"That so? You took them?"
"Yes, sir," I confirm, meeting his eyes even though every instinct tells me to look away.
"Well then." He lets go of Ivan's collar and Ivan stumbles back, catching himself against the counter, his chest heaving. Henderson turns to face me fully, and I brace myself for what's coming, ready to take whatever he's going to dish out. A beating. The belt. His fists. Whatever. I can take it. I've taken it before. As long as he doesn't touch Ivan.
But then he turns back to Ivan, and bile rises up in my throat.
"Shirt off," he orders Ivan. "Now."
"But I didn't—" Ivan starts, confusion and fear warring on his face.
"I know you didn't," Henderson interrupts. "That's the fucking point. That's exactly the point, idiot. Your foster brother here thinks he can steal from me and I won't do nothing about it. So, I'm gonna teach him a lesson about consequences. And you're gonna help me teach it."
He points at me with one thick finger. "You. Stand right there by the refrigerator. Don't move. Don't speak. You're gonna watch every second of this. You're gonna see what happens when you steal from me."
I understand what he's doing and the cruelty of it takes my breath away, makes me feel like I've been punched in the chest. He's not punishing Ivan for the cans. He's punishing me. Making me watch while he hurts the person I care about most in the world, the only person who matters to me. Making me stand there helpless and useless while Ivan suffers for something I did, for my mistake, for my theft.
"Please," I say, and I hate how desperate I sound, hate the begging in my voice, but I can't help it. "Please, I'll take the punishment. It was myfault, all my fault. Beat me instead, I don't care, I can take it, just please leave him alone."
"That's exactly why I'm not gonna beat you," Henderson says, and there's satisfaction in his voice, pleasure at having found the perfect way to hurt me. He doubles the belt over in his hand, leather sliding against leather, and the buckle clinks against itself with a sound that makes my skin crawl. "I told you to take your shirt off, boy. Don't make me ask again."
Ivan's hands are trembling so badly he can barely grab the hem of his shirt. His fingers keep slipping on the fabric. He pulls it over his head finally and drops it on the floor, and I can see the faded marks from the last time Henderson took the belt to him—pale lines across his back that are almost healed, almost invisible. In a few seconds there will be new ones. Fresh bleeding ones. Worse ones.
"Turn around," Henderson orders.
Ivan turns around slowly, facing the wall. He's staring at nothing, his eyes fixed on a spot on the faded wallpaper, and I know he's trying to go to his safe place, trying to find the barn in his head where I'm sitting next to him with my arm around his shoulders, where he's safe and warm.
But I can see from the way his whole body is shaking, from the way his shoulders are hitched up by his ears, that it's not working, not this time. Because this time I'm right here watching and that makes it different somehow, makes it impossible to escape into his mind when the person he's trying to imagine is standing here witnessing his humiliation and pain.
"You watch and don't close your eyes," Henderson says to me, turning to make sure I'm looking, making sure I can see everything. "You watch what happens when you steal from me. You watch what your choices cost."
The first crack of the belt against Ivan's bare back makes a sound like a gunshot in the small kitchen, sharp and explosive. Ivan's body jerks forward from the force of it, his back arching, but he doesn't cry out, doesn't make a sound, just like I taught him. His teeth are clenched so hard I can see his jaw muscles bulging. Good boy. Good, brave boy whoshouldn't have to be this brave, who should never have had to learn these lessons.
A red welt rises immediately across his shoulder blades, angry and violent against his pale skin.
The second crack. The leather bites into his skin lower down, across the middle of his back, and I watch the stripe appear, watch his body flinch even as he tries to hold still. The third crack catches him across the ribs on his right side, and this time I see his knees buckle slightly before he catches himself.
I'm counting them, the way I always count them, as if keeping track somehow matters, as if knowing the exact number will help anything at all.
Four. Five. Six.
Ivan's back is crisscrossed with angry red welts now, stripes that overlap and intersect like a horrible map drawn on skin. Some of them are already starting to bleed, thin lines of red welling up where the leather has cut deep enough to break through. And Henderson isn't stopping, isn't slowing down. His arm rises and falls with mechanical precision, and there's something terrible in his face, something that looks almost like joy.
Seven. Eight.
Ivan's breathing is ragged, harsh gasps that I can hear from across the kitchen. His hands are braced against the wall, fingers splayed, supporting his weight. His knees are starting to buckle, his legs trembling with the effort of staying upright. His whole body is shaking now.
Henderson's arm draws back for a ninth strike and I watch the belt rise, watch it reach the apex of its arc, watch it start to come down aimed at Ivan's lower back where the skin is already broken and bleeding—
Something inside me snaps.
It's not a decision. There's no thought process, no calculation of consequences. My body just moves, pure instinct overriding everything I've learned about survival and keeping my head down and not making things worse.
One second, I'm standing by the refrigerator with my fists clenched so hard my nails are cutting into my palms, drawing blood. The nextsecond I'm across the kitchen and I'm grabbing Henderson's arm before the belt can come down again, my hands wrapping around his thick wrist, and I'm shoving him backward with every ounce of strength I have in my fourteen-year-old body.
"Leave him alone!" The words tear out of me like something wild and feral, like an animal protecting its young. "Don't you fucking touch him! Don't you fucking touch him ever again! I'll fucking kill you! You goddamn bastard!"
Henderson stumbles back, more surprised than hurt, and for a moment everything freezes. Ivan is slumped against the counter, his back a mess of welts and blood, breathing hard, his whole body trembling. Henderson is staring at me with those bloodshot eyes, and the surprise on his face is already curdling into something worse, into a rage that makes everything before look like nothing.
