Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Yeah...I found them in the cooler. They must’ve fallen inside when I was getting a beer.”
“Oh,” was all I could muster as a reply. I was too dazed, too angry to say anything more. I sat up and took in a deep breath. That’s when I finally noticed Madden. He was white as ghost as he stood there staring back at me. “You okay?”
“Um-hmm. Are you?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Dad stood up as he asked, “You boys wanna go watch the fireworks?”
“I’d rather just go on home.”
“Alright. Whatever you want, bud.”
He grabbed our things, and as soon as he had everything loaded, we all got in his truck. On the way home, I thought about everything that had taken place. Up until that night, my father had never been like that with me. Sure, he’d yelled and made me feel like shit, and even belt whipped me whenever he thought I got out of line, but he’d never actually punched me or strangled me like he had today. He’d always saved all that kind of brutality for my mother.
That all changed after the cookout. I was no longer just a bystander. I had gotten older, bigger in my father’s eyes—big enough to face the wrath of his quick temper. Leaving a wet towel on the floor could result in a busted lip or a mild concussion, being late to dinner could leave me with a black eye or a broken rib or two, and no matter how trivial, backtalking in any way could leave me incapacitated for days. Hell, even looking at the guy the wrong way could cause him to release his madness. I’d hoped he would leave him be, but Madden got his own fair share of my father’s attention. After each attack, the guilt would get to him, and he’d ease up a bit. But it never lasted long. My father wasn’t a happy man, and he took it out on the people he was supposed to love the most.
This was my life. I walked a fine line. If I fucked up, I paid the price. Even when I didn’t fuck up, I paid the price. It was a vicious cycle that was only compounded by the fact that everyone knew what was going on. We lived in a small town. We all knew each other by name. They saw the bruises, the bandages, and broken limbs, but instead of feeling sorry for me or trying to help, they’d simply ignore it, pretending they hadn’t seen anything, or look at us with utter disgust, thinking we’d gotten what we’d deserved. Over time, people just quit looking altogether. It was like they saw right through us, treating us like some kind of reject or scab on their perfect little town. The bruises hurt, the busted lips stung, and the broken bones were almost crippling, but the pain they caused was nothing compared to the pain of feeling so utterly alone—so fucking helpless. I hated that fucking feeling. I hated it almost as much as I hated my ol’ man.
Madden and I had pleaded repeatedly with our mom to pack up and go. She always refused, saying we needed our father—that she simply didn’t have the means to raise us on her own. No matter how hard we tried to convince her, my mother wouldn’t leave. She didn’t leave when he knocked out two of my teeth, broke my femur, and shattered my wrist. She didn’t leave when he dragged her across the floor by her hair and kicked her in the side until her spleen ruptured. Yeah, things got pretty bad. We lived in a world of darkness and secrets, but she stuck it out.
By the time I’d turned sixteen, I’d had enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. I wouldn’t take it anymore. I wasn’t going to let him hurt my little brother, not like he’d done me. I’d made up my mind that the next time he touched either of them I would put a bullet in his head.
But I didn’t get the chance.
He was on his way home from work when he decided to stop at the local bar for a few drinks. After one too many beers, he found himself in a fight he couldn’t win. A guy had enough of his fucking foul mouth and knifed him right in the gut. Left him for dead in the parking lot. By the time he was found, it was too late. My father was already gone. Our lives with my father were over, but the effects of his abuse would last for years to come. You see, there are some scars you cannot see, but they are there just the same—some so deep they’ll never fully heal.
Those scars are what made me the man I am today—a man full of anger who never let anyone get too close. A man who knew when to remain silent, how to stand strong inside and out, and knew exactly when to strike. Those were lessons only a father like mine could teach.