I can no longer stand by and do nothing. I understand CPS has more than enough cases to deal with, but a boy was brought in with clear signs of abuse, and no one can do a thing?
His father gets to take him home and walk away scot-free, no repercussions for beating the shit out of his fifteen-year-old son. The son who takes care of his sisters, who works a full-time job after school—I assume to help make ends meet for them.
I get into my truck, slam it into reverse, and peel out of the parking lot. Trevor’s address has been memorized in my mind for a few weeks now. The first time he showed up with a couple bruises, I flagged his profile, noting the trailer park on the outskirts of Cherry Hill, bordering the Nashville city limits. A place known for kids falling through the cracks between counties.
I don’t think. I just drive, needing more than anything to see with my own two eyes that he is okay.
The streets blur as I drive, the clock on the dash staring back at me: 8:56 a.m. Just two hours after I left Avery’s bed, and fuck, how I wish I could turn back the clock and be there again, cocooned in her. As I get closer, my body starts radiating with energy. I keep shifting in my seat, trying to expel some of the pent-up rage coursing through me.
I pull into the trailer park and see two extremes: some trailers well kept and beautifully maintained, with blossoming flower beds and meticulous grass, and others that have seen better days, peeling paint on the siding, carsparked every direction out front, and piles of trash littering some of the stoops.
I stop in front of a dilapidated trailer with a sagging porch and little shoes lining the outside. Before I can stop myself, I dash out of the truck with it still running and bang on the door. My fists pound hard enough to make the whole front of the trailer shake.
I stand back and wait, the silence inside sending me reeling. Just as I raise my fist to knock again, it swings open to reveal a graying and balding man, at least five inches shorter than me, staring back. The clear evidence of a hangover sits on his face, the stench coming off him making me want to gag.
“Who the fuck are ya?” he bellows as I stand there, towering over him.
“Where’s Trevor?” I ask through my barely concealed rage.
“Out, what’s it to ya?” he counters, his country accent thicker than any I’ve heard in a while.
“I’m his counselor at school, and he didn’t show up today. Where is he?” I ask, crossing my arms and sizing him up.
“Fuck should I know? The lil cunt does what he wants.” He starts to close the door, but I slam my hand against it, forcing him to open it all the way.
The smell of rotten food and whiskey hits me, making my eyes water. The sight sends another punch to my gut, thinking of three children having to live in such conditions. The couch is brown and peeling in every visible place, the tables lined with ashtrays and empty bottles. Clutter lines the floors in all corners, creating piles of shit stacked at least three feet high in some places.
I see red, and suddenly my fist slams into the man infront of me. A scream follows the crunch of bone, and I watch as he flies backward onto the floor.
The hangover clears from his face as rage replaces it, blood pouring out of his nose and quickly soaking his threadbare shirt.
“How do you like getting hit, huh?” I ask as I tower over him while he clutches his nose. “How does it feel to be the one getting smacked around by someone so much bigger than you, huh?”
I wait for this pathetic excuse of a man to answer before I flatten him to the floor and make him regret he was ever born.
“Ya broke my fuckin’ nose!” he whines from his position on the floor, clutching his mangled nose.
“And I’ll break a lot more if I ever see Trevor come back to school with so much as a paper cut on him. Do you hear me?”
“Who the fuck are ya to tell me what to do with my own fuckin’ kid?” he seethes.
“I’m your worst fucking nightmare. You think you can go around and abuse your kids and no one will do a thing about it? Think again. If I see one more bruise, I will rain hell down on your life. I will take everything from you.”
“You think ya so much better than me,” he spits from his position on the floor.
“Iamfucking better than you. Because I can tell the difference between right and wrong, and you’re so drunk you use your own kids as punching bags. But I will be back. One cut, one scratch, and I will make your life a living hell. If that’s even possible. You’re a pathetic excuse for a man.”
He crawls toward the stained couch, liquor bottles rattling across what I assume was once a coffee table.
“Do you understand?” I challenge, my temper a livewire. I watch the flash of fear that goes through his eyes as he stares at me.
Good. He should be fucking terrified. If CPS won’t listen, I’ll make them. This is the last time this kid gets hurt when I can do something to stop it. I don’t care what it takes. These kids are my responsibility.
I take a step toward him and watch him cower backward.
“Fuck, fine, I understand,” he cries out.
“This is the only warning you get,” I threaten before stalking out of the house.
