by J. E. Parker
It was a good plan. The bathroom door was heavy. Secure. It would have taken Pop a minute to break it down. By then I’d be out the window.
A window that Pop was too big to fit through.
By the time he made it back down the stairs and out the front door, I’d be long gone. Wouldn’t come back either. Not until night had long fallen and Pop was blacked out drunk in his favorite recliner.
Three steps away from reaching the top of the stairs, Pop caught me.
Grabbing me by my shirt, Pop pulled me backward. I tried to grab ahold of the stair banister to keep from falling, but it was no use. Down I went, smacking right into him. The back of my skull collided with his rock-hard collarbone, and the collision dazed me, slowing my senses.
Gripping me by the shoulders, Pop turned me to the side and tossed me down the stairs. His cold laughter echoed throughout the house as I tumbled head over heels all the way down.
It sounded like every bone in my body snapped as my back met the cold, unforgiving wooden floor.
I felt my insides shift on impact and I lost the ability to breathe.
My chest felt like it was collapsing. Pressure radiated through my torso, and my empty lungs burned.
I couldn’t breathe.
Terrified, I rolled to my side and clawed at the ground. Tears sprung to my eyes as the panic began to set in.
Why couldn’t I breathe?
Honest to God, I felt like I was dying.
Then, as quickly as it began, the vacuum receded. Gasping and sputtering, I sucked in as much air as I possibly could.
Relief washed through me, but it was short-lived.
Within seconds Pop stood above me, his big body looming over my much smaller and battered one. Hands clutching the front of my shirt, he yanked me off the floor, and brought my face to within an inch of his. He was uncharacteristically calm as he pressed his nose to mine and whispered, “Ain’t got nothing to say now, do ya, boy?”
Looking back, I know I should have remained silent, but my mind and mouth weren’t in sync with one another. In pain, beyond pissed, and tired of Pop’s crap, I was going to tell the soulless bastard exactly what I thought of him. “Let go of me, you drunken piece of crap!”
Pop let go of my shirt, dropping me back to the floor. My back bounced off the hardwood for the second time, and a fresh wave of pain ricocheted through my limbs. “You’re dumber than I thought.” He pulled his arm back. Eyes wide, I didn’t have time to roll out of the way—even if I could’ve—before he swung.
His fist met my face, and his knuckles slammed into my cheek. Hard.
On impact my skin tore open.
Pulling his hand back again, Pop repeated the motion.
Then he did it again.
Over and over, he hit me.
Blood ran down my face.
My teeth rattled in my head and my vision flashed white.
The pressure in my head grew. I didn’t know how much more I could take.
With one final hit, the hardest of them all, Pop suddenly stopped.
Disoriented, I felt like my body was floating above the floor. I didn’t feel much pain… just numbness. Though I knew that would change within the next few minutes.
How long I lay on the floor, completely dazed and still, I don’t know. But eventually my brain began to work again and my sluggish senses returned.
My eyes darted around the room, only to find it empty.
At least… I thought it was empty.
I had no idea where Pop had gone, and that wasn’t good. If there’s one thing I’d learned over the years, it was that I needed to always keep him in my sights.
On the other hand, his being gone gave me the chance I needed to run.
To escape.
Adrenaline surged through my veins and I used my shaking arms to push myself up from the floor. My body swayed as I stood upright and took another look around the room.
That’s when I saw him.
Standing in the corner with his back against the wall and little droplets of my blood staining his shirt and hand, he looked at me. The anger and hatred from before was gone.
What is wrong with him?
I used the bottom of my shirt to wipe away some of the blood that was splattered across my skin.
“Learn your lesson?”
Every part of me that was still able to move screamed at me to fight back, to tell him to go straight to hell. But the small part of me that still had an ounce of common sense urged me not to. Instead, I nodded. “Yeah, Pop.”
The words tasted like acid on my tongue.
“Good.”
He pushed away from the wall, turned his back to me, and walked towards the living room. He seemed more lucid than before. Guess kicking my ass helped sober him up. “Go clean your face and straighten up your room. You got school tomorrow.”
Silently, I turned towards the downstairs bathroom. But Pop wasn’t finished yet. “Oh, and boy, if anybody asks what happened to your face, you know what to tell them.”
I did know what to tell them. I’d told various versions of the same lie hundreds of times.
Slipped down the stairs. Fell out of a tree. Crashed my dirt bike.
Messed up as it sounds, I never minded lying about it either. People asked too many questions, and tried to stick their noses where they didn’t belong. They thought that by doing so they could save me and solve all my problems.
But they couldn’t.
I just wished I didn’t have to lie to her.
“Yeah,” I clenched my hands into fists, “I know exactly what lie to tell.”
I started to walk off but Pop still wasn’t done talking. “That’s good, boy.” A can hissed as he cracked open the tab. “I suggest you not get in trouble at school tomorrow. If you do, we’re going to have more problems. Understand?”
I stepped into the bathroom, flicking on the light. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I bit back, “Yeah, Pop. Trust me, I understand completely.” There was no missing the disdain and hatred that dripped from my voice.
