"You did it again. I told you that the fighting has to stop!"
I lean back against the cement block wall, staring intensely at the metal poles across from me. Grey walls, grey floor, grey bench, grey ceiling, and dull silver bars.
Like a second home.
"Ace, look at me when I speak to you!"
My eyes drift to the Sheriff, standing outside my own personal cell, huffing and red-faced with anger. "We have had this discussion numerous times. You will stop fighting, and you will become a model student. Do you understand?"
I grin to make his temper worsen, even though I'll regret it later, if the malicious glint in his blue eyes is anything to go by.
Vibrating with anger, he grips the bars, knuckles tightening. Ooh, I've made him angry.
"Your boy acting up again, Hank?" The deputy speaks up, as he approaches.
"I don't believe that is any of your concern, Deputy," my DNA-giver responds stiffly.
Deputy Westly grins a smile laced with mockery and victory. "Of course not, Sheriff. I just needed to know if we had any open cells."
Westly is probably my favorite officer, if only for the fact that him and my father despise one another. Growing up, they were rivals, through and through. Always trying to beat the other, I'm positive they joined the force just to see who could get the bigger gun, metaphorically speaking.
Westly pipes up, "Oh, did I tell you Hank? My son got accepted into an ivy-league school."
No surprise there; his son's a nerd.
"That's wonderful, Charles," Sheriff grits out, somehow managing to glare at Westly and me simultaneously. "If you'll kindly give us a moment alone, I need to speak with my son."
Westly sends him one last mocking smile and strolls down the hallway, victory apparent in his gait.
Sheriff stands outside my cell, and a stare-down begins. My green eyes clash with his blue ones, the gene of his I luckily didn't inherit. His eyes harden at my rebellious attitude, and it gives me a sense of victory that I'll hold on to when I get home.
Our battle of dominance ends when a gruesome smile flits across his lips. "Go home, Ace. Since staying in a cell all night isn't going to fix you, we'll just have to discuss your behavior at home." My fists clench at the word 'discuss', and my back straightens, as if preparing itself. The sheriff notices my change in demeanor, and his smile becomes a little more grotesque. To outsiders, the smile looks fatherly. To me, the smile is a direct portrayal of the wolf in sheep's clothing.
Passing by him through the cell door, I knock my shoulder against his and stride angrily away from the lowlife. His footsteps follow mine, but they ring with a mocking tone, reminding me that our upcoming 'discussion' will have nothing to do with words.
At the police station's door, I am stopped. "Oh, and Ace, Miss Carmile can't pick Queenie up from her after-school activities. Be a good brother, and go get her, please." He says it so caring, one could almost believe we matter to him. I've long since stopped falling for it.
I refuse to answer and slam the glass exit door behind me.
~~~~~
"Bubba!" A short, blonde child buzzing with energy slams into my awaiting arms, and I enfold them around her, as she babbles about her day.
"Guess what? So me and Izzy pwayed with Tommy, but Mia say he has cuties, so I drawed a butterfwy for you." A piece of paper with a crudely drawn, but vibrantly colored, butterfly is pressed to my nose, forcing me to stare cross-eyed.
"It's beautiful, Queenie!" I pepper kisses across her face, making her giggle excitedly. Her smile, so carefree and innocent, helps to relieve the dread of going home.
As long as she's safe, I can handle it.
Scooping the ball of energy into my arms, I stand up, intending to carry her the couple of miles home. While walking away from the kindergarten, I watch the last vestiges of the sun and feel a small twinge of gratitude that the new kid is giving Lucilia a ride home.
Halfway home, Queenie's babbling comes to a halt and she stares intently over my shoulder. "Look, Bubba. A twuck!"
I glance backwards and find the new kid speeding towards us. When he gets closer, I notice the empty passenger seat and realize that he dropped Lucilia off already. Slowing down, Ethan parks beside us and hops out.
"You want a ride?" He questions with a curious look at Queenie.
"No."
Annoyance creeps onto his face. "Seriously, Ace? Look at how cold she is." I follow his gesturing hand to a shivering Queenie, who stares imploringly into my eyes.
"Pwease, Bubba."
I huff and place her on the ground, taking off my coat to bundle her up. Then I pick her up and approach Ethan's black pick-up.
Catching Ethan throwing Queenie a thumbs-up, I glare at him menacingly. "Unlock the door, new kid."
Rolling his eyes but complying nonetheless, Ethan hopped in the truck, and I deposit Queenie onto the middle seat.
She smiles widely at Ethan. "Are you Bubba's fwiend?"
"Yes."
"No." We speak simultaneously.
After a brief glower sent my way, Ethan starts the car. "So what's your name, cutie?"
