Trapped

Part 1

December 21st

Nick's head shot up when his laptop was slammed shut. He pulled his earbuds out of his ears slowly and spun around in his chair, looking up to see his father towering over him. The stench of alcohol on his breath seemed to surround them and fill the room as an empty vodka bottle limply hung from his hand.

"I need 'ya to get me more vodka, we ran out," James slurred out, his face hot and flushed from the vodka in his veins. He pushed a fifty-dollar-bill into his chest, before backing up a bit, getting ready to leave.

Nick remembered when his father didn't get shit-faced every night. That was before his mother passed years ago. He remembered when they were a normal, functioning family. When his mother passed, nobody was the same. Nick dealt with the crippling feeling of sadness at a young age and learned how to essentially look after his father, who turned violent and relentless with every bout of alcohol he swallowed. But he couldn't remember what it was like to have someone who loved him unconditionally. Someone who would stay up if he had a nightmare. He couldn't remember what it was like to be happy.

Nick sighed, carefully folding up the bill and tucking it in his back pocket. "I'm sixteen, I can't buy your alcohol, Father," he retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Bribe the motherfucker if you have to," James spat, the drunk getting angrier by the second, it seemed. "Get my fucking drinks, Nicole."

That fucking name again? Jesus Christ, here we go.

Nick cringed. The name stung his mind and sat in his stomach; like the feeling when bile rose to your throat. Disgusting.

"My name is Nick. Not Nicole. I'm your son, not your daughter," he replied quietly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweater.

Moments like these were deadly. Calm, quiet. Nick never knew what would happen when his father went silent. Instead, he stood there, waiting. Mentally preparing himself for the onslaught of insults and swear words that would fall from his father's drunken mouth.

His father lunged, grabbing him up by his hood and bringing him to eye level. He practically lifted Nick off the ground, his jaw set. They were so close, the smell could be compared to sniffing straight rubbing alcohol out of the bottle.

"My daughter is not going to be one of those tranny fags. Not under my roof. You have ten minutes to get the fuck out of my house or so help me you won't want to wake up tomorrow morning."

Thanks, Dad, but I already don't want to wake up in the morning. You'd be doing me a favour.

James set Nick down, grabbing him by his hair and smacking him with his free hand. A red mark already appearing as he shoved him on to the ground, leaving him frozen.

This was the first time James laid a hand on Nick in what felt like weeks. He was not prepared for whatever was about to happen, or the stinging pain in his scalp. He repressed it, however, as he watched his father leave, slamming the door shut behind him.

Good riddance, I thought I'd never be able to leave this place.

Nick got set to work. Moving around the room and cramming as much of his clothes into his backpack as he could, along with his wallet, sketchbook, and a few pencils. Once it was zipped up and set on his bed, he moved over and picked up his laptop, stuffing it into its case. He bent over and unplugged the necessary cords and stuffed them into the side pouches.

The boy raced around the room, ripping everything apart until he found his phone charger, hands shaking as he knew time was running out and his father would be up any minute.