“Fuck you! You dirty little cunt! You’re still the same!” He slams his hands against the glass and I worry he’s going to break it. Just like I worry that he might be high or drunk. Sober he’s an ass**le. Drunk he’s a violent ass**le that has no control over his temper. “I don’t give a shit about the damn cops! Call them! I. Don’t. Give. A. Shit. About. ANYTHING!”
“Fine, I will call them.” I start to turn to go get my phone from my bedroom.
“I already did,” Jax says from behind me.
I whirl around the rest of the way, my eyes sliding to the baseball bat in Jax’s hand. “What are you doing with that?”
“What I have to do.” He steps toward the door, gripping the bat. “Leave ass**le,” he says, speaking loudly and firm.
The slamming on the glass ceases. “Who the f**k is that?” Conner growls furiously.
When neither of us responds, he begins pounding his fist against the glass. The entire house shakes. The neighbor’s dog barks. Thunder rumbles. Lightning flashes. I fear Mason is going to wake up from all the noise.
Jax takes another step toward the door, ready for a fight. “I’m going to beat his stupid ass.”
“You aren’t going out there,” I hiss, clutching onto his arm. “Just wait until the police show up.”
“And if he breaks the door down first, then what?” He wrenches his hand from my hold. “You have to buy a new door. Pay for more because of his shit.”
I hug my arms around myself, trembling. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he says. “Remember Lester?”
I tense at the mention of my fifth step-father’s name. I wasn’t living in the house when my mother married him, but I heard a lot about him later when Jax came to live with me because of what Lester did to him. Well that amongst a long list of things.
“He beat me with a belt every day for three months,” Jax reminds me, “until the day I turned fifteen and decided it was enough and hit him back.”
“It’s didn’t stop him though, just caused more fights. And I don’t want to bring a Lester into your life.” I push him in the direction of the hallway. “I’ll handle Conner. You go check on Mason.”
Jax dodges around me and pushes in the same direction I just shoved him in. “You go check on Mason, and I’ll wait here.”
“Jax, I don’t—”
“Avery,” he warns, “if he breaks that door down, the bat’s going to be the first thing that greets him, and I’m going to be the one swinging it.”
I squeeze my eyes and take a suffocating deep breath before lifting my eyelids open. “Promise me you won’t open that door. Just stand here.”
He grinds his teeth. “Fine, I promise.”
I know Jax well enough that I don’t believe he would lie to me, so I hurry down the hallway to the last door on the left. A trail of light flows out of the crack from the lamp Mason always has to have on whenever he’s asleep. As I peek inside, my body goes dead cold and I push the door open the rest of the way.
“Mommy, what is that?” Mason asks, clutching onto his favorite teddy bear, his eyes huge and crammed with fear. “I keep hearing loud banging sounds just like at our old house.”
Another clap of thunder roars through the house, and I find myself wanting to curl up in bed and cry with the rain. Just cry and cry and cry until it stops.
“It’s just one of the neighbors.” I cross Mason’s room and sit down on the edge of his bed. “Sorry it woke you up.”
“He’s being super noisy and sounds like a crazy man,” Mason says drowsily with a yawn. “Can’t you tell him to be quieter?”
“Jax is talking to him right now.” I smoothe my hand over his head. “Give him a few minutes and I’m sure it’ll get quiet.”
Mason nods as he hugs his bear. “He kind of sounds like Daddy.”
My body goes rigid. “That’s weird. I don’t know why.” It’s probably one of the worst omissions of truth I’ve ever done, but there’s no way I can let him know that the crazy man outside is his father. He’ll want to see him and then he’ll really see him, in his true, enraged form. And I promised the night I survived the fire that Mason would never, ever see that side of his father again. Even if it means keeping Conner out of his life forever.
“Do you want me to play you a song to help you fall asleep?” I ask.
Mason nods excitedly, like he does whenever I offer to play. Unlike Jax and me, Mason doesn’t associate his mother and music with awful memories and he loves listening to it.
“I’ll be right back.” I kiss the top of his head then hurry to my bedroom.
I can still hear the banging as I collect my guitar from my closet, which is a relief because it at least means Conner hasn’t gotten inside nor has Jax opened the door. With my guitar in hand, I return to Mason’s room. He’s sitting up in his bed, waiting eagerly for me.
“You have to lie down,” I tell him. “Otherwise you won’t be able to fall asleep silly and it’ll completely defeat the purpose of playing at all.”
“I can fall asleep sitting up.” He smiles at me. “Please, Mama. I can hear it better when I’m sitting.”
I don’t really understand his five-year-old logic but what I do understand is that right now his father is outside trying to break the door down. So I let him remain sitting up as I sink down onto the bed and position the guitar in my lap.
“Which one do you want to hear?” I ask, gently grazing my thumb across the strings.
“Play me the quiet song,” he says happily, all smiles and sunshine through the rain.
I nod then begin to play, singing only when I spot the blue and red lights flashing outside the window. Then I sing my heart out, drowning out the world around us.
Drowning out the pain for him.
Two years and nine months earlier…
Chapter 21
I think my soul has given up.
Avery
Tears drench my eyes and cheeks as I clutch the nearly empty bottle against my chest and rock back and forth. He’s going to be home soon and things are going to get ugly. I could tell by the anger in his tone. I should leave the house, go somewhere, but it’s two in the morning and I have no car, no friends, no nothing. If Mason wasn’t sleeping in the next room, I’d get up and just walk outside.
I’d walk.
And walk.
Never stopping.
Until I found an end.
But I can’t leave Mason. I just prayed to God that he can sleep through the fight, that he won’t wake up. Being a heavy sleeper, he usually sleeps through it, which is a gift, I guess.
