Redd

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Bijou was tucked against my chest, head nuzzled into the crook of my arm. Resting my head back, I stared up at the ceiling.

It was time for me to shed this weight. I had to tell her everything in order for her to understand the choices I had made.

It's not like I chose to do any of this shit just for fun, sometimes things just are. . .

I was a criminal, I was a killer, I was both of those things and I didn't want them to define me as some sick piece of shit. People often wonder what drives a person to make choices that lead them down a path of no return.

The answer was simple for me, it wasn't some complicated ball of strings that needed to be unraveled to find the truth. I was dealt a shitty hand and I responded.

My father was a royal bastard who didn't know how to love. My family was dirt poor and needed money to survive.

That was my motive, that was why I was here. It was black and white in my eyes; if I didn't steal that money, we would have had nothing. If I didn't stop my father, he would have killed us all.

I stopped him. . . But he was still able to kill me on the inside.

Taking in a long breath, I struggled to find the words. “I was sixteen when things changed, when I realized it was time for me to finally do something. And I tried to do things the honest way, I really did.”

Shifting in my arms, she wrapped her body around my waist and looked up at me. “I told you it doesn't matter.”

“It does matter, Bijou. I want you to know.” Thumbing her shoulder, I tangled our fingers together and kept talking. “I found a bill on the table one morning. It was all crumpled up, like my mom meant to throw it away and forgot.”

The more I talked, the easier it was to keep going. It was like the flood gates had opened and this gush of rapids sped through.

Bijou just listened, her eyes painfully swallowing every word.

“Our electric was past due, it was the final notice before they were going to shut it off. I couldn't let them do that, not with my little sister there. We already had nothing, I was tired of living that way. It wasn't like we had absolutely no money, but my father chose to fill his need for alcohol over providing for his family.”

My mind flipped backwards like a movie in reverse, taking me back to those moments, those memories that I had torn up and tried to throw away.

They were never gone, only tucked in the attic of my mind. Waiting to be pulled out of the dusty box and replayed for a fresh set of eyes.

* * * *

“What's this?” I threw the crumpled bill onto the bed next to my mother as she laid there. A fresh bruise colored her left cheek, her lip was split in the corner, and fingerprint- shaped marks speckled her forearm.

She had a rough night, it was one of many. I couldn't honestly remember a time where her body didn't reflect his anger.

Reaching out, she picked up the paper and looked at it. “Don't worry about this, Redd, we're taking care of it.”

“What did he say that was for? Not folding his clothes right?”

Pushing herself up, she rubbed her puffed up cheek. “It's nothing, Honey, I'm fine.”

“Is it, Mom? Is that really what fine looks like? How long are we going to keep going like this? Why don't we just leave?”

“Stop, Redd, you know we can't. I don't want you to worry about me, just stay out of his way and everything will be fine.”

She said it as if it was true. Like I shouldn't give a shit about what happens to her. Like it didn't matter that he beat us for no reason. Or that it didn't matter that she took the brunt of it for us.

When my father would go off on me, she always came to the rescue. My mother would throw herself in the line of fire, and he would take it. She didn't deserve this life.

I hated when she would try and downplay it. We needed to get out, and the sooner the better. For her to make it seem like I didn't have to worry about her well being was insane. She was my mother, of course I cared.

Shaking my head, I looked down at the floor and rifled through my back pocket. “Here, pay the electric.”

“Where did you get this?”

“I. . . I got a job.” Stumbling as I spoke, I rubbed the back of my neck. I had this whole story planned out about how I got the cash, but as she peered at me with her—'You're full of shit' glare, I forgot everything.

Veering her stare, her eyes dug into my heart and pinched the nerve. I hated lying to her, but if I had told her how I had gotten the money, I knew she wouldn't take it.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Pursing her lips, she counted the bills, giving me a suspicious side-eye. She knew I wasn't being honest, she always knew. But this time, she didn't question me.

“Thank you, this is really nice of you.” Laying the bill out on her bed, she started to press her fingers over the thick crinkles attempting to fix it. “This helps, I'm proud of you.” Smiling, she gathered the money and her purse, tucking the small bundle inside. “I'm going to go pay this now.”

She's worn down. This is the break she needed.

Nodding, I smiled. “There'll be more soon. I'm going to start helping out around here. I'm old enough now, I should do that.”

Her lip twitched into a tight smirk, eyes sparkling with a luminous glow. She really was proud of me. Seeing that look on her face made me happy. My mother deserved to be happy, lord knows my father wasn't doing anything to help her.

That man only knew how to hurt her—to hurt us.

But I was a man, I could take it. My mother and Vicki, they didn't deserve what he gave them. Luckily, Vicki was still small enough that she only caught a smack once in awhile. That would change, there was no doubt in my mind about that.

