fight him. Be tough. Take it like a man, like my father always bellows in that berating, belittling tone. But I don’t, because everything fucking hurts. “Thanks,” I croak.
“You got it.”
Long after Remy’s breathing evens out, sleep eludes me, my brain reliving the night on repeat, trying to figure out how to fix this nightmare I’m trapped inside. I’m coming to grips with the fact that my mom isn’t going to, which triggers a parade of memories that flash in my mind.
Age six: She holds me, kissing the tears falling down my cheeks, whispering a hushed, “I’m sorry, my sweet boy.
” It doesn’t mend the bruises, but it fools me into thinking I’m loved…
and safe for the moment. “He didn’t mean it.
Your dad says and does things when he’s provoked.
He doesn’t know how to stop himself, and then he’s full of remorse.
It’s going to be alright…I promise. Just try to be a good boy. ”
Age seven: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my brave boy.
” I’m crying, even though she’s the one he hurt.
He grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the ground, pinning her to the floor with his big body.
It’s the first time I screamed for him to stop, and the glare he shot at me shook my entire being.
“Mind your goddamned business, you snot-nosed brat. Get out!”
Age eight: “I hate him. Why can’t we leave?
Why can’t you take us away from here?” I plea.
My mother remains silent a long time, sniffles.
“Because I’m not sure how we’ll survive.
My job won’t provide enough money, and I’m not leaving without my boys.
” Her voice breaks on that last word. “And I’m not sure what he’ll do to us if I try. ”
Age nine: More whispers after my father passes out in a drunken stupor and my mother is in the kitchen cleaning up shattered plates. “I promise I’m working on it. It’s going to take some time.”
Age ten: Shouting angrily at my mother. “Don’t touch me. I hate you! You’re just as bad as he is. Instead of protecting us, you let him push you and us around. He’s going to kill us one day, and it will be on your conscience!”
I shake off my thoughts. They only cement my hopelessness. My powerlessness. All I can do is focus on survival.