15 Years Old…
She’s crying again. I hate it when they cry, makes me feel sick inside. My stomach churns as her hands cover her face and my father rolls his eyes at her. He hurt her; he hurts them all. They treat him like a king, and he breaks them. Every. Single. One.
“Come on, Dad, let’s finish.” I try to distract him.
“We are son. Had to teach the stupid bitch a lesson.”
Her shoulders shake as her silent weeps rack her thin body. He’s a bastard, and I hate him for it. He’s the only person I have in my life, so in same aspect, I love him. He’s my father—abusive drunk or not. This one makes wife number four. They’re always young and beautiful and so, so dumb for believing his lies.
“I can’t believe we’re almost done.” I splash some gasoline over the rebuilt carburetor so he can try and crank it over.
“This old beast will be good as new. Hell, even better—just you watch, boy. Nothing like a three-fifty small block in a Chevy like this. She’ll blow any motherfucker away who tries to come up next to us.” He cackles and climbs behind the wheel, taking a large sip of his beer as he slides onto the seat.
I push the piece of metal a few times that my dad pointed out last time. It pumps gasoline into the system without flooding it if you do it the right amount of times.
“Here goes!” he shouts out the open door. I poke my head around the hood and give him a thumbs-up.
The starter turns over, the fan whirring as the powerful, small block screams to life. The three-inch straight pipe running off the newly-installed headers makes the oversized piece of metal sound like one powerful beast of a machine just like my father said it would.
It roars loudly as my dad gives it a hefty pump of gas and my chest bursts with pride. I helped do this. My father and I actually did something together from start to finish.
He waves his hand out the window, gesturing me over. “I want you to drive it. You helped, so you earned it.”
“No, Dad, you first.”
“Chickenshit, boy?” He loves to give me a hard time, wants me to think I’m weak, but inside I’m not. I’m one person he can’t break; my walls are too accustomed to his angry words when he’s piss drunk.
“No, sir; I want to watch you and then take my turn.”
“Well, load up, and we’ll go fuck with old man Percy up there glaring down at us from his porch. Stupid bastard!” he hoots, pretty lit from the twelve pack he’s already killed today.
No doubt he’ll be taking the truck to town for more beer as well. I don’t want to be along for that ride. It’s not even four p.m., and he’s downed twelve beers. I don’t know how he can walk, let alone function like he does. It’s normal though, he’s this way a lot. When he’s sober—which is rare—he’s almost normal. It sucks, but this is life.
“I need to watch to make sure there’s no smoke from anything.”
“Good thinking.” He nods, buying my excuse.
I know not to argue with him; he can flip a switch from happy to angry in a flash. I don’t know what makes me come up with the excuses this time, but something pushes them out of me, telling me not to ride along.
He casts a mischievous grin my way, turning up “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns and Roses as he slams the door closed and throws the truck into gear. The music pours out the open windows as he guzzles the rest of his beer. The exhaust competes with the speakers, eventually winning out as he romps on it to spin the tires.
The now-empty can he had goes flying into the yard, and then he’s off. Tearing up the street toward the neighbor’s house.
Percy Dickson hates us; he’s always hated us. My dad says it started back when he was in middle school, and Percy was in high school. My dad supposedly kicked Percy’s ass in front of a group of people, but I don’t know if it’s true. Dad says he was being bullied and stood up for himself. I doubt that’s really what happened though. My dad always likes to start trouble. He’s been in the back of a cop car too many times to count.
It takes mere moments before my father’s driving in Percy’s front yard, steering the big blue Chevy truck in circles. He does donuts over and over, chewing up the neighbor’s grass. The ground’s still a bit soft from the rain we had yesterday, so dirt and bright green turf fly off the tires in every direction.
The angry neighbor stands on his porch, waving his hands, screaming something, and I shake my head at the scene. I know my dad’s loving every minute of it. This isn’t the first time he’s done something like this either.
“You should go clean yourself up while he’s busy,” I suggest to wife number four and nod toward the small house. My dad built it with his own two hands. It’s not much, but he never lets us forget that he created it and he can take it away.
Besides being a mechanic and a drunk, my dad’s one hell of a builder. His skills in masonry are something men around here admire. If only he could stay sober long enough to be successful with it. No one admires his inability to finish products or stay professional.