Shutting the door, I flicked the lock. I didn’t hear Pop cursing or stomping towards the door, so I figured I was safe, at least for now.
Face throbbing, I reached under the cabinet vanity and pulled out the first aid kit. One good thing about having a fireman for a dad was we always had plenty of first aid supplies on hand.
Gritting my teeth, I hesitantly looked in the mirror.
The reflection staring back at me made me cringe.
The right side of my face, red and angry, had already begun to swell. It looked like a crushed tomato. It was going to bruise like crazy come tomorrow.
Then there was the cut, the one I knew would be there. It was about two inches long, running across the top of my right cheek. I wasn’t even surprised at how deep it was. The moment I’d felt my skin tear wide open I knew it’d be bad.
I needed stitches but that was out of the question.
I’d just have to make do the best I could.
Cracking my neck, I flipped open the first aid kit with trembling fingers and set to work.
Peroxide. Neosporin. Gauze. Steri-Strips. Ibuprofen.
It only took five minutes to clean, sterilize, and mend the cut before popping a couple of pills. I’d done this same routine at least a couple dozen times. Short of being shot or having a bone snapped in half, I was confident I could fix any injury Pop gave me.
When I was finished cleaning myself up, I glanced in the mirror, eyeing the cut one more time. The Steri-Strips would work to hold it together, but it would leave a scar. Not that I cared. I wasn’t a chick. I didn’t care how I looked.
I closed the kit and tossed it back under the sink, not bothering to stack it neatly atop the rolls of extra toilet paper. It’s not like Pop gave a crap. We could live in squalor and he wouldn’t mind.
Turning around, I pressed my ear against the door and listened for any movement on the other side.
I heard nothing but silence.
After taking a
deep breath, I unlatched the lock and opened the door.
The sound of the television in the adjoining living room, followed by Pop’s laughter, greeted my ears. Both sounds grated on my nerves. I wanted nothing more than to go in there and slam my fist into his face until his cheek resembled mine. But I knew I couldn’t. If I did, he’d only beat me worse. I was still too young, too small, too weak to take him.
But one day I wouldn’t be.
One day, I’d be able to fight back.
And when that day came, I swore on everything, I was going to beat the hell out of him. Then I’d walk out the front door and never look back.
Just like Mama had.
Without wasting any more time, I crept towards the back door. It was the furthest away from Pop and by using it he wouldn’t likely hear or see me leaving. Not that he’d care. Now that he’d given me a good beating he’d leave me alone for the rest of the night. Long as I stayed out of his way and didn’t disturb him, he wouldn’t give me a fleeting thought.
Reaching the back door, I twisted the brass knob, pulled open the door and slipped outside. My sensitive eyes were greeted by the setting sun. I ground my teeth together at the pain that splintered through my head when a ray of bright light bounced off one of my mama’s old wind chimes and nearly blinded me.
Ducking my head, I shut the door behind me, crossed over the back porch and bounded down the steps. My head pounded and the torn and swollen skin of my face throbbed with every step I took.
I was almost to the garage and to the freedom my bike could provide when a soft voice called out my name.
I stopped mid-stride, frozen to the spot.
“Hendrix.”
That voice. Her voice.
I’d recognize it anywhere.
Maddie Davis.
I turned around slowly, making sure to keep my left side facing her, and looked towards her yard. I knew exactly where she’d be.
And there she was, wearing a yellow sundress and sparkly white flip-flops. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid and her cheeks were tinged pink. She was standing directly under the dogwood tree that bordered the fence separating her house from mine. It was our spot. The place we’d spent countless hours over the years. Talking. Playing cards. Me listening to her read. All under the safety of the dogwood.
It was also the same dogwood I used to sleep under as a young kid when Pop was in a drunken rage and I was too terrified to sleep in my bed. I can’t tell you how many times that’d happened over the years. Probably fifty. Maybe even a hundred.
My stomach flipped as I stared at Maddie.
Damn, she was pretty. Prettiest girl I’d ever seen.
Unlike some of the other boys at school, I never paid girls any attention. Didn’t see a reason to. But with Maddie it was different. There was something about her, something that made me notice everything. The way she braided her hair with ribbons, the clothes she wore, the foods she ate, and the colors she painted her nails… I noticed it all. And her freckles, the ones dotting her nose and cheeks, I had those memorized, knew the many patterns they created.
Blowing out a breath, I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Hey, Maddie.” I smiled at her. “What are you doing home? I thought you were going to church with your Grandmama.” Every Sunday morning and evening, Maddie spent time with her family at Kissler Baptist Church out on Highway 320. She was involved in the children’s choir and was a member of the church youth group.
Maddie was good. Pure. Innocent.
I wasn’t. At only fourteen, I wasn’t sure I had a whole lot of good left in me.
I’d seen too much hurt, experienced too much betrayal. Jaded and full of anger, I was the exact opposite of her. Still, despite our many differences, Maddie still cared about me.
I don’t know how she did it, but somehow, she’d found a way to see past the bad in me, and notice only the good. It was one of the many things I loved about her.
“I am, but I wanted to bring you something first.”
Just seeing her made the pain in my head lessen.
