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And no one helped.
I can’t tell you how many older kids and adults witnessed those kids beating the shit out of me without saying or doing anything.
It became clear real fucking early in my life that no one was going to help me, that I was completely on my fucking own.
“What happened when you got bigger?” Sylvie asked.
“I stopped letting people bully me. Started with the kids at school. Got real good at fighting back, taking those fucks down.”
It wasn’t easy at first.
I hadn’t been the fists before, just the punching bag they landed on. So it took a bit more ass-kicking before I learned how to win a fight.
But by that point, I had a fuckton of pent-up rage.
And the moment my fists landed and a bully went down? Fuck, that was the best feeling in the world. Addictive, even.
It wasn’t long before I was getting nonstop detentions, then suspensions.
I didn’t care.
It wasn’t like I was ever any good at school anyway. I was a solid C student on my best day.
“Did your father stop putting his hands on you then?” Sylvie asked.
“He stopped after I finally got the balls to go out there when he was beating on my mom, and… put an end to it.”
“Did you… you know?” Sylvie asked, brow raised.
“Kill him? Probably should have.” I would have. If my ma hadn’t stepped in. “But no. Just knocked him unconscious.”
“And that was just the end of that? He stopped beating on both of you?”
“Dunno. We didn’t stick around. Packed some bags, stole what was left of his paycheck, and headed out.”
Problem was, it wasn’t much money.
I dropped out of school permanently. Started working any off-the-books jobs I could get. Lot of hard, manual labor.
“What about your mom?”
“Ma was… fragile,” I said, figuring it was the best way to put it.
I guess I’d always figured that it was my dad’s temper that always kept her meek and sad and down. And maybe it was the leftover trauma that had her still that way, sleeping ten to fourteen hours a day away at the cheap-ass motel I could afford to keep us in sometimes. Other times, we were in her car. Or she was in the car, and I was camping next to it.
Problem was, my dad’s anger, yeah, it seemed to be genetic. I couldn’t seem to keep myself out of trouble. I lost jobs because arguments with coworkers came to blows. Or because some asshole boss was picking on his workers, and my trigger was set to hair for that kind of shit.
“Eventually, when I aged up enough, I put that anger to use. Worked as a bouncer for a while. Then did some contract work for a criminal organization.”
“The knee-breaky kind of work?” Sylvie asked, making a chuckle escape me.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Was your mom doing better by then?”
“Mom slit her wrists in our hotel room bathtub while I was out on a job one night.”
“Oh, my God,” Sylvie gasped, lips parting in horror, making me realize how harsh I’d sounded when I’d said that. “I’m so sorry.”
“Guess her demons caught up with her,” I said, shrugging.
I mean, I hadn’t been so blasé about it at the time.
I’d come home a little early, carrying some takeout because she was looking thin, and I knew she would eat out of guilt—if for no other reason—if I brought her something back.
I wanted to tell her that I had just finished a big job that was going to let us finally get an apartment, and out of the damned motel. I’d even picked up some magazines, figuring she might want to flip through them, start imagining how she would decorate the place.
Something had felt wrong immediately.
Everything was too neat.
Like she’d thought ahead, had that last “mom” moment, the need to tidy, to not leave a mess for anyone else to clean up. It was especially jarring after months, even years, of her seeming to be comfortable living in a complete disaster.
For a few moments, I’d felt hope swell. Like she was getting better. Like she’d finally found something to live for, to bring her some happiness.
Then I smelled it.
That coppery scent that I’d seen spurt out of noses and shoot out of mouths when my fists had collided with them.
Blood.
“Mom?” I called, voice taking on a strange, strangled edge that I didn’t recognize. “Ma?” I tried again, inching across the room, making my way to the mostly closed bathroom door. “Ma, come on,” I said, heart hammering, stomach churning. “Mom, please,” I said, the sound defeated even to my own ears.
My hand rose, feeling the rough texture of the ancient, cheap-ass door under my palm as I tried to take a steadying breath.
But it got caught in my chest as I pushed the door open.
And there she was.
I guess some part of me had conjured up the image of her having fallen, maybe cracked her head against the sink cabinet or tub as she fell, hence the smell.
