shoves his thumb in his mouth. Fucking Dad has his youngest reverting back to toddler behavior.
I walk over to the closet and kneel down on the worn wooden floor in front of Galen. “Hey, I’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Dad sounds like he’s pretty drunk tonight. He’ll probably hit like a pussy.”
Galen shakes his head. “No. He never goes easy on us, Flynn. He hits even harder when he’s drunk. And if he’s smoking, you’ll get this.”
My baby brother holds out his arm for me to see what I already know is there.
The sight of my failure kills me. The cigarette burn our father bestowed on Galen two nights ago glares up at me like an angry, accusing eye. You didn’t protect your brother that night, now did you?
I will not fail Galen tonight, I vow. He’s staying in this room no matter what the cost to me. I’ll take extra hits, burns, whatever the hell Dad can mete out in his drunken rage.
Speaking of which, another shout rings out, piercing and sharp. “You have one minute, you little pieces of shit, to get the fuck out here.”
“Uh-oh,” little brother says.
I’m about to tell Galen not to worry too much when Dad breaks the lock on the door and bursts in the room. Galen starts wailing like a banshee, and I feel a hand grabbing hold of my hair.
As I am dragged toward the living room with my scalp screaming in protest, Galen cries harder.
“Shut the fuck up,” my father screams at my brother.
Galen quiets immediately. One lone whimper escapes, though, as he peers down at his lower half. It’s then I notice piss running down his legs.
That’s it. I am done with this shit. Someone has to take a stand.
Wrenching away from my father’s grasp, I stumble out into the living room of my own volition. When I spin to face my dickhead dad, he cocks his head and gives me a look that dares: What are you going to do?
That’s when I take a swing.
My fist makes contact with his jaw, which is good. I pray to hear a satisfying cracking sound. That motherfucker deserves it.
Sadly, my punch is too weak to inflict much damage. No broken jaw for Dad, but I do leave one hell of an angry red mark.
My father’s eyes dance wildly, but he remains oddly calm. This is something I’ve never witnessed before, and it sure as hell can’t be good.
Dad winds back his arm, like in slow motion, while making a fist that looks like a small ham.
And then it comes. I am hit over and over, again and again and again. Those ham-fists may as well be rocks. My father is that fucking strong.
I am chased around the room, temporarily blinded at one point. I stop and blink, but everything remains black. Then Dad hits me in the temple, and everything turns to a blinding white. I don’t know which is worse. I only know that, through it all, my head never stops ringing.
“Stop,” I’m finally able to blurt out at one point. “Please, Dad, enough.”
My pleas fall on deaf ears. And when I raise my hands to protect myself, I am hit even harder. The blows stop only when I crumple to the floor.
“Get up!” my drunken father slurs from above me. “Get up, or I’ll make it so you can’t walk for a week, son.”
I try to get up—oh, do I try—but my legs fail me time and time again. The best I can do is rise to my knees.
And that’s when the belt is put to use.
Dad whacks me across the back, over the shoulders, and on the side of my already-pounding head. My skin passes stinging and goes straight to numb.
“I—I can’t stay up,” I rasp as I collapse back down to the floor.
“Fine,” Dad says. “Take your punishment down there. Doesn’t matter to me.”
I am hit only once, but it’s a bad one. Dad swings his belt, leather whishing across my face as the buckle hits me below my right eye. A new flash of pain registers, sharp and deep. Shit, my face is cut. And I can tell this one will scar.
“You fucking listen to me next time I tell you to come out of that room,” my father screams.
When I don’t respond,
I walk over to the closet and kneel down on the worn wooden floor in front of Galen. “Hey, I’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Dad sounds like he’s pretty drunk tonight. He’ll probably hit like a pussy.”
Galen shakes his head. “No. He never goes easy on us, Flynn. He hits even harder when he’s drunk. And if he’s smoking, you’ll get this.”
My baby brother holds out his arm for me to see what I already know is there.
The sight of my failure kills me. The cigarette burn our father bestowed on Galen two nights ago glares up at me like an angry, accusing eye. You didn’t protect your brother that night, now did you?
I will not fail Galen tonight, I vow. He’s staying in this room no matter what the cost to me. I’ll take extra hits, burns, whatever the hell Dad can mete out in his drunken rage.
Speaking of which, another shout rings out, piercing and sharp. “You have one minute, you little pieces of shit, to get the fuck out here.”
“Uh-oh,” little brother says.
I’m about to tell Galen not to worry too much when Dad breaks the lock on the door and bursts in the room. Galen starts wailing like a banshee, and I feel a hand grabbing hold of my hair.
As I am dragged toward the living room with my scalp screaming in protest, Galen cries harder.
“Shut the fuck up,” my father screams at my brother.
Galen quiets immediately. One lone whimper escapes, though, as he peers down at his lower half. It’s then I notice piss running down his legs.
That’s it. I am done with this shit. Someone has to take a stand.
Wrenching away from my father’s grasp, I stumble out into the living room of my own volition. When I spin to face my dickhead dad, he cocks his head and gives me a look that dares: What are you going to do?
That’s when I take a swing.
My fist makes contact with his jaw, which is good. I pray to hear a satisfying cracking sound. That motherfucker deserves it.
Sadly, my punch is too weak to inflict much damage. No broken jaw for Dad, but I do leave one hell of an angry red mark.
My father’s eyes dance wildly, but he remains oddly calm. This is something I’ve never witnessed before, and it sure as hell can’t be good.
Dad winds back his arm, like in slow motion, while making a fist that looks like a small ham.
And then it comes. I am hit over and over, again and again and again. Those ham-fists may as well be rocks. My father is that fucking strong.
I am chased around the room, temporarily blinded at one point. I stop and blink, but everything remains black. Then Dad hits me in the temple, and everything turns to a blinding white. I don’t know which is worse. I only know that, through it all, my head never stops ringing.
“Stop,” I’m finally able to blurt out at one point. “Please, Dad, enough.”
My pleas fall on deaf ears. And when I raise my hands to protect myself, I am hit even harder. The blows stop only when I crumple to the floor.
“Get up!” my drunken father slurs from above me. “Get up, or I’ll make it so you can’t walk for a week, son.”
I try to get up—oh, do I try—but my legs fail me time and time again. The best I can do is rise to my knees.
And that’s when the belt is put to use.
Dad whacks me across the back, over the shoulders, and on the side of my already-pounding head. My skin passes stinging and goes straight to numb.
“I—I can’t stay up,” I rasp as I collapse back down to the floor.
“Fine,” Dad says. “Take your punishment down there. Doesn’t matter to me.”
I am hit only once, but it’s a bad one. Dad swings his belt, leather whishing across my face as the buckle hits me below my right eye. A new flash of pain registers, sharp and deep. Shit, my face is cut. And I can tell this one will scar.
“You fucking listen to me next time I tell you to come out of that room,” my father screams.
When I don’t respond,
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