April M. Hill

07/02/2023

Here's chapter 10 as promised. I hope you enjoy it!

I still can’t believe it. I wasn’t sure we would be able to pull off a win, but we did. The Raiders thought they had it; I could see them celebrating before the clock had even run out. But their mistake was underestimating me when my back was against the wall. Despite being behind for most of the game, I’d made the winning touchdown, earning us a victory. Hell, sometimes I even surprise myself. Though I pretend that it doesn’t matter, I wish that my parents could have seen our comeback–the way I’d helped carry the team to victory. I’ve learned not to rely on their support, but something inside of me always wishes for it, no matter how hard I push it aside.
I shake my head as I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. I couldn’t rely on them–not now or ever. Abby was the only one I could rely on. She’d attended all of my games over the years but seeing her in the crowd tonight had made me certain of one thing: making her mine was worth the risk. I was in love with Abby Maddison and tonight I was going to tell her.
I rake a hand through my damp hair as I head to my closet to figure out what I’m going to wear to the party. I usually don’t put much thought into how I look, but tonight I want to look my best. After a bit of deliberation, I decide on jeans, t-shirt, black jacket, converse, and my favorite beanie. I spray my cologne around my neck, then a few squirts on my wrist, and a straight line down the front of my shirt. Abby gave me the cologne last year for my birthday. The bottle is still full because I only use it for special occasions, and tonight is one of those occasions. Abby is single; I could feel the electricity between us after the game; and we’re ready. I know we’re ready. I can feel it in my bones.
I double check my outfit in the mirror and pull a little of my bangs down from my beanie because I know Abby loves them. I’m about ready to call her when I hear the front door slam and then slam again. My parents. There’s no doubt they’ve been fighting. In the last week, my mother and father have somehow managed to find a way to argue even more and more, yelling bitter, caustic words that only end when my father leaves the house. My dad has always been a violent drunk, and a raised fist is nothing new. Unfortunately, I’ve become accustomed to it. For years, he’s yelled at me, and at times, he’s put his hands on me. But now he’s turning on my mom. More than once in the past month I’ve come home from school to find her locked in her bedroom, bruised and sometimes bleeding. A familiar rage fills my veins now. Everything sounds quiet, so I hope that they’ve finished fighting for the night and I can leave the house without incident.
That hope is shattered when I hear my mom scream.
I kick open my door, racing downstairs. She’s crouching on the floor, and my dad stands over her, his belt looped around his hand. It’s no surprise that he looks as if he’s been drinking all evening. Still, the sight of his glazed expression makes my blood boil.
Every protective instinct that I’ve developed over the past few year’s leaps into action, “Dad, put the belt down, or–”
“Or what, son? Go back to your room, or you won’t be in any play-off game. You’ll be in the fu***ng hospital!”
Rage boils inside of me, overshadowing any fear the situation instills in me. I’m sick of his bu****it, sick of his threats, sick of him. If I had a weapon, I know that I’d kill him on the spot. “Lay a hand on her, and you’ll regret it.” Mom’s voice cuts into my determination to bring down my dad. “Michael, go outside, please.” She sounds ready to break, making me more certain than ever that I won’t be leaving her alone, not for anything.
Dad raises the belt above his head, and I don’t hesitate. I run across the room, launching myself at him. In the brief seconds before we crash into the trophy cabinet, I see the light glint off my gold football trophies sitting in neat little rows, and I only have time to realize that my dad’s about to ruin every football achievement I’ve ever won. The glass smashes to the floor, and my father and I along with it. I immediately bounce back up and shift to the balls of my feet, ready for him. I don’t even bother to look at the carpet covered in piles of glass shards and broken trophy pieces. I would have to deal with that later.
My dad doesn’t stay down long, and when he comes towards me, I use the back of my hand to strike him across his cheek. The shock of it causes him to stumble back and drop the belt. He pushes himself off from the wall and comes at me again, but when he approaches to attack me, I clench my open palm into a fist and drive it swiftly into the side of his head, right in the temple. The blow knocks him out cold, and he falls to the ground.
I wait for a second to make sure he stays down before rushing to my mother and picking her up from the floor. She’s trembling. I want to give her a way to escape in case she needs to run out fast, so I lead her to the stairway and sit her on the bottom step that’s in-line with the front door.
