A Bird in Flight | ✔︎

Chapter three: Maybe there is more to her

I run the back of my hand across my sweaty forehead, pushing back my hair.

"Jesus," I mutter, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. My 'nightmares' are really just memories of my fantastic childhood surfacing to haunt me with demons.

His words ring in my ears: "You're unlovable! You are alone in this world, Callan, and it is exactly what you deserve."

I can feel the familiar sense of unworthiness eating away at my broken soul. Sometimes I feel like there are no more pieces of my heart my dad can crush and I'm just a walking, talking zombie.

The thing I've learned over the years of abuse is that people ignore the darkness of the world.

I know the way the world works. The moment the truth, the rawness of reality rears its ugly head everyone turns a blind eye to it. Looks away. Pretends that everything is all rainbows and unicorns, smiles and fun. That's why people accepted every lame excuse I pronounced about this bruise or that cut or some brace and broken bone. And then people stopped caring, never querying, and I was able to consume the cocky bad boy facade, masking the despair, the rage, the fear that often surfaces during nights locked away in my room, pain pulsing through my body as I stare at the ceiling, my chest aching for freedom.

"Callan, are you dressed?" James calls through my locked bedroom door. "Our guest will be arriving soon."

"Yeah. Nearly." I fight to keep my voice steady. Hopefully, neither he nor my mother heard me crying out. I know if I had landed in such a position it meant I'd been yelling aloud.

My whole body is quivering as I rise to my feet, desperate to shake off the nightmare. Shit, I completely forgot Amanda Perkins, my neighbor, and English teacher was coming over.

I grab some trousers, a white button-up shirt and tie from my cupboard. Just as I'm yanking on some shiny black boots the doorbell rings.

"Callan!" my mom bellows from downstairs.

"Coming!" I shout back, throwing open the door and rushing down the stairs, three at a time.

James frowns slightly at me but then my mom opens the door and everyone is standing on the threshold of this stupid house smiling and yabbering on about shit.

And suddenly I can't stand it. Standing here, smiling, pretending, lying.

"I need some fresh air," I mutter, turning away from them.

"Woah, wait a minute, young man." James swivels around and grabs the crook of my arm, tugging my back. All the blood rushes up into my head and my mouth tastes like sawdust. No, no, not him too.

"Get your Goddamn hands off me!" I shout, rage and fear seizing hold of me. I slap his hand away and shove him in the chest, harder than I intended. Much harder. He falls to the ground, banging his head against the hardwood floors.

"Don't fucking touch me!" I scream, every ounce of self-control I've had bursting free.

"Callan Beckett!" my mother yells, her face red with humiliation. "Stop it, this instant! You're an embarrassment!"

"Fuck you, Mom!" I snarl.

"Get out!" she shrieks, pointing to the open door. "Out! Now!"

I give her a murderous glare but follow the command. Just before she slams the door in my face, she calls out, "And by the way, I'll be informing your father about this attitude."

I throw my fist at a wall and gladly watch my knuckles bleed.

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