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“Hey, Joe,” I croaked out, clenching, then unclenching my fists to stop my hands from moving to my throat as I desperately tried to get my heartbeat under control. “Nothing. Just hungry. I was getting a snack.”
Joey walked over to where I was standing, feet frozen to the floor, and playfully nudged my cheek with his knuckles. It was a tender display of affection and a silent show of solidarity.
“Did Aoife stay long when she drove you home?”
My eyes widened in confusion.
The look my brother gave me said, Go with it.
Realization dawned on me. My brother was giving me an out.
“Uh, no,” I choked out, eyes locked on Joey. “She just dropped me off and went straight home.”
Joey winked his approval and then reached around me, shoving his hand into the back of the cupboard—the one I couldn’t reach without the help of a chair. “Here.” Pulling out a packet of chocolate biscuits, he handed them to me. “No doubt these are what you’re looking for?”
“It’s not a halfway house,” Dad slurred.
“This is my food, old man,” Joey shot back coolly, turning to face our father. “Bought with my money. From my job.”
“This is my house!”
“A house given to you by the government,” Joey countered coolly. “Because of us.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy,” Dad shot back, but his tone lacked its usual punch.
Drunk as he was, our father was quite aware that the shit he pulled with me wouldn’t float with my brother.
They’d had several belting matches down through the years, but the fight that burned brightest in my memory was the one that had occurred this past November. The fight had been about the usual: infidelity. Dad had been caught with another woman, no surprises there, and had decided to up and leave us for the other woman—again, no surprises there.
Mam had just found out she was pregnant the day he left and had taken to the bed. Joey and I had spent almost two weeks taking care of the younger boys and cleaning up the mess our parents had made.
When our father finally rolled through the door, ten days later, stinking of whiskey and throwing shit at Mam, my brother had lost it. He and Dad ended up brawling in the living room, smashing through furniture and ornaments as they went for each other.
That wasn’t why it stood out, though.
It stood out because the fight had ended with my father curled up on the living room floor in the fetal position while my brother delivered blow after merciless blow to his face. It was absolute carnage, and while Dad had managed to break Joey’s nose, it was my brother who’d come out on top. Dad was in a bad way after the beating he’d taken, and in a screwed-up way, it had worked to his advantage because Mam had felt sorry for him and taken him back.
However depressing that day was for us, as the children of toxic parents, it also signified a shift in power. That day’s events showed our father that he was not the top dog anymore. There was a new dog in town—one who’d taken one too many beatings from him and was prepared to shut his shit down at any moment.
“Shannon,” Joey said, tone level, eyes locked on our father. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you head on up to bed?”
Joey didn’t need to tell me twice.
Taking the offered escape like a drowning victim would take a life jacket, I made a beeline for the stairs, halting in my tracks when Dad blocked the doorway.
“I’m not done talking to her,” he slurred.
“Well, she’s done talking to you,” Joey deadpanned, coming to stand behind me. “So get out of her way, old man. Now.”
There was a solid thirty-second stare-down between them before Dad finally stepped aside.
Bolting out of the kitchen, I ran up the staircase at top speed, not stopping until I was safely holed up in my bedroom with the door closed and the lock turned.
Barely taking time to catch a breath, I tossed the biscuits on my bedside locker, stripped out of my uniform as fast as humanly possible, and threw on my pajamas before diving onto my bed. Scrambling under the covers, I reached for the portable Discman under my pillow and pulled the covers up to my chin. I had one earplug in when the screaming started. Seconds later, the sound of furniture crashing filled my ears.
My stomach churned and I quickly rammed the other earplug in before firing up the old discolored Discman. Fumbling with the buttons, I pressed PLAY and turned the volume up to maximum level, praying the batteries had enough juice left in them to block out the hell that was my home. Clicking onto the loudest, hardest metal track on the CD, I lay back on my pillow and remained perfectly still, body rigid and coiled tight with tension.
Four songs in and my heartbeat returned to normal rhythm. Three more songs and the ability to form coherent thoughts returned.