“Mom, what happened?” I say, but before she can answer, from the corner of my eye, I can see my dad move as he starts to wake. He groans in pain and staggers as he drags himself to his feet. As soon as he stands, he reaches behind him and pulls out a gun from the back of his pants.
My throat closes, my pulse hammering so loudly in my head I’m afraid that it would drown out even the bang of a gunshot.
The terror in Mom’s scream makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “Stop— please,” she whimpers, shutting her eyes.
Dad is too drunk and in too much of a rage to listen. He points it to the ceiling and shoots, the noise of the bullet ricocheting off the ceiling sends me and my mom to the floor.
“Dad, what the f**k? Put that fu***ng gun away! Are you crazy?” I yell.
He wobbles around, pointing the gun all around the room. He never points it directly at me and my mom, but still, one lousy shot could hit either of us.
I don’t know what to do. If I move towards him, he may shoot me. If we just sit here, he may shoot us anyway. I don’t know what to do.
I listen to him mumble inaudible s**t under his breath for a few moments before I try to talk to him again. “Dad, please put the gun down. You’re going to hurt yourself. Or worse, one of us.”
It seems to work somewhat, and he brings the gun down to his side, continuing to jabber off nonsense. I can see he’s not really paying attention as he turns and stumbles towards the kitchen, so I take the opportunity to grab my mom and pull her out through the front door.
Once we’re safe outside, I half-pull, half-carry her down the street a little way. When we’re at least out of direct view of any windows, I let my mom sit down on the curb, pulling out my phone with shaking hands to text Abby. Hey, Abs, I need help!
She doesn’t read the text right away, so I sit next to my mom and comfort her. She’s still shaking. I look around to see if anyone has seen us. We have nosy neighbors, and no doubt, some are peeking through their blinds right now watching everything... I’m just glad it’s already dark outside and all the lights are off, so they’ll have a harder time watching Mom and I cower on the sidewalk, “It’s ok, mom. I won’t let him hurt you. I texted Abby. She should respond soon. She’ll help us.”
My mom shakes her head in annoyance.
“No, Michael, why did you call her? We don’t need everyone in our business.”
“It’s too late, mom. I already sent the text. And Abby isn’t ‘everyone.’ Jesus Christ, he has a fu***ng gun and all you’re worried about is Abby knowing our business. What, are we just supposed to sit around and wait for him to shoot us?”
She doesn’t argue this time. She drops her head into her hands, as if every ounce of strength has been drained from her body and mind...
My hand shakes as I reach for my phone. There’s a text from Abby that I didn’t see and now she is calling me. I try to keep my voice level as I answer, but it’s no use: I sound scared. “Abby?”
“Michael? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
I look at Mom. She looks pitiful as she sits shaking on the sidewalk like a child. “No, not really.”
I can hear Cherry’s blinker in the background. In my anxious state, the otherwise harmless noise reminds me of a ticking time bomb. “Dad got drunk. By the time I got home he was s**t-faced. We got in a fight, and I hit him.”
“Sh*t! You hit your dad?”
I shudder at the memory of it, hardly able to believe it myself. There were so many times that he’d attacked Mom and I, but I never thought I’d have the courage to fight back. Now that I had, I didn’t feel courageous. “Yeah. He was out cold. Now he’s locked inside the house with a gun.”
Stunned silence dominates the phone line for a few seconds. “What the f**k, Michael. He really had a gun?”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
“Oh my god,” Abby hisses. “I’m headed to your house, are you there?”
“We’re outside.” I grip the phone as the shaking returns. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No, should I?”
“I think so, Michael.”
The thought fills me with fear. After all these years, I would finally be turning Dad in. All I want is to see Abby. “Just come over, please.” I sound as lost as Mom looks.
"Of course, I’m already on my way - I should be there in like ten minutes."
I want to answer back, want to tell her how much her presence means to me–how much she means to me, but I feel as drained as my mom looks and can’t manage the words, so I hang up.
I sit down next to my mom, and she leans her head against my shoulder. I try to conjure up words of comfort, but none will come. I rest in the fact that simply being here for each other is the most important thing right now.
After what feels like an eternity, but is only about ten minutes, I see Abby’s Jeep racing down the street towards my house. I jump up, realizing for the first time that I’ve placed Abby in harm’s way by asking her to come here. Anxiety hits me all over again as I think about my dad inside the house with a gun. What if he comes outside with it? Maybe mom was right about leaving Abby out of this Not only do I have to protect my mom, but now, I have to protect Abby, too.