“YOU’RE DEAD, ASSHOLE!” MY dad shouted. Veins bulging, eyes vacant, face contorted with rage.
I knew he meant it.
CRACK!
That was the sound of my heading hitting the credenza.
The pain surged through me. I wasn’t new to the pain; pain was my normal.
This wasn’t the first time, this wasn’t the tenth time. He’s been abusing me since I was thirteen. Some kids get a huge party with tons of friends and family celebrating their entrance into adulthood. My entrance into adulthood was three cracked ribs. “My son fell down the stairs.” His words.
BANG!
My dad suddenly fell, heavy on top of me. He had just thrown me across the room and was stalking towards me, going in for the kill. I knew what he was going to do but I was broken…powerless. Unable to stop him.
When I looked up, I noticed my mom, standing behind him, the gun she usually kept in her jewelry store clutched in her shaking hands, smoke billowing from the barrel. Her face, pale and hollow. The living room floor painted red, the coppery smell of blood filling the air.
It took my abused brain a minute to figure it out. My mom just shot my dad. In the back of his head.
I was a mistake. My mom accidentally got pregnant. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Her birth control failed her. My father never wanted kids and hated me before I was even born. He took it out on her on a daily basis, belittling and berating, taunting, threatening, and torturing until I stepped in to stop it. And that’s when my nightmare began.
It was just the three of us.
We were his victims. His silent victims. My mom, the victim of his words, and me, the victim of his fists. I lived with constant, well-hidden bruises. Our home on Poinsettia Avenue, a prominent street in one of the most exclusive sections of Manhattan Beach, was not even close to being as beautiful as the Christmas flower, but no one ever knew. No one could ever know.
My parents met at the local country club where they were both members. My dad had been a member all his life and went often to be around what he called “The right kind of people.”
He didn’t abuse alcohol, drugs, or anything like that, he just abused me. He wasn’t homophobic and he wasn’t mentally ill. What he was, was a bastard! A mean son of a bitch who didn’t need anything to bring that out. Being alive just did that for him. He was the bully. I was the victim. I was his kid.
That wasn’t even an excuse, though. He was a very successful attorney who specialized in criminal defense. My father grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and used that to his advantage. He took over his father’s law firm after my grandfather’s sudden and untimely death from a massive heart attack. He recruited in his fraternity brother and closest friend, Charles Ericson, and changed the name from the Law Offices of Brandon Sinclair to Sinclair & Ericson LLC.
Charles never knew that I was beaten. No one did. My father made certain of that. He limited any and all evidence to my body, avoiding my face at all costs. He valued his reputation more than he valued me.
I could have taken him but I would’ve had to kill him to make him stop. Or, I could have just killed myself. That would have stopped the pain. By the time my mom killed him, I was old enough, strong enough, and smart enough to stop him, but I couldn’t because I knew it would destroy my mother if I got arrested for murder.
Over the years, I begged her to leave him. She refused, telling me this was her home and that things were going be okay. I loved her too much to leave her alone with him. I knew that he’d follow through on his promise to kill her. He hated her but he hated me more. I later learned that she was stuck in the cycle of abuse. I knew she was petrified to leave; she knew I was petrified to stay.
After my mom was cleared and the truth was revealed, I inherited his half of the firm. The practice was run by Charles while I was at UCLA and I wanted to show him that I was worth the effort. I have always been very ambitious and knew that I was going to be practicing law as a career so I went for a double major in economics and political science, with a minor in digital communications. I spent my summers interning under Charles and worked my ass off during the school year, graduating in just under four years at the top of my class. After graduation, I attended USC for my legal degree. The minute I passed the bar, I literally drove across town to assume my role as the Sinclair at Sinclair & Ericson LLC.
Charles became a permanent fixture in my life after everything went down. He was our rock and, long story short, he’s been my mom’s boyfriend since my father’s death. Charles is a very striking man, taller than my six-foot-one build, with salt and pepper hair, a strong face, and eyes that are a lighter shade than my own gray ones. He’s in great shape, a runner preferring to jog along the shoreline instead of the road.
My mom is a stunning woman. The opposite of my dad’s California blond hair, blue-eyed look. I look just like her. Another reason my dad hated me.
My mom moved to California from New York to study interior design but fell in love with jewelry design in college. After she graduated she got a job working for a well-known jewelry designer in Beverly Hills, someone who caters exclusively to movie stars and moguls. She made tons of connections and after much prompting from several of her clients along with family and friends, she opened up her own store in downtown Manhattan Beach.
Her store became popular quickly. Since the residents of Manhattan Beach are all about “show,” and subscribe to the philosophy of “It’s not what you know…,” “It’s not what it costs…,” and the ever-popular “See and be seen,” her store became the “It” place to buy their jewelry. Buying from my mom is a show of status and saying the name of my mom’s shop while showing off their latest purchases was second only to the volume of carats they wore. She was utterly overpriced because she could be and they ate it up. After the shooting, she had a dip in sales but bounced back quickly. Apparently, status trumps murder.
She also got a license to carry a concealed weapon in the state of California and bought a gun the second she opened her store. She bought it “just in case,” but as far as I’m concerned…?
Best decision she ever made.