It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was sitting on my front porch swing.

I was supposed to be reading, hence the reason an unopened book sat in my lap, but I wasn’t in the mood. I was too busy watching the house next door, hoping to catch sight of the boy who had become the center of my entire universe.

Hendrix Cole.

Just thinking his name caused goose bumps to break out along my arms.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of him anywhere, and I couldn’t have been more disappointed.

Bummer.

Knowing I needed to do something other than stare at his front door all day, I picked up my book and cracked it open. As I read down the first page, a loud noise barreled past my house, nearly scaring the daylights out of me.

Startled, I jumped, dropping my book.

Pop pulled his old beat up truck into their driveway. He narrowly missed a brick mailbox as he swerved sharply to the right.

No doubt he’d been drinking again.

Shaking my head, I sat forward on the porch swing and watched him shift his truck into park before climbing out. He stumbled up the sidewalk and onto the porch. It was no surprise when, upon reaching the door, he face planted into the middle of it.

His head hit the wood repeatedly as he tried to shove his key into the lock. After the third attempt, he cursed and rammed his shoulder into the frame. 

I stood from the swing and made my way across the porch. Obviously, he needed help, and I wasn’t one to stand by and watch someone struggle without lending a helping hand. My Grandmama and Daddy had raised me better than that.

Didn’t mean I wanted to help him though. Guess I just felt obligated too.

I didn’t have the slightest idea where Hendrix was, but I didn’t think he was home. If he were, he would have opened the door by now. Or at least, I thought he would’ve. Little did I know, Hendrix avoided the drunken stooge the best he could. At the time, I didn’t know why, but it wouldn’t be long before the truth came barreling at me like a freight train.

 I knew Pop and Hendrix weren’t close. I’d witnessed first-hand the way Pop talked to his only son like he was a piece of garbage. Calling him “stupid” because of his dyslexia and blaming him for his wife leaving them both. But I didn’t think things were as bad as they were.

Looking back now, I could kick myself for not seeing the truth sooner.

All of Hendrix’s injuries. The bruises. The cuts. The constant black eyes.

I should have known. 

I should’ve seen it.

But I didn’t. 

Maybe if I had, I could have gotten him help. Maybe, somehow, I could have stopped his father. I could have told my Daddy or Grandmama. Possibly even the school social worker.

If I’d only known…

Walking across the pristine—thanks to Hendrix—lawn, I called out Pop’s name, hoping my voice would stop him from bouncing his head off the oak door like a basketball. “Pop,” I hollered out several times as my bare feet closed the distance between us.

He never answered. Huh. Guess he was too drunk to hear anything.

What an idiot!

I’d just made it to the bottom porch step when Pop got the door open. Practically falling inside, he slammed it shut behind him with so much force the front windows rattled.

Good grief!

The man was more disgruntled than a starving grizzly bear.

I shook my head in disgust as the deadbolt slammed into place. With Pop inside, and Hendrix nowhere to be found, there was no reason for me to hang around.

Hopping down the steps, I turned to go back home. I’d only made it a couple of feet when I heard raised voices coming from inside the house. It was obvious that the loudest one belonged to Pop—no surprise there.

“I didn’t do anything. I swear.”

Hendrix!

I smiled and bounded back up the steps. Standing in front of the same door Pop had almost cracked his head open on, I raised my hand to knock.

Something made me stop.

Hand frozen mid-air, I furrowed my brow and listened to the words being slung around inside the house.

Unease churned in the pit of my belly as the voices, mainly Pop’s, got louder.

Something was wrong…

“Hell, I’ll beat it out of you if I have to.”

My head jerked back, and my heart hammered away in my chest.

Oh, God!

Breathing heavily and uncertain as to what I should do, I listened to the nightmare coming to life on the other side of the door.

The harsh words I’d heard spoken moments earlier were only the beginning and the actions that took place over the next few minutes scarred me for life.

Hendrix being berated.

Hendrix being beaten.

Hendrix being broken.

I stood there and listened to my best friend, the boy I loved with every ounce of my young heart, being hurt. It was my first glimpse of true evil.

It wouldn’t be the last.

After the first collision of flesh meeting flesh, I told my feet to move, told my body to react, but I was frozen, my face pressed against the door, violent tears spilling from my eyes.

I needed to get help. Needed to find someone to make it stop.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I simply stood there, completely unable to move.

Hit after hit, I listened as Hendrix’s father, the person who was supposed to love and protect him unconditionally, hurt him.

And yet, I did nothing.

I was a coward. A stupid, worthless coward. I mean, what kind of person stands by and listens to someone they love being abused and doesn’t do anything about it?

Me, that’s who.

I was every bit the gutless, scaredy-cat the girls at school accused me of being.

I knew I’d never forgive myself for it.

Minutes passed, and the sound of flesh meeting flesh stopped.