I almost laugh at my thoughts, but it’s not funny. None of this is. The shithole that I live in. The zero dollars we have to our names. The empty cupboards. The screaming. The hitting. The beating down. I think my soul is starting to give up. Either that or the alcohol has numbed it.
I decide to go outside and smoke until Conner gets back. Then maybe the fight will take place outdoors and no one will hear it.
But me.
Chugging the last drops of tequila, I set the bottle down, grab my worn jacket and cigarettes from the mattress on the floor, and head out of the house. The air is chilly and nips at my skin as the wind surrounds me. I slip my jacket on and zip it up before lighting up a cigarette. Then I stare out at the darkness that borders the single wide I’ve called home for three months.
Over the last few years, Conner and I have packed up and moved more times than I can count, mainly because we get so behind on rent that relocating is our only option. This place is the bottom of the barrel, though. The only thing around is a graveyard of tires, trees, and the sky. I don’t look up at it, resenting the stars, resenting everything. Instead, I focus on the highway in the distance, a thin strip of road where headlights move toward our home. Conner is almost here.
I want to run.
Hide.
Disappear.
But to where?
I should have never called him tonight. I didn’t even want to talk to him. I was just irritated because he took our last twenty dollars and spent it on either crack or heroin, depending on his mood. I haven’t seen him for a day and I was actually pretty content with that, basking in the peace and quiet. But then I’d gone to check our money jar and found it empty. I had lost my shit and am still pissed off.
I work my ass off day and night, taking care of Mason and working at a gas station in town, sometimes walking the three miles to the nearest bus station because Conner takes the car without consulting me first and I need it when I work the nightshift, like I have to in just a few hours.
I’m tired. I hate my job. Hate everything. I just want… something. But it’s like I’m drowning in a sea of razor sharp objects that cut at me from all sides. It feels like nothing I do will ever get me out of the water. And the really depressing part is, I jumped in myself.
I’m finishing up my cigarette when the headlights reach the house. I drop the butt on the ground and stomp it out with the tip of my sneaker then just stand there helplessly. I think about running back inside the house, but I know that move will only escalate what’s about to happen, so I wait on the porch.
As he turns the headlights off, darkness suffocates me. I hold my breath as he gets out of the car and moves through the dark toward me.
“So”—he pauses at the bottom of the steps—“You think you can just call me up and tell me to come home whenever you want to?”
“I needed the car for work,” I argue. “And we need money.”
“And how is me being home going to help with that?”
“It’s not. But neither is going out and getting high.”
He lets out a derisive laugh that echoes across the bare land. “And getting drunk every night is better?”
“That’s not what I said.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I just think we better figure out what we’re going to do since I don’t get paid for over a week and we have literally no food. And we have to have food for Mason.”
“And how is that my problem?” he asks, stepping onto the bottom stair. The entire porch creaks with his weight like it’s going to break apart at any minute.
“Um, because I’m your wife and Mason’s your son.” I inch back as he moves up another step.
“Yeah, we’ve yet to prove that he’s mine,” he says as he reaches the porch.
I step back until my back slams against the door. “Are you really going to start on that shit again? Look at him for crying out loud. He looks so much like you.”
He’s silent and motionless for a while. I wish I could see his eyes so I could figure out what he’s on or if he’s strung out. It’d help me get a read on how this conversation is going to end.
“You know, I’m getting tired of your shit,” he finally snaps. “I gave up everything to take care of you. Sold my cars. Dropped out of school. I don’t have a life anymore.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” I say, even though I know I shouldn’t. “You don’t take care of me at all. You don’t even have a job. And let’s face it, even if you wouldn’t have met me, you probably still would have ended up right where you are, only you wouldn’t have Mason—the one thing that’s good in your life, even though you’re blind to it.”
“Fuck you.” In three long strides, he’s right in my face. “Fuck you! Fuck you!” He punches the door right beside my head and I flinch, hot tears threatening to pour out. “I’m a good father.”
“You’re not even here!” I cry out, loathing the quiver in my voice. “You weren’t there when he was born. For his first steps. For his birthdays. For anything. You’re as bad as my God damn father.”
“Take that back.” His voice is low and carries a dangerous warning.
I should take it back because I know where this is going to go, but it’s my protective side that stops me, wanting him to see just how shitty of a father he is, stupidly hoping he’ll finally open his eyes and see it. And change.
“No. It’s the truth. You’re a terrible father.”
His chest rises and crashes as he breathes rabidly in my face. “You. Fucking. Little. Cunt.” Before I can react, he grabs me by the hair and jerks me forward, causing me to trip over my feet and bash my hip on the corner of the metal railing.
“Conner, let me go!” I scream as he drags me down the steps and toward the car.
“No. I’m so sick of this shit.” He jerks so hard on my hair I swear he’s going to rip the strands from my skull. My head aches. My eyes burn. And I’m God damn terrified of what’s about to happen. Terrified because, in the end, I know I have no control.
I struggle to keep up with him, tripping over my feet as he swings me around the car. I think he’s going to climb in and that frightens me.
“We can’t just leave Mason here,” I tell him as he yanks open the door.
He drops down in the driver seat, still holding onto my hair, leaving me standing with my head tipped at an awkward angle. I attempt to back away, but he tightens his hold as he opens the glove box and rummages around for something. When he leans back and hops out of the car, I realize it’s a knife.
“Conner… no.” My eyes snap wide. Yes, he’s hit me, pushed me, thrown me into things several times, but he’s never used a knife on me. I should have left while I had the chance, just ran until my legs gave out on me without worrying about the tomorrow because now I’m worried I might not have a tomorrow.