“I was just thinking, if you had a nice shiny chrome set, you’d look identical to my pierced dick.”
The sound rattles loose some of the tension knotted in my chest. It feels wrong, almost—laughing. But maybe it’s the onlyway I know how to keep standing. If I let the darkness have me for even a second, it’ll drown me whole.
“Keep talking shit, and I am going to put Veet in your shampoo, bro.”
“Don’t worry, Sam, his hair is already receding!” Mac chimes in.
“Logan, put a muzzle on your woman!”
”So… three months and no sign from him, is that a good thing?” Logan asks, ignoring my comment. I just shrug.
“I… I don’t know…”
The truth? It scares me that it’s been quiet. Silence never meant safety when I was a kid. It meant waiting for the storm to break. I don’t know if I can survive another fucking storm.
“Well, whatever happens, you know we got you, so no tail spinning alright?”
“Some tail spinning?” I say with a wry smile.
“Nah, he’s taken enough from you already by the sounds of it man, don’t give him more. Not an inch.” Logan says.
His words land heavier than I want them to. Because part of me knows he’s right. My father’s already inside my head again, taking up space he doesn’t deserve. I hate that I still flinch at the thought of him. Hate that the scars under my tattoos feel raw and new again.
“I agree with Logan, fuck your old man.” There are some mutterings of agreement.
“Fuck him!” I agree, though my heart beats too fast and my palms sweat.
The apartment is dark except for the glow from the security light leaking through the blinds. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen is the only sound. Everyone’s asleep. I should be too.
But I can’t close my eyes without seeing the letter. Without feeling the date stamped on the top like it’s burned into my skull.
Jonathan Baker released. Three months ago.
I stretch out on the couch, arm across my eyes. My chest rises too fast, too shallow. I tell myself to breathe, but the more I think about it, the tighter it gets. My ribs ache like they’re still cracked.
I turn on my side, press my face into the cushion. Tell myself it’s just tonight, just exhaustion, just the shit of everything piling up. But the second my eyes shut—
I’m back there.
It hits before the memory even forms—the rot of spilled beer soaked into carpet, the sour tang of old cigarettes ground into the walls, the stale sweat of a house that never breathes. It fills my lungs so fast I can’t tell if I’m remembering it or drowning in it.
“You worthless little shit.”
His voice slices through the haze, slurred but sharp, a blade dipped in liquor.
Then Mom. God—Mom. Her voice trembling at the edges, already broken. “Jonathan… please… not tonight. Please.”
My body moves before my mind catches up. It always did. The instinct was older than thought—get between them, take the hit,keep him off her. I step into the doorway like stepping into weather I’ve learned how to brace for.
He’s towering. A moving wall of hate. His pupils tiny pins in bloodshot eyes. His shadow eats the room whole.
“You think you can stop me, boy?”
I don’t answer. My jaw clamps until something cracks—bone or resolve, I can never tell.
His fist hits my cheek so hard the world detonates in white. I taste iron instantly. My legs fold but he drags me upright by the collar before I can fall.
The second punch caves into my ribs. A hot flash, sharp and deep, like something tearing inside. My breath leaves in a sound that isn’t quite a cry, isn’t quite anything human.
