FIVE YEARS EARLIER
My suspension from school over the past week couldn’t have come at a worse time. Mom and Dad have been taking turns to work from home to keep an eye on me, but it’s mostly been Dad. He has been permanently hunched over the kitchen table, pulling at his hair and tearing up sheets of paper. From what I’ve gathered through eavesdropping on his conversations with Mom, things are going really, really wrong at work. More of Dad’s employees have walked out. Money is missing. One of his biggest projects lined up for next year has been dropped.
Which means that Dad has been stressed this week, and when Dad is stressed, his temper wears thin. I have constantly been around, all day, every day for the past week. The kid who is suspended from school for fighting, the kid who ran away, the kid who has let his parents down. It’s easy for Dad to take everything out on me, and that’s exactly what he’s been doing.
Every day, I have sat at the desk in my bedroom, trying my best to focus on studying without letting my fear distract me while I wait for Dad to storm into my room. I am in a permanent state of numbness. Sometimes, I forget how to breathe and how to blink.
It’s Friday afternoon, my final day of suspension, and Dad has stayed home from work again to look after me. It’s been a quiet morning. Dad has been pacing the kitchen back and forth in silence, and I’ve been upstairs studying in silence. The house feels strange being so quiet. Mom is at work, my brothers are at school. They’ll be getting the bus home soon, and just like every other day, I count down the hours until they get here, because I like the noise that they bring with them.
I have left my desk, though. I’m in the bathroom now, sitting on the cold tiles with my back against the wall, peeling off old band-aids from my arms and replacing them with new ones. Dad has been careful not to touch my face this week, so the injuries from before have at least had the opportunity to heal. My eye is still a little bruised, but the rest of the swelling disappeared days ago. The rest of my body, however, looks as though I’ve been through a war. Dad has been getting more aggressive. He used to throw me around for a minute or two. Now it’s much longer. He used to stop when I bled. Now he doesn’t.
The bathroom door swings open and I immediately flinch, unable to hide my terror when Dad walks into the small, enclosed room. He doesn’t shut the door behind him. That’s good.
“What are you doing?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at the box of band-aids in my hands and the painkillers on the floor in front of me. He stares at them for a second, then his green eyes meet mine. He hasn’t been wearing his shirt and tie this week. He doesn’t need to, not when he’s working from the kitchen, so he’s only been wearing jeans and flannel shirts. It’s confusing for me. Usually, I associate Dad’s casual attire with his good days, when he’s more relaxed. Not anymore. The good days are long gone. “I asked you a question, Tyler,” Dad states after a minute when I haven’t replied. I am staring up at him from the floor, my eyes wide and full of panic. “What are you doing with those? You’re not hurt.” He has his hands on his hips, his lips pressed together.
“I need . . .” I start, but I can’t finish. Words fail me. My pulse is racing too fast, my heart is beating too hard.
“You need what, Tyler?” he presses, daring me to say it. I think there’s something wrong with him. Like, he really believes that if he acts like I’m not a damaged mess then it’ll go away; if he convinces himself that he didn’t hurt me, then the pain I’m feeling will somehow disappear.
“I need these,” I mumble, holding up the box of band-aids. I reach for the painkillers, glancing down at the boxes in my hands, noticing the way I am trembling. “And these. It makes me feel better.”
“Listen to me,” Dad says suddenly, and he reaches down and grabs my shirt, dragging me straight up off the cold bathroom floor in one swift movement. He pulls me toward him, forcing me to look at him, but it’s so hard to look him in the eye. Not when they are so fierce and intense, not when I don’t recognize them as Dad’s. “You’re fine. Alright?” Dad tells me. His voice is firm and threatening. “You are fine. Man up a little.” With his free hand, he snatches the boxes of band-aids and painkillers straight out of my hand and throws them onto the floor. “Now please get back to studying. You’re suspended. Not on vacation. And last I knew, school doesn’t finish for”—he glances at his watch—“another five minutes.” He pushes me toward the door.