Queenie's ever-present smile widens brilliantly. "Queenie."
"And how old are you, Miss Queenie?"
"Five," she says, holding up four fingers. I reach over and lift her thumb.
"Well, Miss Queenie, I'm Ethan, your brother's friend." He reciprocates her sweet smile, but then speaks, "Where to, Ace?"
I gesture towards the road. "Straight."
"Still a man of many words, I see."
I do not deign to reply.
The road spans before us, disappearing beneath the truck hood with every foot closer to my impending 'discussion'. My anxiousness increases, and I do not want to go home.
With each passing tree, my grip on the cushioned seats intensifies, and my back stiffens, muscles quivering. My body feels like it does right before a fight, like it did earlier when I got into an argument with Peter Davis, the irritation from math class. He was the person I got caught fighting, and for once, I wasn't even the one who started the fight.
Queenie's right hand drops onto my closed fist, and she opens it, playing with my long fingers. Then she presses her palm flat against mine, and her hand seems so pure compared to my calloused ones. I'd do anything to keep her safe.
"Bubba, my hand's small. Your hand's big, weally big."
I lean towards her and peer into her vibrant green eyes that shine with innocence and youth. "All the better to tickle you with," I whisper dramatically.
My hand slips out from under hers and shoots forward, tickling her side as she breaks out into peals of laughter. "Bubba, no! Pwease, Bubba!" My tickling persists, and she scoots closer to Ethan. "E'an, help me!"
Ethan recovers from his shock to my playful side and exclaims horrified, "I can't, Queenie! I have to drive. I can't save you." He throws both hands up into the air. "What do we do?" He yells.
"Both hands on the wheel," I grit out. Abruptly, his hands fly to the steering wheel, and he grins sheepishly.
I resume tickling Queenie, who squirms away and cries out between chortles, "Pwease, Bubba! I no want to be tickled."
I pause. "Hm. Well, I suppose I can stop," I trail off, and she smiles gleefully. "If you give me a kiss on the cheek."
She scrambles upright and immediately places a slobbery kiss on my left cheek. "Happy, Bubba?"
"Yes." When she looks away, I discretely wipe off the kiss remnants with my sleeve. Child saliva. Gross.
My brief stress reprieve vanishes and as the trees pass, I will my body to relax. It's impossible, though. Flashes of what tonight will bring appear vividly and viciously in my mind, and they make my attempt at calmness pointless. My breathing deepens, and panic seeps through my veins, flowing to every part of me, forcing myself into an adrenalized state.
I don't want to deal with him. Not tonight. Never.
My chest constricts.
I hate him.
My stomach roils.
I despise him.
My heart thunders.
He is not my father.
I look at a chattering Queenie.
He will not hurt her. Ever.
Determination replaces the panic and seeing my sweet sister reminds me why I'm not going to stop what's going to occur later. For Queenie's sake, it has to happen. Also for her sake, I have to let the new kid drive us home, so I can get her tucked safely into bed. I sigh deeply.
As we drive further with silence filling the air, I gesture to each turn that leads us to my house. It soon appears, rickety and weather-beaten. I cringe internally at the sight of it.
A filthy house fit for filth.
The truck pulls to a stop, and Ethan parks. He leans over the steering wheel, studying and judging the hovel. "This is it?"
I nod. "Yes, and you're not invited in."
"It's...rustic." He phrases the statement like a question with his brows furrowed. "And...quaint."
I stare at him blankly and say drily, "You're compliments are overwhelming. Please, stop the flattery."
I climb out of the truck before he can respond and place Queenie on the ground beside me. She takes off running to the porch and wobbles her way up the steps, soon disappearing into the house. I slowly begin following, but stop after five steps.
Glancing over my shoulder at Ethan, I reluctantly grit out, "Thanks."
I turn around, but freeze when he calls out, "Oh, Ace. Here." Ethan jogs up to me and places something in my hands. I look down.
A picture.
Not just any picture, though. It's the one that Ethan took yesterday after we ate at the café. My arm is over Lucilia's shoulder, and she is smiling beautifully, making my chest ache with desire. Ethan also has his arm over her shoulder, but he maintains a respectable distance between the two of them. While Ethan and Lucilia are grinning happily in the picture, my face is blank, no attempt to smile made. Lucilia and I look like opposites, one person full of beauty and light and the other full of darkness and bitterness.
She deserves better than me.
Ethan pipes up beside me, "I figured you could use this picture to practice talking to her. That way, maybe you can finally do it in real life sometime."
I stare thoughtfully at the picture for a moment, and then I tear it.
A disgruntled noise escapes the new kid, and I see him sputtering and searching for words as he gapes at my action. I observe the picture that is now missing Ethan from it and hand him the part with his image.
