Then the smoke alarm started. It was loud, like a war cry, echoing my mood.
I needed to get to my mother.
I wasn’t afraid of Callum. Not anymore. I had become emotionally numb to his beatings, that’s why he’d moved on to knocking the shit out of his wife. But the fear I felt for her was real,morethan fucking real,terrifying. Melissa Gage was no wilting flower; she was tall for a woman and used to give as good as she got, until one day… she just gave up.
I felt just like the piece of shit my father had called me.
This wasmydoing,myfault. My mother was lying on the floor, barely moving, and all because I’d helped myself to Callum’s shit beer. It was the cheap stuff that tasted like warm piss.
You stupid fool!
Turning fourteen in our neighborhood was a big deal. I had started high school and was officially classed as a man, hence the bender I’d had with my friends the previous night. They wouldn’t serve us alcohol at the liquor store without ID, so I’d taken a twelve-pack of Hank’s Narragansett Lights. My best friend Tommo had donated the vodka. He’d swiped two bottles from Nicholas Creed’s locker at school earlier that month. Nick was our age but as dodgy as fuck. His older brother Xander was a senior at St Andrew’s. Nick had been transferred there last week, a consequence of gettingbusted for selling booze on school premises. Goodfuckingriddance. Thankfully, Tommo and I remained freshmen at Harbor Heights High on theotherside of the city.
Mom’s moan of pain dragged my attention back. Her favorite gold necklace with the handmade M pendant glittered against her sallow skin. It had been a gift from Nana for my mother’s thirtieth birthday last month. She wore it less lately as she was worried about Callum pawning it to pay for one of his nasty habits.
Now look what you’ve done!
Shit; I hadstolenfrom Callum, and I deserved a slap on the wrist. Cal’s version of that slap used to be a lit cigar against my forearm. Same fucking thing in my world. Now he used his fists.
“Hud, are you there?” my mother croaked.
I was dog shit,justlike he’d always said I was.
“I’m here,” I whispered, attempting to sound calm.
Callum’s foot hit me in the stomach again, and this time I welcomed it. Anything was better than him hurting my mother.
Guilt and regret bled from me like a sliced artery. My mother had stood up for me that day, but it was the wrong decision. She got in the way and paid for it.
We were in the kitchen when Callum turned up early, off his face. “He’s fourteen, Cal. Give the boy a break,” she had begged, turning away from the stove. She had just made me a BLT. It was a remedy to cure my hangover. I’d slept most of the day, surfacing early afternoon, still half fried. And then Callum came home from work, via the local bar.
I had never sobered up so quickly.
How it all startedflashedin front of my eyes.
From my position at the cheap-as-shit kitchen table, I’d watched as Callum hit my mother in the face, not a backhander, a specialty of his; aproperpunch. Seeing my mother's nose bust open would stay with me forever. I’d shoved to my feet and launched myself at him; anything to protect her as he’d then drawn back his booted foot.
The harsh reality of what had happened crawled over my skin like fire ants.
Now, she was barely conscious, and I silently begged her to play dead.
Why was no one coming to help us? Surely, Mr. and Mrs. Weinberg would call the cops again? The walls of the timber houses on our street were piss-takingly thin; theymusthave heardsomething. I could hear their dogs barking, maybe they weren’t home?Shit.
“Please,” I heard my mom whisper.
“You’re nothing but a worthless whore,” Callum snarled. The aggression in his voice gave me strength, and I managed to get to my feet. As I staggered forward, my father gripped my mother’s hair and dragged her up from the floor.
Her scream cut into me like a million knives as I lunged forward and snagged Callum’s arm to stop him from striking her again. He had my mother pressed against the fridge, her face a bloodied mess. The sight caused mephysicalpain.
You did this; this is on you.
“Get the fuck off,” my father cried out, spittle shooting from his mouth.
At that moment, he was evil personified, and after jerking his arm away, he shoved me backwards towards the table.
I fell, bouncing off a chair and jarring my ribs, several of which were already broken. From the only eye that worked, I watched as Callum seized my mother's shoulders and threw her to the other side of the room.
Thecrackingsound of her skull, as it hit the counter, dragged a roar from the pit of my stomach.