I could hear Pop saying something, but his voice was too low for me to make the words out. I leaned further into the door, but all I could hear was the sound of retreating footsteps.

Quietly—so quietly—I whispered Hendrix’s name. “Hendrix.” I needed to know he was okay.

When he didn’t answer me, I panicked. I was half a second away from beating on the door, demanding to be let in, the consequences be damned, when I heard him speak. “Yeah, Pop.”

He didn’t sound broken. Matter of fact, he didn’t sound hurt at all.

He sounded… defiant.

He sounded like the angry, hate-filled, bad-tempered boy my Daddy swore he was, and not the sweet, loving, and loyal boy I knew he was.

Oh, Hendrix.

My heart clenched in pain.

It went against everything I’d been taught, but at that moment I hated James ‘Pop’ Cole more than I’d hated anyone in my life. As horrible as it may sound, if he had dropped dead right then and there, I wouldn’t have shed a single tear. In fact, I may have even smiled.

Far as I was concerned, he was the devil.

Hearing the television turn on, followed by Pop’s laughter from inside the house, I stepped back from the door. One step, two steps, three steps, I kept moving.

Once at the edge of the porch, I turned around, jumped down and ran home as fast as I could. I didn’t want to leave Hendrix, but I knew he would come outside in a minute. No way would he stay in there with that monster.

At least, I hoped he wouldn’t.

Heck, if I had to go back over there, beat on the door, and demand that he come outside, I would. Pop didn’t scare me. If he dared to raise a hand to me, my Daddy would beat him to a pulp. And if Grandmama got her hands on him, well, may the Lord have mercy on him, because she sure wouldn’t. She’d shoot him square in the face and then go to church and pray for his soul.

She was crazy like that.

Running into my house, I slammed the door shut behind me.

Out of breath, my heart pounded. I bent over, my hands on my knees, and leaned against the wall beside me.

None of this could be real. It just couldn’t.

But it was.

I needed to do something. Needed to tell someone. I had to find a way to make it stop. But first I had to talk to Hendrix.

Only, I couldn’t talk to him like this.

You see, Hendrix hated it when I cried. Don’t ask me why but my tears always made him so angry. He was never angry with me, just at whatever happened to make me upset. The bad thing about it was, when Hendrix got angry, things sometimes turned violent.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw him hurt someone else because of me.

I’d only been living in Kissler for a few months. I didn’t know anyone other than Hendrix; I didn’t have any friends. Anyway, I’d just started the third grade when a boy named Ty Jacobs, who was a bully to everyone, stole my lunch money out of my desk. I saw him do it, even confronted him about it, but he only laughed in my face.

“Maggot Maddie doesn’t get to eat lunch today!” he’d taunted.

Too ashamed to tell the teacher, I went without lunch that day.

Hendrix was in a different class than me, but later that day at recess he found me on the playground. I was still upset, and it didn’t take him long to notice my puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. He demanded to know what happened, and I told him. My hands shook, and my voice cracked, but I didn’t leave out a single detail as I recounted what Ty had done. I wanted Hendrix to know exactly how I’d been treated and hurt.

Wrong as it may have been, a part of me wanted vengeance. Ty had humiliated me, and I thought he should have a taste of his own medicine. After all, it was only fair that he should feel the same sting of embarrassment he’d inflicted on me and many others.

Once I was done explaining everything to Hendrix, he was pissed.

Red-faced, I watched him walk over to Ty and tap him on the shoulder. When Ty turned around, I could see Hendrix’s mouth move, but I was too far away to hear what he was saying. Ty smirked in return before crossing his arms over his chest. Hendrix jabbed his finger into Ty’s chest, but Ty only laughed before cutting his eyes to where I was standing in the middle of the playground. He sneered at me before looking back to Hendrix and muttering something. It must have been the wrong thing to say because a second later Hendrix slammed his fist into Ty’s face.

I smiled as Ty fell to the ground and blood trickled from his nose. Then, without waiting for another second, I ran up to Hendrix and wrapped my arms around him before whispering, “Thank you,” in his ear.

He only nodded in return.

The next day I got my lunch money back, and Ty never messed with me again.

That was my Hendrix. Sweet. Protective. Caring.

 How the heck he had become any of those things while being raised by the devil himself was beyond me.

Going into the kitchen, I went over to the sink and turned on the faucet. Cupping my hands, I splashed handful after handful of cold water on my tear-stained skin. Finished, I grabbed a couple of paper towels from the roll beside the sink and patted my face dry.

Looking out the window, I couldn’t see Hendrix yet.

I glanced at the clock on the stove.

It was almost time for Grandmama to be home, meaning I’d have to leave shortly.

“Come on, Hendrix,” I whispered to the empty kitchen as I stood beside the window, waiting and watching. 

Thank heavens I didn’t have to wait long.