I exhaled as I made it all the way to the staircase. Just thirteen steps and I’d be in the relative safety of my room.
I celebrated too soon.
My boot had barely landed on the first step when the voice of my nightmares spoke. “Where the fuck have you been, boy?”
The scabs on my knuckles pulled tight as I gripped the banister. Funny, I hadn’t noticed them hurting when I’d been doing the same to Ry’s hair. “Max’s.”
“Got any money for me?”
I gritted my teeth and silently counted to ten. “Why? So you can pour more whisky down your throat?”
I shouldn’t have said it. I knew that. But my mouth was always running ahead of my brain.
Dad never attacked me physically. He didn’t need to use his fists when his words carried more weight. “Maybe if I didn’t have such a fucking waste of a son, I wouldn’t need the whisky.”
I closed my eyes as his blow landed with deadly aim. Part of me wondered if it was better to run upstairs, as I had when I was a kid.To hide in my cupboard as though his venom couldn’t find me there.
It could though. It always did.It was better to let him say his piece now. Listening to a few minutes of vitriol now would protect me in the long run.
I tried to tune out the words he spat in my direction. I didn’t respond. Didn’t react. In my mind, I wasn’t even there.
I was at Max’s house.
His family had problems, but they were more of the common or garden variety. A mum who had a clear favourite child. A dad who’d checked out on his family years ago.
But at least they cared. Mrs.Davies might yell occasionally, but she never told her boys she wished they were dead. Mr.Davies might not be able to tell you what A-levels his sons were taking, but he didn’t steal their wages from their wallets while they slept.
They were safe, fed, and warm. They were even loved. It might not have been the unconditional love that all kids deserved, but it was there regardless.
Dad had loved me, once. He never used to be like this.
“It’s your fault I drink.” His words pierced through my fantasies. Ones I escaped into too often. They weren’t anything interesting or spectacular. Just me in Max’s house. Gaming with him. Chatting with his mum. Listening to his dad’s latest obsession. Teasing Ryan. Normal, mundane, everyday things. Those were the things I fantasised about.
Depressing, right?
I braced myself for what was coming. The worst possible thing a father could say to a child.“Your mum died because ofyou. It should’ve been you who drowned, not her. I wish it had been.”
You’d think it wouldn’t hurt as much. Not with how many times I’d heard it.
But it made my heart bleed just as much as the first time.
My shoulders slumped as I spoke without thinking. “I wish it’d been me too.”
I’d never said that before. I’d wanted to. So many times. But I’d always held my tongue.
What the fuck had possessed me to say that?
Dad lurched forward a step, his eyes shooting wide. I didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. I’d heard enough.
I raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Slamming my door shut behind me, I leaned back against it and slowly sank to the floor. My vision blurred as I waited for him to charge up after me. For him to continue his drunken spiel.
But he didn’t come.
I pushed the heels of my hands against my eyes. I didn’t allow myself to cry. Ever. Not since the day I’d watched my mum be put in the ground. The same day my kind and warm father had disappeared into a bottle.
Instead, I put myself back in Max’s house. It was where I spent most of my time, for obvious reasons. On nights like tonight, when Max was busy elsewhere, I’d reluctantly return home.
But when my fantasies started, they were nothing like the normal ones. Max didn’t feature at all. Nor did his mum or dad.
