Chapter 30
THEN
LUCAS
“Why don’t you just fuck off like you always do, Mason?” my mother slurred her words. Her pink lipstick was starting to smear, a tell-tale sign. “You’re just like your father, you know that?” She pointed her index finger in spite. “So, pack your shit and go.” Callously, she threw her coffee mug in the sink, but it hadn’t been used for coffee. It hardly ever was these days, but she didn’t know that we knew her ill-disguised secret.
Mom was drunk.
Again.
She became like this every time Anthony Borelli, her boyfriend, broke up with her and threatened never to return. The break-up never lasted long, unfortunately. We could handle a drunk mother. We could deal with the malicious outbursts even though sometimes they cut to the bone. We could cope with the vomit and the passing out, despite having to miss school to ensure she didn’t stop breathing or choke on her own mess.
She was hurt.
Broken-hearted.
What we couldn’t handle was the physical abuse. The three of us suffered at the hands of her new lover who had quickly become a poor supplement for my dad. For months, bruises marred our bodies. There’d been split lips, a continual run of black eyes, a fractured collarbone and cracked ribs, two concussions, endless punches to the face and head, and my mother had even been stomped on until unconscious. There had been countless blackouts, too many to add up. Times when we’d be forced to take turns guarding the bathroom door while the other played nurse. But still, after all the blood, injuries and tears, she welcomed him back into our family home as if everything he did to us was out of love.
She was blinded.
Stupid.
Dad left without a word and Mom clung to the nearest asshole as if somehow, he could mend her shattered world.
But he never did.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she bellowed through tears, swaying slightly on her feet. “I said pack your shit and go.” Her words further angered my brother who had returned home after a fortnight of being MIA. He did that. When Mason reached his limit, when he was close to doing something murderous, he’d retreat. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave me. But there was little choice in the matter. By nature, Mason was violent. He was a schoolyard scrapper with a high pain threshold, who thrived on the adrenalin rush. I’d seen it on many occasions, especially at home when he always fought back to save us. But there was always a limit as to how far he could be pushed.
I’d seen it in his eyes most times.
The desire to kill Borelli.
Yet, there was always one thing holding him back. He was old enough to be tried as an adult. And for that, I was glad. Borelli had already damaged us enough, I couldn’t lose a brother to a life sentence. Therefore, it all came down to our mother’s decision.
“When is this gonna end, Mom?” Mason yelled, hands spread wide as he leaned across the kitchen island bench. “Seeing your children beaten almost to death every time you let that piece of shit back into the house is okay with you? Having him knock you out cold every argument is a healthy relationship? Do you know what he does to us every time you lie spread-eagled on the ground?”
Mom shook her head in denial, cheeks reddening.
“He knocks you out, and then he comes after us. That’s what he does. He comes after us because we fight for you.” There was no disguising the accusation in his tone. “We defend you because we love you. When the fuck do you fight for us? Have you been up to Lucas’s room lately, Mom? Have you seen how many holes are in the fucking drywall? Do you know what that’s from?”
My mother turned away, too ignorant to hear the truth. Mason was having none of it.
“Turn around,” he demanded. She jumped with fright but otherwise remained still. Using his forearm, he swiped at the array of plates and cutlery stacked on the counter sending each item soaring through the air before smashing to the ground.
“Turn. The. Fuck. Around!”
Slowly, my mother did as she was told, albeit sheepish.
“Those holes are from Anthony-fucking-Borelli smashing Lucas’s head repeatedly against the drywall. Your fucking son. And you just keep letting him into our home.”
The front screen door creaked open and slammed shut. We stilled, dread consuming us all. My mother’s blue eyes grew wide with that sickening mix of terror and hope. Mason’s fists clenched by his side as he turned to watch the door.
“Go upstairs, Lucas,” he hissed, not looking at me. “Now!”
The heavily-booted footsteps across the wooden floor moved slow and deliberate. They grew closer and slowly I sank back out of view from our intruder to the hallway stairs, but still where I could just make out my brother and mother anxiously waiting.
Outside, the rain had grown heavy, and deep, rumbling thunder rolled close by occasionally shaking the house. Lightning flashed like strobe lights through the windows, a constant reminder of the darkness surrounding us.
“You think you’re a man now do you, boy?” Anthony asked, cool and calm in his dark patronizing voice.
This was how it always started.
My heart pounded painfully, and my mouth grew dry.
I remained silent. My mother waited by the counter, unsure of what to do and too intoxicated to make full sense of it. Mason, on the other hand, stood stony-faced against his opponent.
