I stared at Connor’s smug face and felt nothing but hate as he smiled at me. I made as few movements as possible. I never wanted him to think he was getting the best of me. We stared each other down, neither of us giving in.

“Aren’t you just a little bit uncomfortable, you little shit?” he asked.

I frowned and shook my head. I was stubborn and wasn’t going to let him see that I was in pain.

“No? Let’s fix that. I want to go fuck your mom before your dad gets home. So, let’s speed this along.”

“Bruce isn’t my dad.”

Connor laughed and reached up, turning the faucet on. Scalding water poured out of the faucet and cascaded down my chest, burning me. I kept my gaze firmly on Connor and took a deep breath. He pressed me against the tub by holding his hand firmly around my neck. I was running out of energy; hot water often does that to me.

He was letting the water continue to run and burn me. I was going to hold out as long as I could. In the distance, I heard my mom announcing that Bruce was home. Connor glared at me.

“You little fuck. I didn’t get to fuck your mommy, and now Bruce is home.”

He shook me until I coughed and then pushed me under the water. He held me under water until I kicked and splashed with all my might. I was going to die, I just knew it. It would at least end the pain. If I was brave enough, I could just open my mouth and take in all the water and drift off to sleep. Forever.

Everything sounded funny and muffled while I was submerged in hot water and soon Connor’s voice was being drowned out by a knocking noise.

Oh, fuck!

“Hey, I thought we left the TV on,” Colin said as he was standing in my doorway.

TV? What was he talking about? I fought to slow my breathing, and I concentrated on slow movements. I probably was making noise with my nightmare. My dad used to tell me that I would do that a lot. He said my nightmares were vivid for me. He had that right.

“Sorry, Col. Did I wake you up?”

He said that I hadn’t, but knowing how I used to make noises a lot, I feared that he had heard. I went downstairs and poured a glass of water and sat down at the table.

It’s been a number of months since I’ve had a nightmare. I kind of thought I was getting past them finally. After sitting up for about an hour, I went back to my room and shut the door quietly. I sat up instead of going back to bed so I didn’t wake Colin up anymore tonight.

It was beautiful and sunny out today, so Colin and I took advantage of my basketball hoop by the driveway. We played a variation of the classic school yard hoops game, H-O-R-S-E. Only our version had different names. We played P-U-S-S-Y, S-U-B-M-I-S-S-I-V-E, D-I-L-D-O and a bunch of others. We shot hoops all morning and then again after we had some lunch. With the altitude, it easily wore Colin and me out, and I was in bed by ten.

I woke up to the sound of glass being broken in the kitchen and the sounds of my mother’s sobs. Bruce was yelling, and between the sobs were the unmistakable sounds of glass bottles being thrown against the wall. Our walls were decorated with all sorts of dents and dings from various objects.

I tried to shake the heavy fog from my brain, and recall how I ended up on the floor of the bathroom. My mouth was dry and I was in my underwear. My damp underwear. I pushed myself up off the ground and leaned against the side of the cold porcelain tub.

How did I end up here?

After having been upright for a few minutes, the pain in my stomach became so unbearable and I starting seeing spots again. Spots and stomach pain usually meant that passing out was on my horizon. Sometimes I could fight it off. I leaned over the toilet and threw up. There was nothing solid there; just fluids.

I pulled my hand away from my stomach to wipe the sweat from my forehead when something red caught my eye. Oh, fuck! Am I bleeding? Quickly I looked at my hand, but it wasn’t blood. It was lipstick. They had written on me again. Written in lipstick on my chest and stomach was “I’m a baby. Babies pee their pants.”

I don’t know why I keep doing it! I slammed my fist down on my thigh. My pants were crumpled up near the door; wet. Something must be really wrong with me. Fourteen-year-olds don’t do this shit.

With a wet washcloth, I wiped off most of the lipstick without rubbing too hard. I had fresh strap marks from the belt across my stomach and just touching it gently caused me pain. I stumbled down the hallway to my room and changed into dry underwear and pants. I found a short sleeve undershirt and carefully pulled it on and then my warmest flannel shirt. I didn’t understand why I seemed so cold now when moments ago I was sweating. I sat down on my bed and held my hand over my stomach while the soundtrack of my life played out in the kitchen.

Eventually I heard the door to the garage slam and the car start. As soon as it squealed out of the garage, I slowly crept to the kitchen.

Glass covered the floor, and my mom sat against the wall, drinking from a bottle with a jagged opening. Her face was bruised, and her lip was bloody. Her eyes latched onto me.

“Anthony, baby, come help mama,” she slurred.

I didn’t move. I hated it when she got like this. Sadly, my mother was even meaner when she was drunk.

“Anthony! Get your goddamn ass over here and help me up!”

I walked over and carefully stretched out my hands for her to take. She grabbed my hand but wouldn’t set the bottle down long enough to stand. It was pathetic. She started to slip, but I caught her so she wouldn’t fall and land on the glass.

She began laughing hysterically and grabbed at me in her drunken state. I moved out of the way and out of her reach.

“Why do you do this to yourself?”

“It makes me feel good. I’m surprised you haven’t started yet. Maybe slip a sip here or there when we aren’t looking.”

“I wouldn’t dare put that shit in my system. I see what it does to you guys!”

“Oh baby, we drink so we can tolerate you.”

She didn’t mean it. She’s drunk. The liquor makes her say those things. Even though I know this, it doesn’t make it any easier. Her hideous laugh filled the kitchen.

“Did you find the lipstick?” she asked while laughing out of control.

I could barely look at her as she laughed at me.

“I wrote it while you were passed out!” She cackled. “Anthony, baby, you really need to stop pissing yourself. Twelve is too old—”

“I’m fourteen!”

“Bruce said he’s going to start putting you in diapers!”

She laughed so hard and stumbled backward, falling to the ground. Her bottle crashed to the floor, and she cried out. Serves her right.

“Help me up, Anthony!”

Since the liquor was gone, I went over and helped her off the ground and guided her to the couch. The entire way, she was grabbing at me and making me feel ill.

“Stop!” I yelled and backed away.

“Anthony baby, I was just checking to see if you were still dry.”

“I’m NOT a baby!”

I had it. I stormed out of the house, leaving behind me the sound of her sick laughter. The second my feet hit the sidewalk, I took off running to the park. I made my usual path of walking around the tennis courts and found a tennis ball on my route. In the park, there was a large cement wall, and I went over to it with the tennis ball. I threw that ball against the wall as hard as I could until my stomach hurt so badly that I had to stop.

I woke up to pain in my side and immediately turned the light on and felt under the blankets before pushing the sheets back. I was dry. I hadn’t had an accident since I was eighteen. I breathed a sigh of relief but still got out of bed.

Quietly, I walked out into the loft, and I was going to go downstairs, but my football caught my eye on the couch. I sat down next to it and then leaned on it. Soon enough, I was hanging onto it.