It’s not going to stop him. It’s only going to delay the pain.
I start counting in my head. Numbers have always been a comfort.
One.
“I’ll make sure to break the hand you used to steal from me, boy!”
Two. Three.
Another fist against the door, and the latch rattles.
Four. Five. Six.
I never make it to seven before the door slams against the wall, but my mind keeps going anyway.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
He’s too drunk to bend down and grab me, but his feet have no such limitations.
Eleven. Twelve.
Stop!
Thirteen.
A vase I painted with my mother when I was six years old ends up in his hands, and he hurls it at me. He’s too drunk to aim well, but a shard catches me on the neck.
Fourteen. Fifteen.
“You killed her! Everything went wrong the moment you were born!”
I don’t say a word.
Sixteen.
Run, whispers a voice inside me that has had enough of trembling in front of him. Now!
And despite the numbers screaming that we’re safer under this desk, I push off with both hands and sprint, ignoring the sound of broken porcelain crunching under my sneakers.
I shove him on my way out. Too surprised, or too drunk, to react, he goes down.
“You bastard! I’ll kill you when I get my hands on you!”
I wakeup with sweat sliding down my temples.
You’re not there, Silas.
I’m not. But my mind is slow to catch up.
That night I made it out of the house and waited for Dean in the rain for over an hour. I counted every second. Calculated the speed of the bus bringing him home. Figured out exactly how long it would take me to go back inside and make my father permanently quiet.
That was the last time I ever let him put fear in me.
The next morning at breakfast, he yelled at me to make him coffee.
I refused.
Dean watched the exchange, ready to step in.