“You’re free to leave, boy,” Anthony recommended. “There’s nothing keepin’ you here.”
Mason scoffed at his arrogance. “That’s what you’ve wanted this whole time, isn’t it? To fill the shoes of someone else and take what isn’t yours. Well… you should take your own advice and fuck off,” he replied through gritted teeth. “No one wants you here.”
My mother stepped forward touching Mason’s shoulder, reality having sobered her up some. “You need to go upstairs—”
“Shut up, Mom.” He shrugged her off, and she flinched away as if burned. “Enough already. This is your mess and if you’re not gonna clean it up, I will.” Mason turned his attention back to the intruder. “Get the hint, you’re not welcomed here, Borelli. She doesn’t love you. You’re not Dad, and you never will be.”
A duffle bag dropped to the ground in defiance.
“Now look what you’ve done to your mother,” he goaded. “Janice… where’s my welcome?”
“Stay where you are, Mom.”
There was a silent stand-off as Mom looked between the two men who stood in her kitchen, evidently unsure of what to do. Making the same poor decision she had many times before, she tentatively rounded the counter and approached Borelli. They were both in view now, him draping a thick possessive arm around her shoulders.
“Son, there’s—”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your son.”
“Son,” Borelli continued, ignoring Mason. “Understand your deadbeat father left, which makes me the man of the house now,” he taunted. Mason’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “We don’t need you here. In fact, we have some news, don’t we, Janice?” His hold on her grew tighter and my mother, through her drunken haze, was starting to panic. She became fidgety, and Borelli responded by pulling her closer restraining any movement.
“We don’t need to tell them now—” she started, nervously trying to placate him.
“Nonsense. Where’s your brother? Lucas!” Borelli bellowed, his voice shaking the house just as much as the thunder.
Swallowing hard, I gripped the railing ready to run if needed.
“Leave Lucas out of it,” Mason warned, his voice taking on a tone I hadn’t heard before. It was terrifying.
“Shut it. This is something I want you both to hear. Lucas! Come out now,” he shouted again.
“Darling, he’s asleep. We’ll tell him in the—”
Wrapping a big bear paw around my mother’s neck, Borelli held her at arm’s length. She clawed at his grip while teetering precariously on her toes. It was a sorry sight. A sorry sight because this was how she now preferred to be treated. Borelli, without so much as a second thought, backhanded her across the cheek and released his hold. Her head snapped sharply to the left, and she stumbled, catching the corner of the island counter in enough time before she fell.
“Don’t you dare contradict me,” he boomed. “If I say he should be here, he should get his ass down those stairs.” This was how he worked. Calm and calculated at the beginning, and when he didn’t get his way, his temper would escalate until we all lay on the ground bloodied and bruised.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” Mason yelled, stepping protectively in front of Mom.
“Not your house anymore, boy. Your mother and I are getting married.”
A dreaded silence fell over the household as the words sunk in.
My brother saw red and even looked somewhat shell-shocked from the admission. “The fuck you are! You don’t belong here.”
“It’s Lucas who doesn’t belong.” This came as no surprise. I had always been Borelli’s target but hearing him confirm it by singling me out had my heart pounding. “He’s weak. The world isn’t kind to the weak, especially not here.”
Mason had become incensed, a raging fury glistening from his eyes, and a smiling Borelli claimed a small victory.
“You will never touch him again,” Mason warned through a snarl.
He considered Mason for a moment. “You’re just like me.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
“Oh, but you are. I see the way the Sinclair girl looks at you.”
Gemma!
My heart began to gallop. Why was he talking about Gemma?
“She looks at you with fear in those pretty eyes of hers. She flinches whenever you’re near. I’ve seen it. I watched the power you have over her. It’s intoxicating… isn’t it, Mason? To have someone simply hand over all control because they’re too weak to handle us.” Borelli lunged quickly toward my mother, and she yelped, flinching away and shielding her face. Borelli laughed, satisfied Mom had unwittingly proven his point.
And then he quietened, the tension thick in the air. Borelli spoke with an eerie calmness that didn’t match his words. “Let me show you how a real man treats his whore.”
Once again, he lurched forward, this time gripping my mother’s hair. She squealed and lost her footing as he yanked her hard against his chest. Mason roared to life and took a swing using all his pent-up hurt and anger to propel himself forward. Size-wise, Borelli was huge, and when a fist connected with his meaty jaw, he barely flinched. Mason, on the other hand, received a violent shove to the chest sending him sprawling on the kitchen floor. Instinctively, I ran to my mother’s aide attempting to pull her free from Borelli’s hold.
