The next conversation I had with Kate took place in a crummy cafe with the scars of that evening still marring my rough complexion. I did everything to evade her eyes and defy the budding conversation. The dwindling coffee staining the bottom of the mug held more appeal than a conversation with Kate.
My eyes skittered about, jumping from the dusty boot prints on the floor, to the garbage littering other table tops then back to the mug.
"You know you can't avert this conversation forever, right?" She mumbled, slurping her iced tea.
There was no recourse or discourse on my part, I simply shrunk down further in my seat.
"Watch me try," I uttered back with intransigence.
I stared about at the interior, trying to find anything to focus on but Kate. The tinkling of teaspoons on the rims of china cups rung out, and the chugging and spluttering of the clogged coffee machine. The quiet amalgamation of voices was a pleasant hum, and if I attuned my ears carefully I could pick up on snippets of conversation to distract me.
Kate tutted then slurped obtrusively at her drink, it did more to agitate me than break the silence. "So you'd rather stay stubborn and silent and suffering?"
My eyes flicked from the coffee cup and my temper flared. "I'm not suffering." I glared over the brim of the mug and ferried it to my lips, trying to drain the last droplets from the receptacle.
My eyes trailed from table to lopsided table, to the queue at the cashier and the table with sachets of sugar and coffee stirrers.
Kate rolled her eyes. "Clint, your dad-"
"Don't!" I warned, my eyes jumping about the public space about with paranoia, any of the faces in the sea of faces had the potential to be my father, or someone who knew my father. Waverly is a titchy town, I knew the name of every second face; chances were, they knew me too.
"Then you seriously need to think about redefining your definition of 'suffering', Clint!" Kate hissed between us.
I crossed my arms over my chest, my leg bouncing restlessly beneath the table we sat at. "There are people beyond the Iron Curtain oppressed under a Brezhnev, you've seen the news - I am not suffering," I announced boldly, chin raised high.
Because that's the thing; suffering is relative. Suffering is a matter of circumstance and person. A rich man who dents his million dollar car is suffering, but so is the tramp on the dusty street corner who hasn't received a penny from a passerby in days. Suffering is comparable, but comparison never makes anyone happy.
Kate's hand snaked across the coffee table and rested tentatively on my wrist. "Well, lucky us for not living in the USSR! But, Clint... Regardless of anyone else's pain, you're still hurting. And you have the right to be hurting. You have the right to feel hurt. Just because other people have pain in their lives, doesn't make yours any less valid." She squeezed my wrist, vying for my attention, but my eyes wouldn't stray from the dirt muddying the tips of my sneakers.
With tear glossed eyes my gaze panned back to her. "What would you propose I do, Kate?" I threw my hands up in the air. "Because, really, if you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them." I scuffed my shoes on the floor, digging them into the ground with irritations. "Truly. Because I've lived this way all my life and haven't been able to devise an escape."
Kate's lips parted and her bottom lip jutted as she fumbled for a solution. "Come live with me!" She blurted naively. "My mom wouldn't mind! She said she liked you the other day-"
I rolled my eyes. "My ma', Kate. Barney. What about them? I leave, do you know who replaced me as-" I lowered my voice. "My father's punching bag?" I sagged in my seat, huffing.
Gritting her teeth, Kate announced. "Then they can come too!"
I got up out of my seat, snagging my jacket as I went, sick of hearing her immature suggestions. "Look, if you're not gonna be serious about this-"
Kate scrabbled together her possession and pursued me, purse clutched in hand. "I'm trying to be serious!" She exploded, raising her voice in front of the whole café; turning everyone's heads to face us. "I just don't know how to deal with this, Clint!" She chased me out of the café and into the sunbaked street. "I'm sorry!" She sobbed out. "I don't know anything about this kind of stuff!" She jogged after me like a lost puppy.
My hands buried deep in my pockets, and a frown painted across my face, I turned and shouted. "Then stop pretending like you do." Tears trickled down my cheeks as I warded away my last companion in this world.