I watch the woman curled up on the floor, as she wipes her tears away and tries to pull herself together enough to get in the house. If he comes back and sees her like this, he’ll get even angrier, and no matter how badly I feel, I can’t ever save them from him. He’s too strong. I can only sit back and hope she smartens up soon to get away from him before he does some serious damage.
A shot rings out, echoing in the hills surrounding us. It’s a normal sound with my dad letting bullets fly when he sees a stray cat on the property, or he goes hunting for turkeys with his brothers. The noise didn’t come from the hills though; no, it came from down the road.
The roaring engine from the Chevy quiets to a rumble, idling as it comes to a stop. My gaze flies back to the porch where Percy stands, still pointing his shotgun toward the oversized blue truck and my breath catches.
There’s blood splattered all over the back window, and I know deep down inside what’s happened. You see, over the years there’s been many threats from both sides, promising to shoot the other if the property lines were ever breached again. It never happened though; the threats were empty. At least I always thought they were.
The man glances to me next, his gun pointing to the ground. He sends me an irritated glare and stomps across his porch, slamming his front door as he passes through it and goes safely back inside.
He expects me to come get the truck from his front yard. The problem with that is I know my father’s dead inside. He’d be yelling at the neighbor, shouting words full of revenge if he were still here with us.
I hate him, but he’s all I’ve got. He’s all I’ve had since I was six years old. Nine years of living this life—adapting and surviving—rolling with the punches dealt my way.
The rest of my father’s family has been no help to me—ever. They’re just like my father only a bunch of drunken cowards, worrying only about themselves. My dad’s always been a survivor like me, until now.
The crushing feeling in my chest grows heavier. It begins spreading throughout and weighing down my body as I realize I have no one or nothing anymore. All because of this neighbor and his almighty shotgun. They’ve claimed their vengeance. Only now, I’m the one who’s paying.
My eyes linger a moment too long on the scuffed lighter resting on my dad’s pack of Marlboro Reds. He teased me so many times for coughing whenever I’d try to show off to him and smoke. The bright red gas can topped full with fuel sits at my feet. The italicized lettering spelling flammable cultivates an entirely new idea. It’s one full of clarity; I know what I need to do to right this wrong.
On autopilot, my fingers pick up the faded zippo, palming it in my left hand and then lifting the gas can with my right. My frame moves on its own accord, practically possessed as it carries me toward the neighbor’s house. It should take me longer to get there, but my quick strides carry me at a swift, determined pace. In no time at all, I’m at the run-down wooden structure, known as Percy Dickson’s home.
I wonder if he was man enough to build it with his own two hands as well.
My feet continue to lead me over the trail circling around the residence. The fuel spills from the open gas can as I go, eventually stopping at the front door. I remain stoic, staring at the piece of oak that will lead me to my father’s killer—to my retribution.
Flipping open the top of the lighter, my thumb switches over the metal, igniting a flame full of revenge. Percy may have kept his promise, but I’ll be damned if he gets away unscathed.
My grip releases, dropping the cool metal to the ground beside me. Flickers of fiery yellows and blues dance next to my feet once the flame makes contact with the igniter. The fire spreads on its own mission, following the path of gas I left surrounding the entire residence.
Minutes pass with me standing and staring—entranced at the door—and waiting. My legs and face grow warm as smoke envelops the air around me, the house catching the brunt of the flame as it climbs toward the source that can feed its scorching desire to burn. As it all burns away, piece by piece, it sets me free.
Loud thumps grow near as Percy stumbles in his heavy construction boots, coughing behind the very door, I’m standing in front of. Like a moth seeking the brightest light, the doors handle jiggles, and then it stops. After a beat, with a loud cry from the man trapped, the metal begins to turn. He’s seeking his freedom, but I’m not granting it; not today, not ever.
I blink, coming out of my daze and grab the handle, holding it in place. The metal scalds my palm, but I won’t release it no matter how bad it burns. The man pounds on the other side of the door, screaming for help as I stand still, the fire flickering full of life beside me. Everything smolders around me, but for some reason, the heat doesn’t harm me. It melts the skin on my palm—a reminder, no doubt—but I embrace it.
The old man struggles to breathe with the smoke and begins to burn alive. For the first time in a long time, I smile. The harsh stench of burning flesh brings me peace.
Once he’s dead, I dump the remaining gasoline over the blue memory holding my father and light it up next. Everything burns away, and, in that moment, I vow to never look back. It's nothing but a fucking nightmare, after all.