“Give him the middle finger. That’s what I do when my old man’s being a demanding prick.”
Most of my friends know my dad is a giant asshole, but very few know the true extent of my fucked-up home life. I would love to give Greg Henley the middle finger, but I won’t be the one who pays the price if I refuse to play ball.
When Dad realized he could no longer beat me into submission, he switched to using Mom as bait. Now we play this sick game, and it’s the very reason why I can’t throw caution to the wind and head out as planned. If I don’t make an appearance, he’ll take it out on my mother.
“That wouldn’t work with my dad,” I say, opening the driver’s door. “Hop in and I’ll drop you off. I’ll explain the favor I’m looking for on the way.”
I pull my truck in front of the house twenty minutes later and kill the engine. I take a minute to prepare myself before I hop out. I always have to psych myself up for a conversation with the psychopath.
I open the front door and step into the circular lobby of my parent’s plush home. All the blood leaches from my face when a shrill scream greets me. Slamming the door shut, I dump my bag on the floor and run past the curved stairwell, heading in the direction of my mom’s screams. From the proximity, I can tell my parents are in the study.
The door crashes against the wall as I burst into the room with a shout. “Let her fucking go!” I roar, racing across the room like a bull charging at a red flag. Mom is on her knees in front of my father. His hand is wrapped around her hair, and her head is arched back at an awkward angle. Blood trickles out of her nose and over her lips. The corner of her shirt is ripped, and dad’s tie is askew, his face red with anger or exertion or both. “I said let her go.” I push his shoulders, throwing all my strength into the move, and he stumbles back, releasing her with the movement. I shove him into the cabinet, and the glass rattles as his spine makes contact. “You fucking prick!”
Mom whimpers behind me while Dad sneers. “Get your damn hands off me or you know what’ll happen next.”
Fueled by a ton of pent-up frustration and beyond enraged at this situation, Kendall’s predicament, and the futility of my feelings for her, I punch him in the face.
“No, Van!” Mom screams. “You’ll only make it worse.” Feeble fingers curl into the back of my sweaty top as she attempts to pull me back.
Dad’s pupils narrow and darken as he dabs at the blood now pumping from his nose. “You clearly want me to beat your mother bloody,” he says, ramming his fist into my stomach.
It hurts, because he has plenty of experience throwing punches, but not as much as he likes to think. My abs are a solid wall of muscle, and it’ll take more than that to inflict real damage.
I punch him in the face again, and blood flies from his nose, spraying my shirt.
His fist swings out, and I could duck down, but I want to feel pain. I didn’t get here fast enough, and he took it out on Mom. I can take one for the team. His fist glides against my cheekbone, but I barely feel it. I punch him again, enjoying the fact he’ll have to show up at the office on Monday with a swollen nose and a black eye.
“Vander, please. Stop.”
Mom’s pleading sobs and the potential retaliation are the only things that get through to me. Pinning my father with a warning look, I step back, shielding my mother with my body. “If you touch her again, I will call the cops,” I say with lethal calm. “I am done letting you use Mom to keep me in line.”
“Be my guest.” He removes an embossed handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and wipes his bloody nose. “I know all the cops in this town, and my reach extends far. I’ll have the charge dismissed before the ink is even dry on the report. Same goes for any threats involving the media. I’d slap them with an injunction and sue their asses before they could post or print a word. You don’t hold any power in this situation, son. I can do whatever I want. Besides, your mother will never tattle on me. Will you, Diana?”
My arms hold Mom in place when I feel her moving behind me. The second she leaves the protection of my body, he’ll go for her.
“I asked you a question,” Dad hisses, glaring over my shoulder at his broken wife.
“No,” Mom croaks over a sob.
“Why are you here?” I widen my legs and shoot daggers at him.
“This is my house! I live here.”
“Barely,” I retaliate. He has a penthouse apartment in Denver, close to Bentley Law, and he tends to stay there most weeknights. On weekends, he only returns home if he’s playing golf or there’s an event locally my parents must attend. He’s been absent a lot lately, which has been a blessing. “Not that I’m complaining. Mom and I do fine without you.”
“You’re really testing my patience, boy.” Brushing past me, he stalks toward the liquor cabinet. “Sit down,” he snaps over his shoulder. “I need to talk to you.”
“Why don’t you go and run a bath, Mom?” I suggest. “I’ll come up when I’m done with Dad and see to your nose.”
“Sit the fuck down, Diana.” Dad stalks toward us, nostrils flaring and eyes as black as the night sky. He slams an unopened bottle of vodka down on his desk, snarling at Mom. “That should keep you happy while I talk to our son.”
Mom slides out from behind me before I can stop her. Dad swings around and throws a punch. His fist lands on the side of her jaw, and she collapses like a sack of potatoes.
I go for him again, and he pulls a gun on me, pressing the muzzle into my stomach. “Enough!” he grits out. “You seem to have forgotten who calls the shots around here. Sit your ass down and shut up until I ask you to speak. If you want to protect your mother, you know what to do.”
I grind my teeth to the molars, and a muscle ticks in my jaw as we face off. Mom is crying as she climbs to her feet, swiping the bottle of vodka and unscrewing the cap. Disgust is etched upon dad’s face as she drinks straight from the bottle.
He created the monster, but now he can barely tolerate looking at her.
“Sit.” Moving the gun to my side, he pushes me toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. Accepting defeat, I sit down without uttering another word. I often wonder why I bother fighting Mom’s battles when she makes zero effort to defend herself. She’s a slave to booze, and it’s like nothing else matters but getting that next fix. Not her husband’s swinging fists. Not her son’s sanity or safety.
Mom yelps as Dad grabs her by the hair, throwing her into the chair beside me. She doesn’t drop the vodka though, clutching it protectively to her chest, like it’s a baby. Frustration washes over me. I feel a whole host of emotions whenever I contemplate the life my mom leads. Anger is a recurring sentiment, along with exasperation and a sense of helplessness, but overwhelming sadness is the most regular feeling. She’s a shell of a person, existing from one bottle to the next. I don’t know that she has many moments of lucidity. Most all she has known these past twenty years is pain and self-loathing.
Sometimes, I wonder if she would be better off dead. Occasionally, I think she’d be doing me a big favor popping too many pills and washing it down with Mr. Grey Goose. This noose around both our necks would die with her body, and maybe that would be for the best because this is no way to live.