“What the fuck?” He snarls under his breath. “What the fuck!” His words are clearer that time, heavier, laced with venom. “Are you fucking telling me you’ve been able to speak this entire time?”
I don’t answer, I don’t plan to speak again.
“ANSWER ME,” he demands. But his orders fall on deaf ears. I stopped caring about his patience years ago. There’s no incentive to please him when I’m already used to the beatings.
“You fucking worthless, pathetic excuse for a man.” I don’t think he even wants me to speak. I think he wants a reason to lay hands on me. So I’llfucking give it to him. This match has been a long time coming.
In answer to my active disrespect, he charges down the stairs for me but I’m ready this time. Fists in the air the wayhetaught me, I’m able to land a blow to his nose before he can take the last step to the flagstone path I’m standing on. Disoriented and probably a little shocked, he stumbles forward with his fists in the air but not as precisely as usual. He’s a shell of the man he used to be.
He steps his left foot forward alerting me he’s preparing to throw his right hook, so I dodge it just in time and land an uppercut to his ribs. We spar in a continuous back and forth. He manages to land a few punches on me as well but the final blow that connects with his jaw is the last straw for him. He’s enraged, blinded by anger and hatred, and his movements become less coordinated and more frenzied. Rookie mistakes a pro like him shouldn’t be making. He’s just too overwhelmed to think straight which works in my favor.
Seeing that the bare-knuckle boxing technique isn’t working, he tries to tackle me to the ground, but I’m ready this time. I refuse to be weak anymore. I refuse to be a punching bag. And I refuse to back down. He’s belittled me my entire life.
Retard.
Stupid.
Mute.
Coward.
Liar.
I’m done being any of the things he and countless others have called me. If I don’t assert my dominance tonight, he’ll always see me as the pathetic boy who takes his beatings like a coward.
So when he loops an arm around my neck trying to push me down and cut off my air supply, I plant my palms against his chest and shove as hard as I can, channeling every ounce of resentment into putting as much space between us as possible.
My efforts work, my father stumbles away from me. But his heel catches on one of the uneven stones and he’s falling like a tree in the woods before Ican reach him. I feel the panic in a single second as though time is frozen with fear. I’m angry. I’m hurt. I want to make it clear I’m not a boy anymore. But I didn’t want to do any serious damage.
Our father’s head collides with one of the rocks lining the pathway before I can grab him. A sickening crunch and thud precede the unnatural stillness of his body. Eyes fixed on me, unblinking, lifeless. I know before I even get to him to feel his pulse that the man who’s abused me mentally and physically my entire life no longer inhabits this body.
The silence behind me speaks loud enough, Mom and Dylan are just as petrified as I am.
I have to think fast. It was an accident. If I try to hide it, it’ll look like it was intentional. Thankfully, I have witnesses to back up my story.
“I’m gonna call 911,” Dylan breaks the silence.
My mother’s hands are on me the following second. Her warm palms against my cheeks turning my gaze from the dead man before us to her. Her kind eyes—my eyes—stare back at me. I look just like my now deceased father from the strong jaw and hair color to my build, but my eyes came from the only parent that truly mattered.
“Jason, sweetheart, listen to me.” My kind, gentle, would-never-hurt-a-fly mother’s voice is all business now. “You are not a bad person. You are not to blame for his actions that lead to this point. You are a good man!”
I focus on her eyes. I focus on her nose. I focus on the words leaving her mouth. Otherwise I’ll spiral.
“We will tell the police that you two fought and he stepped outside to get some air. We heard a noise and came outside to find him like this. Do you understand me? I will not have my boy go to jail for second degree murder when you were simply defending yourself. I won’t even have you in front of a jury who might find you guilty of manslaughter. We both know this washisfault.”
Footsteps reverberate on the hollow porch. “They’ll be here in ten minutes,” Dylan announces.
“Good,” my mom says without taking her hands off me. “Go grab the bottle of whiskeyon the shelf.”
My brows bunch in confusion until Dylan returns and our mother sets to work pouring the amber liquor down his throat. Maybe four shots worth. Then she lays the bottle beside him not far from his hand so the whiskey spills out.
She’s making it look like he was a drunk.People might believe that he stumbled on a path he’s walked a thousand times.Might.But they sure as hell won’t think twice about a drunk man tripping over uneven stones after a fight with his son. I’ll be the victim, not the murderer.
Logically, I know I didn’t kill him with intent. But it’s still my fault he died. I pushed him. I pushed him every day of my life. I pushed him to fight me instead of Dylan. I pushed him down causing his head to hit the rock and split open.
I stare at his body as if I expect him to rise from the dead with glazed over eyes and try to eat my brains. The stubborn son of a bitch would, too. But his eyes start to cloud over, the gash on the side of his head continues to seep blood. Small bits of rock and dust are embedded in the open wound. Even his limbs are laid in a crooked, unnatural fashion. The telltale purple-yellow discoloration of a bruise is starting to emerge on his jaw where I’d connected my fist to his face.
I’d been afraid of this man my entire life, feared being in the same room as him. Now, he lays dead and I feel foolish for ever being afraid of someone so mortal and insignificant.