I was almost nine before he struck me really hard for the first time. Said he was making a man out of me, that I had to learn how to respect him the way it should be.

Bastard.

My mother and I did this dance for a year and a half. I would bring her money, she would use it to pay for food, utilities, clothing for me and my sister. We didn't tell my dad.

We lived on egg shells around him. Never knowing what would set him off, when the next fight would be. Booze and brandy, that was all he cared about anyway.

Most days we just prayed he would pass out and sleep through the night. Sometimes we got lucky, other times we didn't.

My new job was a blessing and a curse. I would be out late, not coming in till one or two in the morning. If it was a bad night and I wasn't there, I always felt guilty. I was able to avoid his wrath, but my mother wasn't.

When I turned seventeen, something inside me changed. I wasn't afraid to take his outbursts anymore. I started stepping in, running my mouth so he would focus on me and leave the other two alone.

I wanted to be there to protect them any way I could. It just didn't always work out.

“How the fuck did you pay for this?!” I heard him snap as I approached the front door. Checking my watch, it was almost two-thirty in the morning. “Where the hell did you get the money?!”

Fuck, I hate him.

Fumbling with my keys, I plugged the right one into the door and quietly opened it. Voices boomed through the house, her screaming at him, him screaming at her.

Glancing at the table, a small cake was at my seat. The number eighteen was melted and warped, wax strands trickled down the sides, seeping onto the wood top. A crushed present was on the floor, ripped open and mangled.

Fuck. . .

Today was my birthday.

“What the fuck did he do?!” he yelled. A loud bang rattled the walls, and I knew he had punched clear through one of them. “Tell me how long you knew!”

“Daniel, stop. You need to calm down.” My mother's voice was soft and quiet, doing her best not to yell. “Vicki is sleeping, please, you're going to wake her up.”

“Do you think I really care?”

“No, Daniel, don't, no, please.” A loud smack rang out and I heard her yelp in pain.

Instinct kicked in, I didn't even have to think about it. There was still time to step in, I had seconds before he would strike her again.

Running down the hall, I busted through their bedroom door, coming to a stop. My eyes were open wide, lungs kicking inside my chest.

I could feel the rage building inside me. It bubbled and boiled, burning my flesh from inside the skin. I tried not to think about what I was feeling, if I did it made me sick.

It was the same rage I had seen in him, and I fucking hated myself for it. I hated that his blood flowed through my veins, feeding me life. I wished I could cut him out and be done with it already.

“You!” My father threw a finger in my face as thick veins pulsed in his neck. “You little fucking shit! What the hell have you been doing?” His fists clenched by his side as he turned to face me.

Shit.

I could see it in her eyes. He had found out what I had been doing. I wasn't sure how, but right then, that didn't matter.

My mother was cowering on the floor, a thin trickle of blood was coming down over her lip. Her left eye was dark purple, swelling shut. “Go, Redd, just go to your room. I can handle this.”

Letting out a deep chuckle, my father slowly twisted his head to look down on her. “You can handle this?” he asked, snarling like a wild animal. “You can handle this—” With one quick swoop, he lifted his foot and slammed it into her stomach. “Are you handling it now, huh?”

My mother rolled forward, grabbing her belly and groaning in pain. Coughing hard, she was desperately trying to catch her breath. She couldn't talk, she couldn't move, she couldn't even defend herself.

“Asshole!” screaming at the top of my lungs, I felt my insides tear to shreds. I was done with all this. It had been going on for long enough. “This has to stop!” Throwing my hands out, I shoved him in the back.

Instinctively I stepped back, holding up my hands. My face flickered between apologies for putting my hands on him and anger for what he was doing.

Turning his face back to me, my father took a long step in. “I know what you're doing. And if you think I'm not going to punish you for it, you're fucking stupid.”

“Dad—” I didn't have time to say another word. Running across the room, he grabbed my shoulders and threw me against the wall. My mother screamed again, holding one arm out to me and the other on her stomach.

There was nothing she could do.

His face was inches from mine, fingers digging into my shirt and holding me tight. “You're going to hell, Son, you know that? Stealing? That's a sin. Have I taught you nothing?”

Baring my teeth, I growled. “Isn't beating your wife and children a sin too? Where do you think that's going to get you?”

I couldn't hold it in anymore. Too much pain, too much suffering at his hands had finally brought me to my limit. Yes, I had turned into a thief. Yes, I had taken what wasn't mine.

But my family needed it. I did it for them, I did it so we could have a roof over our heads and food to eat. What had he ever done for us?

Nothing.

