Joey

He’d started drinking early in the evening. Although he had yet to have a fit of anger or a bad word to say, I’d been around him long enough to know if he was drinking that sooner or later he’d do or say something.

With my covers pulled to my shoulders and my iPod providing a soft barrier of music between us, I stared up at the ceiling and wondered when I realistically might be able to live on my own.

Rent was going to cost $1,400 a month for the cheapest apartment in town. Utilities would be another $450 by my calculations. Food, fuel, and miscellaneous expenses would be another $600, bringing my total to $2,450.

I’d need to make at least $2,600 a month to survive comfortably.

In many states, riding motorcycles was a seasonal activity. In Oceanside, California, it was something a rider could enjoy year-round. Sales at the Harley dealer was an even stream of income, or at least it should be.

If I could meet my quota each month, and then sell an added $10,000 in accessories, I could make $3,000 a month.

I decided that would be my goal. If I could achieve it for three months straight, and save every penny I could, I’d be comfortable moving out.

With my decision made, I turned off my iPod and set it on the dresser.

The sound of screamo music filtered through the house.

Perfect.

He claimed listening to the vile filth calmed him. It didn’t. It seemed to transport him to a place that allowed him to escape from reality. When he returned, and eventually he always did, he was short-tempered and prone to violent outbursts.

I covered my head with my pillow and hoped that I could fall asleep.

Nervous with anticipation of what he might do, I tossed and turned while the annoying crap resonated throughout the house.

Eventually, I somehow relaxed enough that I fell asleep.

My door opening caused me to wake.

I opened my eyes and shot to a seated position. He stood just inside the room, leaning against the wall.

With a bottle of Jack Daniels clenched in his fist, he lowered his chin and fixed his drunken eyes on mine. “We need to have a talk.”

His glassy eyes and his inability to stand without the wall’s aid told me he was trashed. I knew better than to try to argue with him when he was in such a drunken state. A soft tone and a response that was supportive of his request was my only way to keep the situation from escalating.

I glanced at my clock.

1:22

“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” I said in a soft tone. “And, I feel sick. Can we talk tomorrow? In the morning?”

He pushed himself from the wall, and almost fell. He raised the bottle to his mouth, took a drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand.

“We need to talk now.” He took another drink. “You’re going to be twenty-one soon, and you need to be the fuck out of this house before that day comes.”

My birthday was eight weeks away. By my calculations, I needed twelve stellar weeks of sales to achieve my financial goal. Nervous of what his next step might be if he didn’t find my reply favorable, I carefully formulated my response.

“I’ll do my best. I’m making some really good sales, and I’ve met my--”

He lowered the bottle and took a few steps toward the corner of my bed. “Did I ask you for details? Fuck no I didn’t. I don’t give two fucking shits about your stupid fucking job. I want results.”

My body tensed. I glanced at the bottle of whisky, realized it was almost empty, and swallowed heavily.

For fear of not having anywhere to go after they arrived, I’d never called the police on him. After our last talk had turned violent, I swore I’d never let him harm me again. Since that night, I held the police in reserve as my only salvation.

I looked up. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He waved the bottle in my direction. “Yes, Josh, I’ll be out by my birthday, or no Josh, I won’t. Which is it?”

I wasn’t going to lie to him, even if it was to get him to go away. If I did, the backlash that followed would be brutal. As much as I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, I had to to give a truthful response.

One I was comfortable with.

“I’ll do my best.”

He leaned forward, grabbed the comforter, and yanked the covers off me completely. “Your best sucks.”

His glassy eyes and tense muscles told me he was drunk and hoping to start a fight. I jumped off the side of the bed and scrambled toward the dresser.

I yanked my phone from my purse. Prepared to give my verbal warning for what was next, I spun around, phone in hand.

I didn’t see it but something struck me on the cheek.

Hard.

A bright flash of light followed, and I fell to the floor.

“What in the fuck do you think you’re going to do?” he growled. “Call the fucking cops? In my house?”

The punch knocked me senseless. The side of my face was throbbing, and my left eye was swelling closed with each passing second. He’d hit me in the past, but never like that. When I came to my senses, I realized I no longer had my phone, and frantically began to search the room for where it went.

His eyes found it before I did.

“Looking for this?”

He took a quick step forward, raised his foot, and stomped the heel of his boot down on my phone.

Crap.

I couldn’t decide whether to stand or to stay on the floor. With calling the police no longer an option, I decided the floor would be the least threatening position to him. It was there that I cowered in fear.

I soon found out that it wasn’t a good decision.

The toe of his boot swung into my stomach. The air shot from my lungs. I heaved to breathe, gasping to catch my breath. Now certain that he wasn’t going to stop until I was either crippled or dead, I somehow managed to rise to my feet.

He cackled a drunken laugh. “Oh, you want to fight me?”

I realized I was instinctively standing in a defensive posture.

I lowered my arms. “Please--”

“Don’t beg. You’re even uglier when you do.”

His hand landed against my swollen eye. The punch knocked me from my feet. I stumbled halfway across the room.

I tried to get up, but couldn’t. I wanted to run, somehow sneak past him, or jump out the window and run the Percy’s house. I was too weak to stand, and even if I could, I hadn’t heard his motorcycle come home yet.

There was nothing I could do.

Tears streamed down my face. I was done. Done sharing a home with him, done trying to reason with him, and done fighting him. He’d finally managed to break me.

“I’ll be…I’ll be gone,” I murmured.

“What’s that?” He chuckled. “Did you say something?”

“I’ll be gone.”

He cleared his throat. “By your birthday.”

“I’ll be gone by my…” I muttered. “I’ll be gone on my birthday.”

“Better be.”

The door closed behind him. I collapsed on the floor, covered my face with my hands. and sobbed.