"Listen, I'm the daughter of a rich publishing magnate, I holiday in New York City on Spring break and Hawaii on Summer vacation; I have the only house in the neighbourhood with a pool and my dad has already bought me my first car - So no, I don't understand your life, because mine's fucking perfect. And I am sorry for trying to help!"
I stormed away. "Don't bother. I don't need anyone's help. Especially not yours." I slipped on my sweater even in the blistering heat and yanked my hood down as a line of defence.
"So, what..?" She called down the street, her voice pranging off the closely knit buildings. "You're gonna run away from your problems now?"
Not turning to face her and narrowly dodging a tumbleweed that had bounded off the desert planes into the heart of the town, I told her "Maybe I will."
So I did what I did whenever I was weighed down with worldly matters; headed to the barn and crafted a slingshot. I'd fetch some of the empty tin cans from the garbage on my way out to the yard and set them up on the posts of the cow pen. After crawling about on the hay-carpeted ground until my knees were grubby, I'd find a handful of pebbles perfect for ammunition and head up to the mezzanine; my ideal sniper's nest.
From the 'thunk' of the rocks ricocheting off metal, alone, Barney could sense my discontent. He was attuned to my habits, even after long periods of absence.
"Alright, sport?" He questioned, lounging in the doorway as if no time had passed since I last saw him, silhouetted by the golden sunshine pouring in behind him.
The elastic band creaked as I drew it back. "Fine." The stone bounced off the can with a 'dink' and sent it twizzling through the air and clacking to the floor.
Barney gave a throaty laugh and scooped up the can that had rolled to his feet. Helpfully propping it back in it's place, he smiled up at me in the rafters.
Barney - Charles Bernard Barton, but that's a mouthful - is my older brother; bigger, broader, bristling with muscles. The same piercing blue eyes as my dad, the same sharp angles in his face. The seven years between us make for a difficult relationship at times, but he's family. Barney spends most of his time away from home, and has done for as long as I can remember - I mean, who would stay at home if it's a home like mine?
"You're getting good at that, eagle-eye!" He chimed merrily, making for the ladder that lead to the mezzanine.
"I've had time to practice," I grunted in response, relaxing my back muscles and loosing another stone from the slingshot.
He crawled over to me and slung an arm around my shoulders. "What's wrong, champ?" His 'Iowa Hawkeyes' Football T-shirt flapped in my face, ruining my line of sight.
"Who said there's anything wrong?" I grumbled, sending another can twirling through the air and crashing to the ground.
He playfully elbowed my side, knocking off my aim. "You're my little brother, we're telepathically connected!" He joked.
I snorted. "There's no such thing as telepathy... That's dumb..."
"You're dumb," he retorted sharply.
"Whatever, move your fat arm, I can't see the cans," I grumbled, slapping away his hand.
"Is it a girl that has you down?" Barney asked, nudging me. I gave a growl of frustration as he sent my shot skewing off.
I hurled my slingshot and knocked the remaining two cans off the cow pen.
"Not in the way you think..." I huffed, perching myself on the edge of the mezzanine and swinging my legs where they dangled over the edge.
"Who's the girl?" Barney prompted, throwing his arm around my shoulder, weighty draped across me.
"It's not important anymore..." I hung my head and sighed.
Leaning in close, he asked. "What'd she do?" His older blue eyes bore into mine, trying to extract the truth, and I was caged by the arm clutching me close. Barney was always good at manipulation, he mastered the art of combining charisma with threats.
I couldn't tell Barney. I didn't want him to know about what went on when he wasn't there - or what he at least didn't seem to know. I couldn't let him hate Kate for finding out our family's dirty little secret. The secret that would endanger our family's reputation.
My brother was just like my dad, not afraid of swinging his fists if he came across something he didn't like. He got suspended from school countless times for brawling at recess. Immediately my mind jumped to the worst case scenario; and as angry as I was at Kate, I wouldn't name and shame her to my brother.