But I need those band-aids. I have grazes all over my arms, all over my shoulders, all over my chest from where Dad has thrown me into things. They are stinging. So, even though Dad is glaring at me, waiting for me to walk back across the hall to my room, I just can’t. I try to be quick. I try to be fast. I try to swoop back down to grab the band-aids as quickly as I can, but before I can even turn for the door to leave, Dad has grabbed me again.
“Tyler,” he spits, his voice coarse, his tone sharper than it was a second ago. His hand is on my shoulder, his grip tightening, his fingers digging into my skin, holding me in place as he plucks those band-aids from my grasp again. He squeezes the box in his hand, crushing the cardboard. “Fucking stop it.”
I don’t know this man. This isn’t Dad. At least before, he would only hurt me when he lost control, when he would suddenly snap and lash out, but lately, it seems as though he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s in control right now. He knows he’s being cruel. That’s the worst part.
“Dad . . .” I murmur, trying to pull my shoulder free from his painful grip. But in reality I have given up. I gave up a long time ago, actually. That’s the only reason I even muster up the courage to ask, “What is wrong with you?” I don’t care about the consequences anymore. Dad hurts me no matter what. Even when I try my best, even when I stick to being the hard-working, well-mannered good kid. So screw it. I’m not dealing with this anymore. I’m not suffering through this for a second longer.
“I don’t know. You tell me,” Dad growls. He grabs me even harder. His nails are tearing into my skin. I focus on his eyes instead, at that rage within them. I don’t necessarily think he is angry at me. “You fucking tell me why my company is crashing and burning as we speak. Huh? Do you know the answer? No, I didn’t think so.” He shoves me away again, pushing me hard against the wall, and he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. He looks at the ceiling, clenching his jaw in frustration. He’s mad because of work again. He’s mad at himself.
“I know that it’s not my fault,” I say slowly, staring at him. Don’t stop now. You’ve already started. I swallow back the lump in my throat. My hands are still shaking, my heart still feels as though it may explode. “It’s not my fault things are going wrong, Dad. So stop taking it out on me.” I finally said it, and it feels like sweet relief.
Except Dad doesn’t like me challenging him. Dad doesn’t like it when I talk back. So, that relief disappears entirely, almost as quickly as it arrived, and Dad is reaching for me, his large hands grabbing my arms. He throws me straight out of the bathroom and into the hall. I stumble over my own feet, unable to keep my balance and falling to the ground. I hit my head, but I don’t have time to register it, because Dad is pulling at me again, dragging me back up onto my feet. He starts to haul me toward my room, but with all my might, I fight back against him, pushing my weight backward, desperate to escape from his violent hands.
“STOP!” I scream. With everything in me, I slam my hands into Dad’s chest, shoving him away. I’m not letting him do this. I don’t deserve it. I’m just a kid. I’m good. It’s not my fault. None of this is my fault.
He stares at me. There’s only a couple feet between us and silence falls over the house again. My breathing is ragged and uneven, and I am fighting back tears that are brimming in my eyes as I look back across at him. His hands are balled into fists by his sides, his knuckles pale from the pressure, and his expression almost goes entirely blank, like he is so stunned by my defiance that he can’t even process it. But then, within an instance, it all changes. Hot, burning fury captures his green eyes in a way that I have never, ever seen before. And then he lunges for me.
I am dragged into my bedroom. I am thrown across the floor, into my desk, against the wall. Dad is shaking me. His hands are too tight around me, pressing on all of the bruises that already cover my body. My eyes are squeezed shut, focusing on the darkness, numbing myself to the pain I am feeling. It is bad tonight, though. I am bleeding already. Dad’s fist slams into my eye again. Into my jaw, my nose, my mouth.
I think he’s really losing it this time. For the first time in four years, a terrifying realization hits me, one that’s new, one that’s never crossed my mind before. It never needed to until now. It’s never been this bad. I can feel his rage in his touch. I can sense the lack of control.
I think Dad might just kill me.