“There you are, you fucking little cunt,” the asshole cheered and I realized my mistake. “I knew this would draw you out of your hiding place.” My mother screamed in pain as he tossed her around the room like a rag doll while fielding us both off. Unperturbed, Mason went in for another attack landing two heavy blows to Borelli’s jaw and temple. Wincing only momentarily in pain, the man balled his fist and smashed my mother’s eye in retaliation. He knew attacking her would hurt us more than if he went after us. The force of the blow catapulted Mom backward onto the TV, her head smashing against the wall with a sickening thud. Mom’s limp body sank to the ground, her neck at an awkward angle.
We could do nothing to help.
Borelli had already turned to us.
This was the part he liked. This was the part that made him feel like a man.
Beside me, Mason’s chest heaved, his eyes narrowed in on his target.
“Come at me, boy,” Borelli gestured as if this was a typical sparring match between father and son. It was far from.
“Just take your shit and go.”
“Not gonna happen.” He glanced between us, his challenge clear. “The night is only just beginning.” Borelli, confident and strong, marched toward me and my body froze.
“Run, Lucas,” Mason yelled, desperation written all over his face. Awkwardly, I stepped back, my feet heavy and unwilling to move. I connected with something, my mother’s legs, and I tripped landing hard beside her unresponsive body. As I scrambled to my feet, I could hear my brother bellowing, but I couldn’t hear his words. A large hand, rough with calluses, wrapped around my throat. It belonged to Borelli who triumphantly smiled as he lifted me off the ground, my legs flailing. I was a lightweight compared to him and lifting me seemed to take no effort.
Unable to breathe, I lashed out in desperation, my nails digging into the flesh of his cheek. Thick, dark red blood ran down his face, yet he didn’t flinch. My head was beginning to swell, the world around me spinning. He squeezed tighter the more I thrashed, his eyes wide with a possessed glee.
He wasn’t planning on letting go.
Somewhere in the distance, there was a faint sound of glass shattering. Moments later Mason appeared lunging at Borelli from the side. He was holding a broken wine glass by its base when he plunged its jagged-edged stem into Borelli’s throat. Blood leaked down his neck, the jugular vein missed. Despite the wound having the ability to immobilize most men, Borelli proved his defiance once more. He slapped a hand over his neck like he had merely been stung by a wasp.
Stricken at the sight of me turning blue, my brother dropped his weapon and charged. We were both knocked to the side upon contact, and I was flung hard against the wall, instant pain shooting through my rib cage. At the base of the stairs, Mason and Borelli grappled on the floor. Mason delivered a series of blows to the face, left, right, left, right. He roared with each strike, allowing over three months of abuse to unfold.
Climbing to my feet, I searched for the cordless phone to call 911, but it wasn’t in its usual place. It was lost somewhere in the chaos.
There was a sickening thud, Borelli repeatedly smashing Mason’s head against the bottom wooden step. His arm was hooked around my brother’s neck refusing to let him go. Mason grew momentarily limp, Borelli gaining the upper hand. He twisted and turned until he claimed top position. His giant bear-like hands pummeled Mason’s face with the relentlessness of a professional boxer. Blood sprayed from my brother’s nose in both directions with each hit, his cheek and lower lip splitting open.
“Get off,” I screamed through tears, but Borelli was zoned, focused on finishing what he started.
I kicked and stomped at him, but he never flinched. He was too much of a Hulk, high on adrenaline to feel anything.
Mason was barely conscious, and I was desperate knowing that tonight would be the night one or more of us wouldn’t survive.
“Luc,” my brother only just managed as a fist smashed into his jaw. His gaze landed on something across the room, his weak finger pointing to direct me.
I fell to the floor searching under the kitchen island until I saw what he wanted.
A chopping knife. The biggest in the set.
It, along with everything else, had been knocked to the floor when Mason swiped at the dishes earlier. Reaching out, my fingers curling around the handle and I pulled it from underneath the bench, its blade now glinting in the light. Rising to my feet, I stood behind Borelli. Both his hands were now wrapped around Mason’s neck.
He had taken to strangulation, his favorite.
He grunted, squeezing the life out of the teenage boy beneath him. Mason desperately clawed at his attacker but to no avail. He saw me, standing shakily, the knife clutched with both hands.
“Do it!” he mouthed his instruction. His face beet red, cut open and bloodied. He was barely recognizable. “Do it,” he said again as his eyes rolled to the back of his head.
I acted out of fear.
I acted out of love.