"None'a your business, Barney," I muttered, averting my gaze. "I've got places I'd rather be."
I casually slipped off the edge and landed on the straw-smattered floor of the barn.
"I thought you hated living here? With ma' and pa' - at least that's what you said last time I was here..." Barney uttered, scratching the back of his midge-bitten, sunburnt neck.
"You haven't been here for sixth months. Times change." I made for the door.
"And that's all you have to say to me after six months?" He snapped, his words like the sting of a riding crop.
"Yeah..." I left.
Dinner was awkward. My dad wasn't present, but no one acknowledged the elephant in the room. My ma' munched quietly, her face practically disfigured from the wrath of my father's fist and foot. The conversation turned to Barney's latest adventures way out on the border of the state, staying with families and ranching out there. It was clear just how oblivious Barney was to what went on here at home.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't bitter about the fact that Barney never stayed at home. He would've been better at defending ma' than I ever was. Barney had departed again before the evening was out, trekking down the dusty drive with a rucksack and hopping onto his rust old dirt bike.
Once Barney left, it was counting down the hours until my father arrived. And the clock in the kitchen wall became eclipsed in shadow as the summer sunset faded to blackness. If that wasn't a measurement of how drunk my father was, and consequently how harsh the beating would be, then I didn't know what was.
So when the key scratched around the Yale lock and the door was pounded open, I knew I was in for trouble.
It was in record time that evening that my father found something that upset him enough to pound something or someone. Something about dinner being cold and tasteless, I think.
And no amount of scrambling and scarpering would get me away in time as I heard the drumming of his feet. My ma' tried to usher me up the stairs, but she was yanked away before I reached the top.
"You try and stand in the way, and I'll do to you what I'm about to do to him!" He yelled, throwing my ma' down the stairs and to the floor.
But for the first time, I took a deep breath, and turned around to face my father and told him "No." I didn't just stand in front and cower in preparation for the beating, I placed both my hands on my dad's chest and shoved him.
In his drunken stupor, he swayed and tripped down two steps.
"Clint, go!" My ma' crowed, clutching various bruises parts of her body in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
"Why you little brat..." My dad husked in a rugged voice and as he tried to regain his footing I dashed up the stairs, tripping onto my hands and knees as I reached the top.
A hand snatched my ankle as my fingers buried into the carpet on the landing for traction. I let out a shriek and flailed around my ankle. I felt the rewarding collision of my foot on his face and heard the cracking of cartilage.
The grip on my ankle suddenly loosened, I slithered free and dashed to my room. I slammed the door behind me, leaning against it to block my dad out.
Seconds later, I felt the shockwave rattle the door as my dad rammed his shoulder into the door. It opened partially before clacking shut again under my counter force.
"Let me in you little runt!" His hoarse voice was slightly muffled through the wood.
He barged his shoulder into it again, throwing his entire weight into the door. I dug my heels in to stop the door opening too far.
I heard him take a few steps back, his footfalls heavy and uncoordinated and then I heard the lolloping rumble of feet as he ran at the door. He threw rough momentum into his run to throttle the door open.
I was catapulted onto the floor and the door swung open.
"No! No! No!" I yelped, trying to get away. I would've happily jumped out the window to avoid my dad.
He laid into me the second he got his hands on me, raining down hateful comments.
"Stupid kid! Breaking my nose, you ungrateful shit! Hurting your own father, you disobedient, disrespectful-" his foot hit my head.
That's when the world went quiet. Something was wrong.
I looked up, and I could see my dad's lips moving and the pain in my body, but around every fifth word was audible. My world was wrong. My world went soundless.
A/N - I wrote this chapter way ahead of time, and it was nice to just update today without having to type it all on the day. Also, it would've meant y'all would've had to wait until the evening to get an update if I wrote it today - I'm going to a BBQ in the nice weather we're having in the UK!
To explain the GIF at the top of the chapter, I am casting Barney Barton as Daniel Craig; he seemed a popular fancast, and who am I to object?
Dedication goes to rygillies! x