“Who are you to judge me?” Through clenched teeth, he curled one hand around my throat, turning the other into a fist. “I'll do what I want. Your mother, you kids—you're mine. I own you, I can do whatever the fuck I want to.” Pulling his fist back, he let it fly. “My eye will not spare, nor will I have pity!”

The punch hit me in the nose. I felt the bones as they broke into pieces and warm blood as it gushed down my face.

And he just kept hitting me, punch after punch. I couldn't stop him.

My fingers broke through the skin as I balled my fists. I wanted to hit him back, but for some reason I couldn't. There was something holding me, a force I could feel but couldn't see. It was like a rubber band was attached to my arms, keeping them pinned by my side.

No matter how much I tried to tug my arms free, the band would snap them back into place. I couldn't hit him. . . Because he was my father.

It was like his lessons were in charge, holding me stagnant. I was frozen, even though I wanted to tear his fucking throat out.

The room started to blur, and I began to fall in and out of consciousness. He wasn't stopping, his rage had been unleashed.

“You'll learn, you'll learn to respect me, to respect our home.” Brandy-scented breath spread over my face, turning my stomach. Pulling a switch blade from his back pocket, he swiped it across my neck. “And though they cry in my ears with a loud voice, I will not hear them.” Holding the knife high, I watched him change.

He was gone, willing to shed the blood of his child to keep control. The thought of losing his power, of us standing up to him, it turned him vile.

“Stop!” My mother let out a screech, and as I opened my eyes, I watched her come at my father from behind. Hitting him with her fists, she pounded his back. “Stop! Stop! You're killing him!”

Instantly, my father let me go, dropping me to the ground. Turning his attention on her, he unleashed a level of fury I hadn't seen before. Her face, her head, her chest, her stomach; no spot was off limits.

The knife swept through the air; slicing, cutting, each time the glint of metal became duller and tinted in the life he was trying to take.

Enough! Enough of this!

Crawling across the floor, I dragged myself to their closet and opened it up. Using the handle, I pulled myself to my feet and started to rummage around on the top shelf.

I felt the cold metal first, and gripped it firmly in my hand. Tugging the gun free, I clicked the safety off and pivoted on my heels.

Adrenaline kicked in, numbing the pain, dulling the aches and stabs that had been eating away inside.

I couldn't hear my mother screaming anymore. She had stopped, her body now lifelessly bobbling around on the floor as he continued to stab her in his alcohol-induced frenzy.

Clicking the hammer, my father finally stopped. I wasn't sure if he heard the gun or if he had enough of her and was about to turn and finish with me.

Twisting, his evil glare didn't even make it to my eyes. I pulled the trigger.

A loud pop rang out, creating a deafening ringing in my ears. Everything around me went into slow motion. Time had slowed to a stop as my father's eyes met mine for a brief second.

I saw confusion in his gaze, a quick snap of uncertain consciousness that held him in limbo. And then he was gone.

Dropping to the ground, his eyes stayed open and he fell over onto my mother's legs. I didn't release the gun, I held it tight, still keeping it aimed at him.

I was ready to unload the fucking clip if I had to. He was never going to hurt us again.

Lowering to my haunches, I listened to my mother to see if she was breathing. Gurgles and shallow breaths escaped her lips, her eyes were shut, her hands were open and laying by her sides.

“Mom?” I asked, gently shaking her shoulder.

Coughing, deep red blood was streaming from her mouth, pooling around her neck. Her face was swollen, nose twisted unnaturally. Cracking one lid, she began to whisper.

I couldn't hear her, so I pushed my ear to her lips. “Mom, are you okay?”

“Give me the gun, Redd.” Her voice was delicate, but troubled.

“What?”

“Give me the gun, Redd.” She repeated herself, taking in short gulps of air between words.

“Why?”

“Save your sister. She needs you, she's going to need you more than anything. Give me the gun.”

Her fingers wiggled, so I rested the gun in her palm. Curling her finger around the trigger, she struggled to lift the gun to my father's head. I didn't stop her, I knew she what she was doing and I never once tried to take the gun back.

She shot him point blank in the center of his forehead.

“Go. Take your sister and go. I won't let them separate you two.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her breathing became softer, eyes closing.

“Mom?”

She was gone. Throwing my hands into my hair, I jumped to my feet and started pacing.

What the hell do I do? Shit! Shit!

Darting from the room, I started down the hall and was met by the sleepy eyes of my little sister. “What was that noise?” she asked, rubbing tiny fists against her sockets.

Walking her into the living room, I wrapped her small frame in the quilt that was laid across the back of our couch. “Shh, it's going to be alright. We have to go get help, mommy is hurt.”

Laying her head on my shoulder, I carried her out of the house and never looked back.

I was eighteen when I killed my father.

I was eighteen when I lost my mother.

And I was eighteen when I became a parent.