When I was twelve, my father fought his last match. His opponent was half his age, stronger and agile, but my father had skill. I remember watching the bout, my hands wringing together and I kept my eyes glued to my father as if my will was enough to push him to win.
It was a bloody fight. Twice he went down. Twice he got back up. At the end of five rounds, my father stood victorious. Now, he sits in a gutter.
“You don’t drink. This isn’t you,” I whisper.
Dad raises his head to the sky and he blinks as if he’s drifting into coherency. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
I think of home...my home...my bed. I should be there, lying in that upstairs corner room. When it rained, the wind chimes beneath my window on the porch would tinkle and I’d snuggle deeper into the blanket, grateful for protection.
But I’m not there. I’m here. I’m rotting in the sewer next to the father that disappointed me. This disillusion, this overwhelming sense of being let down, it has nothing to do with losing the house or homeless shelters or that we live in hell. “How could you give up?”
I shiver, not from the cold but because I feel like someone died—like my father died and he died months ago, but I’m just now discovering the truth.
I glance over my shoulder as footsteps approach. Jax grabs his father’s arm as he stalks in our direction. “He’s sick, Dad. Let Kaden and I get him in bed.”
My uncle twists away from Jax and I lean into my father. “You’ve got to lie. It’s past curfew and it’s the only way we’re getting in. John’s out looking for you and the last bus to the gym is gone. We’re out of options.”
He reaches over and pushes the drenched hair away from my face. “Why did you come after me? You should be safe in bed.”
My teeth audibly click together and the hurt overpowers me, taking me down as if I was tackled below the knees. I want to cry. I want to scream, but I can’t. Those are the ways of a child and I’m no longer one. I’m the adult chasing after her father. “Because I don’t abandon the people I love. I wouldn’t do what you’re doing to me right now.”
“Help me up.”
I stand and hold my hand out to him. He takes it and with more effort than it should take, he shakes to his feet. My uncle rounds on us. The rain has already soaked through his black T-shirt. “What’s wrong with you?”
“He’s sick,” I answer. “Let us get him inside before he passes out again.”
The glare he throws me causes my spine to straighten. “Unless I speak to you directly, keep your mouth shut.”
I bite my lip to halt a response from spewing from my mouth. I hate him. I hate how he demeans me. I hate how he makes me feel as big as a speck of dust and what I hate more is that he’s done the same thing to my father, to Jax, to everyone. There’s definitely a hell and he’s on the expected list.
I pray my uncle keeps the distance between them. Maybe, just maybe, through the rain, he won’t notice the strong scent of alcohol.
“I felt sick this morning,” Dad says. “And it got worse on the bus ride home. I sat down near the side of the road and must have passed out.”
My uncle moves closer and the anxiety within me surges to new highs. He rocks forward and sniffs. I briefly close my eyes. He knows. My uncle knows. “You are a damned failure.”
The world tunnels as I stare at my uncle. My father a failure? Kicked down maybe, but not out. I’ve seen him struggle to his feet before and he can do it again.
Dad lowers his head. “I know.”
I step in front of him, clutch his shirt with both hands. “You’re not!”
“I am.” His voice breaks.
“Listen!” I bend my knees so I’m smaller than him in his broken state. “You are the strongest person I know. We can do this. You just have to get your fight back.”
“Let me go, Hays. It’s better if you let me go.”
“But...”
Dad pulls my hands off his shirt and stumbles back to the ground. My fingers still curl in the air as if I’m still holding on to him and I realize blankly that’s what I’ve been doing for months—holding on to a corpse.
I flinch as if someone shot a high-powered rifle into the night. There was a shot except there was no sound. Only the rain against the street. For months, my uncle has been firing bullet after bullet in my father’s chest and my father stood there and took it until he completely bled out.
And I’m no different. I’ve done the same thing. My head tilts and the world spins as I look over at my uncle. He can fire all he wants because I’m finally firing back.
Before rational thought catches up to the emotion, I explode into my uncle’s face. “He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be! You’re the one that’s pathetic. Hiding behind words, behind threats, and when you’re too scared you shift into a waste of a little boy and belittle those who can’t protect themselves. If you’re so strong and so powerful, then hit me, you son of a bitch, because I’ll hit you back.”
He doesn’t even shrink from my proximity. Instead he becomes blank stone. “Pack your shit, get out of my house and take your pathetic family with you.”
Dizziness wavers my vision and I suck in raindrops as I try to breathe. Months of telling West to contain his anger and I go and lose control of mine at the wrong critical moment. What have I done? “I’m sorry.”
“Too late.”
My uncle steps onto the grass and I cut in front of him. “I’m sorry. Please. I was wrong.”
“Get of my way before I move you myself.”
“Touch my sister and I’ll f**king kill you.” Kaden stalks toward us.
I stay focused on the evil in front of me. The evil that gives a roof over our heads. That puts food in our stomachs. That offers protection from the streets. He’s evil and he’s a bastard, but he’s saving our lives.
There’s a craziness that invades my brain, an insanity worming inside my soul. It distorts colors, sights and sounds. The world becomes gray and cold. Years of fighting, years of confidence, years of any self-worth disintegrate, scatter and drop along with the pouring rain.
One knee goes down and sinks into the freezing mud, then another, and in front of pure madness, I beg, “Throw me out. Just me.”
Because I am nothing.
Chapter 70
West
Give her the choice. Stop being an impulsive, controlling jerk and give her the choice. The same choice Dad should have possibly given me countless times. Not a choice between ripping your heart out from the right or the left, but the choice of controlling my own future.