“Hit your fear.”
“What?” I whisper.
“Hit your fear. If you keep believing you’re the frightened child you were the last time you saw your father, you’ll never face what’s holding you back. What keeps you drowning in sadness. Hit your father.”
My eyes stay on the floor. Memories crowd in uninvited: his hand slamming against the dinner table, the venom in his voice when he called me worthless, the belt whistling through the air before it hit. I hear my own younger self crying in the dark, muffling the sound in the pillow so no one would hear.
“It’s not that simple. Don’t you think that if I knew how to face him, I wouldn’t be here? I’d be at home with my girlfriend and my friends, not in this fucking place doing therapy every damn day!” I shout, stepping forward.
“Don’t stop. Keep talking. Let it out,” she fires back, positioning herself behind the bag.
I’ve tried to stay calm my whole life. Never get angry.
Never talk back.
Never react to insults—take the blows, bow my head.
And it’s as if my body and my mind locked themselves inside a bubble of apathy, of constant sadness. A feeling that some deep part of me is sick of enduring.
“Let it out? What the fuck am I supposed to say? I’m sick of everything. Of everyone. How the fuck did you think writing that bastard’s name on a punching bag would help? How the fuck could you do this to me? That bastard ruined my life! I just want to see him suffer—suffer at least a quarter as much as I am now!”
And I do it. I punch the bag.
“Fuck!” I yell when my father’s face replaces the bag. His red eyes. That look of disgust, as if I were the worst thing that ever happened to him.
Well, the feeling’s mutual, Dad.
His arm rises in my mind, winding up a punch, ready to hit me again—but I won’t let him. Not this time.
I hit the bag again. As hard as I can. The leather bites against my knuckles even through the gloves, and something hot and raw surges in my chest.
I see flashes—his shadow darkening my doorway at night, the reek of whiskey on his breath, the way I used to shrink into myself and pray he wouldn’t notice me. I remember the sting of the belt, the humiliation of being told I was weak, nothing. The way he used to kick me out of the house and call me a worthless dog.
Another punch. The bag shudders, swings back, but I’m faster.
I remember hiding under the covers, whispering to myself to stay quiet, not to cry too loud, because if I cried, he’d hit harder. I remember the nights I’d escape to the backyard, staring up at the stars, begging them for some kind of escape, for someone to see me, save me.
Another punch, harder this time. My arms are burning, my breath ragged, but I don’t care.
I remember Nova standing in front of me in the school hallway, chin lifted, eyes blazing as she told some asshole twice her size to back off or she’d rearrange his face when he tried to steal my lunch. We were eleven back then. It was our first day of school.
Or the day she stood up to Seth and the others. The day she let them hit her just to protect me. I can still see her standing there, small but unshakable, like a wall I didn’t deserve. Or the countless times she went head-to-head with her own mother for me. Every fight, every slammed door, every word she used to shield me.
I’ll never forget the day she said,‘You don’t know him like I do. You have no idea about the heart that boy has! He’s the most selfless person in the world!’before slamming her bedroom door shut.
I was outside with a ladder in my hands, ready to climb up to her window and ask if she wanted to watch a movie. But instead, I froze. Because what I’d just heard wasn’t casual, wasn’t small. It was the closest thing to a love declaration anyone had ever given me. And it was hers. It was Nova telling the world I mattered, that I was worth defending.
I remember Steven sneaking out of my room to make hot chocolate, then coming back with a stack of board games the night my father’s memory left me shaking too hard to sleep. It was our first sleepover.
I remember the night when Nova washed my hair and took care of my scars.
I remember Max giving me a notebook for my birthday. Smiling like he always does, he said,“Here, write something. Better than keeping it bottled up.”
I remember all the times Sam spent hours cleaning my room. All the times he cooked for me and carried the tray in my room. The times he helped me shower. The times he washed my laundry.
And then there are my parents. Chris and Daniel. The people who believed in me from the very first moment, when no one else did. The people who looked at me and didn’t see the broken boy, but the boy who still had a chance. The people who loved me more than anyone else in this world ever could. My fathers. My family. They’re the ones who sat with me through every nightmare, who held my shaking hands until they were steady again. The ones who made me smile on days I thought smiling was impossible. They gave me back the colors when all I saw was grey. They gave me back life when I thought I’d lost it. Andevery time I look at them, I know what unconditional love feels like. They’re the reason I’m still here. The reason I am still me. They’re my parents and I’m theirbeautiful boy. Theirhoney-bee.
For years, I thought I was alone. But I wasn’t. They were there. They’ve always been there.