I lifted my weapon high knowing my brother was only seconds from death. Roaring to life, I plunged the knife into Borelli’s back.
It felt surreal, the knife cutting through human flesh only for it to achieve nothing. Borelli hadn’t loosened his grip on Mason. I became primal, a fearful animal determined to protect what’s his against an unwanted predator. Pulling the knife free, I struck again. When nothing happened, I fell into a desperate frenzy. I stabbed the man over and over until finally, like a wild beast acknowledging defeat, he collapsed on top of Mason, his back a mass of torn flesh and blood.
Blood had sprayed over me during the assault, my hands coated in the sticky mess. I could taste it on my tongue and feel it clumped on my eyelashes. Before shock set in, I heaved Borelli off my gasping brother.
I stood, numb to the carnage.
The life had been sucked clean out of me.
I was now sixteen and a murderer.
~
“Lucas. Lucas!” Mason called, pulling me from the darkness.
I’d fainted. Sitting propped up against the island bench, Mason kneeled in front, running a wet tea-towel over my face. “There you are,” he said, smiling through a mouthful of blood.
“What happened?”
He didn’t need to answer, and for my benefit, he wasn’t going to. I could see for myself. Anthony Borelli’s large body lay dead at the base of the stairs. The house looked like a scene from a massacre, the knife I’d used to end his life now lying abandoned on the floor like it was just some other object.
“Hey,” Mason gently shook my shoulders until I turned my gaze back to him. “Don’t go there, brother. You saved my life. You saved all of our lives. It had to be done. Do you understand?” He waited expectantly, and all I could do was blink. “Lucas! Do you understand? You did what you had to.”
“Yes,” I muttered robotically. Nothing could ever convince me that what I’d done was okay.
Soft wails filtered from the living room. My mom sat on the sofa rocking back and forth, staring at the rug as if somehow it was going to give her some answers.
“She woke up not long ago,” Mason muttered. “Crawled over to him, cried, and then moved over to the sofa to cry some more.”
My heart twisted hearing that. She was happy to cry over a monster. And yet, she didn’t care enough to check on her children. I was broken by this. This wasn’t the mother who had raised me.
“Ignore her,” Mason encouraged while heaving me to my feet. We turned to face Borelli, both overwhelmed with the amount of blood and gore.
“What are we gonna do?” I asked weakly.
“We’re gonna get rid of him.”
“What do you mean? We can’t just get rid of him. People will come looking.” I was becoming frantic. Frantic because I was the one who repeatedly drove the knife into his back. “They’ll trace him back to us.”
“No one is going to trace anything back to us. He took Mom’s car when he last left, and he returned in Mom’s car. There’s no bus ticket and no vehicle of his own to dispose of. The fucker barely left a trace.”
I was unconvinced. Just as I was about everything else to do with this.
“Stay here and watch Mom.”
I watched numbly as my brother ran out the back door and into the rain. He disappeared, and I began to shiver uncontrollably.
Mason barged back through the door holding a blue tarpaulin Dad had used to patch the roof once when a storm tore through. “We’ll wrap him in this,” he said, laying it out as best he could before gripping Borelli’s shoulder. “Grab his legs and roll him onto the edge.”
Doing as I was told, I waited for Mason to count to three before we rolled the dead weight onto the tarpaulin. Borelli’s hand flopped onto my foot, and I shuddered. It was a hand that had caused so much pain and injury. A hand that had connected on many occasions with my face. And now it was lifeless. Useless.
We moved robotically until Borelli was in place. All I wanted to do was curl up under my blanket and cry. Instead, my mother’s cries grew louder as she mourned for a man who cared nothing for her. She had turned a blind eye to her children being assaulted, and now she had the nerve to behave as if she had raised monsters for children who’d taken the love of her life away. I had blood on my hands, and she was still blinded by love.
“Lucas. Hey? Look at me…” Mason gripped my face until our eyes met. “He was going to kill me.” He glanced down at the rolled tarpaulin. “The fucker deserved to die.” A wide smile formed, and Mason laughed maniacally as if the whole thing entertained him. “You fucking did it like a pro, brother.”
“What?” I spat, angrily. How could he see humor in this? “This isn’t funny, Mason. I… I just fucking killed a man.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, sobering up more so for my fragile state. “That could be me in there right now if it weren’t for you.”
I took an urgent step away, my stomach lurching. Lunging for the sink, I brought up the night’s devastation. Mason saw this as being something honorable, something that would define us as men. I saw this as a terrible mistake done in the heat of the moment to save the ones I loved. No matter which way I looked at it, killing Anthony Borelli was a life sentence.