After sucking in a deep breath, I turned towards her. Ignoring her gasp of shock at the sight of my face, I headed her way. “What have you got for me, pretty girl?”
Maddie blushed.
Maddie
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was sitting on my front porch swing.
I was supposed to be reading, hence the reason an unopened book sat in my lap, but I wasn’t in the mood. I was too busy watching the house next door, hoping to catch sight of the boy who had become the center of my entire universe.
Hendrix Cole.
Just thinking his name caused goose bumps to break out along my arms.
Unfortunately, there was no sign of him anywhere, and I couldn’t have been more disappointed.
Bummer.
Knowing I needed to do something other than stare at his front door all day, I picked up my book and cracked it open. As I read down the first page, a loud noise barreled past my house, nearly scaring the daylights out of me.
Startled, I jumped, dropping my book.
Pop pulled his old beat up truck into their driveway. He narrowly missed a brick mailbox as he swerved sharply to the right.
No doubt he’d been drinking again.
Shaking my head, I sat forward on the porch swing and watched him shift his truck into park before climbing out. He stumbled up the sidewalk and onto the porch. It was no surprise when, upon reaching the door, he face planted into the middle of it.
His head hit the wood repeatedly as he tried to shove his key into the lock. After the third attempt, he cursed and rammed his shoulder into the frame.
I stood from the swing and made my way across the porch. Obviously, he needed help, and I wasn’t one to stand by and watch someone struggle without lending a helping hand. My Grandmama and Daddy had raised me better than that.
Didn’t mean I wanted to help him though. Guess I just felt obligated too.
I didn’t have the slightest idea where Hendrix was, but I didn’t think he was home. If he were, he would have opened the door by now. Or at least, I thought he would’ve. Little did I know, Hendrix avoided the drunken stooge the best he could. At the time, I didn’t know why, but it wouldn’t be long before the truth came barreling at me like a freight train.
I knew Pop and Hendrix weren’t close. I’d witnessed first-hand the way Pop talked to his only son like he was a piece of garbage. Calling him “stupid” because of his dyslexia and blaming him for his wife leaving them both. But I didn’t think things were as bad as they were.
Looking back now, I could kick myself for not seeing the truth sooner.
All of Hendrix’s injuries. The bruises. The cuts. The constant black eyes.
I should have known.
I should’ve seen it.
But I didn’t.
Maybe if I had, I could have gotten him help. Maybe, somehow, I could have stopped his father. I could have told my Daddy or Grandmama. Possibly even the school social worker.
If I’d only known…
Walking across the pristine—thanks to Hendrix—lawn, I called out Pop’s name, hoping my voice would stop him from bouncing his head off the oak door like a basketball. “Pop,” I hollered out several times as my bare feet closed the distance between us.
He never answered. Huh. Guess he was too drunk to hear anything.
What an idiot!
I’d just made it to the bottom porch step when Pop got the door open. Practically falling inside, he slammed it shut behind him with so much force the front windows rattled.
Good grief!
The man was more disgruntled than a starving grizzly bear.
I shook my head in disgust as the deadbolt slammed into place. With Pop inside, and Hendrix nowhere to be found, there was no reason for me to hang around.
Hopping down the steps, I turned to go back home. I’d only made it a couple of feet when I heard raised voices coming from inside the house. It was obvious that the loudest
one belonged to Pop—no surprise there.
“I didn’t do anything. I swear.”
Hendrix!
I smiled and bounded back up the steps. Standing in front of the same door Pop had almost cracked his head open on, I raised my hand to knock.
Something made me stop.
Hand frozen mid-air, I furrowed my brow and listened to the words being slung around inside the house.
Unease churned in the pit of my belly as the voices, mainly Pop’s, got louder.
Something was wrong…
“Hell, I’ll beat it out of you if I have to.”
My head jerked back, and my heart hammered away in my chest.
Oh, God!
Breathing heavily and uncertain as to what I should do, I listened to the nightmare coming to life on the other side of the door.
The harsh words I’d heard spoken moments earlier were only the beginning and the actions that took place over the next few minutes scarred me for life.
Hendrix being berated.
Hendrix being beaten.
Hendrix being broken.
I stood there and listened to my best friend, the boy I loved with every ounce of my young heart, being hurt. It was my first glimpse of true evil.
It wouldn’t be the last.
After the first collision of flesh meeting flesh, I told my feet to move, told my body to react, but I was frozen, my face pressed against the door, violent tears spilling from my eyes.
I needed to get help. Needed to find someone to make it stop.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I simply stood there, completely unable to move.
Hit after hit, I listened as Hendrix’s father, the person who was supposed to love and protect him unconditionally, hurt him.
And yet, I did nothing.
I was a coward. A stupid, worthless coward. I mean, what kind of person stands by and listens to someone they love being abused and doesn’t do anything about it?
Me, that’s who.
I was every bit the gutless, scaredy-cat the girls at school accused me of being.
I knew I’d never forgive myself for it.
Minutes passed, and the sound of flesh meeting flesh stopped.
I could hear Pop saying something, but his voice was too low for me to make the words out. I leaned further into the door, but all I could hear was the sound of retreating footsteps.