"Thanks." I walk towards the porch.
Dazed and clenching the picture, he nods at me. "Welcome," he speaks and shakes his head, exasperated.
Then, without saying another word, he climbs into his truck and reverses, driving far, far away from this house of horrors.
And I walk straight into it.
~~~~~
"And so the wolf threw up and out came Granny and Little Red Riding Hood. The end."
I open my eyes, and Queenie's horrifies face appears. Her eyes are wide, and distress runs through them.
"Bubba," she whines. "That's not the story!"
"Yes, it is."
After my earlier use of a Little Red Riding Hood quote, Queenie had the idea that I should tell her the story. And now that I did it, she complains. Figures.
"I even told you the less disturbing version."
Queenie looks immensely dissatisfied.
"Bubba, tell a diffwent story."
"What story?"
She ponders this for a moment and then exclaims, "Repunzel!"
"Okay, so there was this nasty witch who grew cabbage or something, and the farmer neighbor stole some because him and his wife were hungry."
"Bubba, that's not right."
Now dissatisfied myself because of the interruption, I glare softly at her. "Yes, it is. It may not be the happier version, but it is the right one."
"Bubba," she drags out the word.
"Fine. I'll tell the happier –and wrong– version."
She smiles and snuggles closer to my side, playing with my shirt in her tiny hands. I pull the comforter around us and begin the story, but halfway through, I notice that she is asleep, looking carefree.
"Good night, Queenie." I press a soft kiss to her forehead and stroll out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.
~~~~~
I sit rigidly against the disgusting couch in the living, awaiting the arrival of the Sheriff. Queenie and my female DNA-giver are both asleep. Even if my mother was awake, though, her past actions –or lack thereof– show that it would not make a difference. She wouldn't help, and he wouldn't stop.
Hearing wobbly footsteps outside, I face the wall, my jaw set determinedly. Outside, he stumbles against the red door, and it shudders beneath his drunken weight. My fists clench when I hear the jingling of the keys. One key slides in, and I anticipate the door opening.
It doesn't.
He grabbed the wrong key. Now I hear him clanging the keys around, searching in his inebriated state for the correct one. I mentally hope that he doesn't find it.
Another key slides in. The lock turns with an ominous click.
I don't face the door. I don't face him. I gaze at the wall, feigning calm. He stumbles away from the door, passing the couch and me, and enters the kitchen. I watch from my peripheral vision him opening the fridge and pulling out a beer.
He stumbles back into the living room, and rage ignites in his eyes at the sight of me. "You!" he snarls.
I flinch involuntarily when he lunges forwards, roughly grabbing my shirt collar and jerking me upwards.
"You're always embarrassing me," he slurs, shaking me. "How'd I get stuck with such a piece of crap son?"
He releases me only to slam his fist into my gut. Pain blossoms from the wounded area, and I double over, arms cocooning myself.
"You're useless!" His fist again slams into me; this time it's on my cheek. My hand raises to my face, and I taste blood from biting through my lip. He stumbles away from me, vibrating with wrath.
"Why can't you do anything right?" He yells, and I wince from the volume he used.
He better not wake Queenie.
He comes at me again, slamming his fist repeatedly into my gut. When I hunch over, he grabs my hair and yanks my head back, exposing my face to another punch. Lights flash in front of my eyes, and I wonder if I'm going to pass out. I don't. After that hit, I sink to the floor, pain encompassing every nerve in my stomach and face.
"You good-for-nothing piece of dirt!" He accentuates ever word with a kick to my chest, and soon I hear a distinct cracking sound, followed by intense pain.
"At least," I choke out, blood dribbling down my chin, "I don't hit defenseless people."
I know I made a mistake speaking when the drunken rage in his eyes intensifies. "Shut up! No one wants to hear you! No one cares what you say! No one! So just shut up!"
He sends one final kick, and this one hits my spine, causing agony to shoot up my back. Then he stumbles away, almost falling on his way up the stairs.
I lay in misery on the ground, pain on all sides of me. Attempting to sit up, I fail when my chest flares in protest. So I lay still, trying to steady my erratic breathing, trying to ignore the physical pain and the deeply burrowed emotional pain. Trying and failing.
I press my inflamed face into the cool wood beneath me, and it helps soothe the throbbing of my cheekbone. My hand slides over the floor to my jacket pocket, and I reach in for my solace. I withdraw the picture, and a painful smile flits across my lips.
Her smile is so lovely, so breathtaking that it gives me something to focus on. Lucilia looks so short compared to me, and protectiveness wells up inside my being. I stroke my thumb across the image, smoothing out the crinkles. She deserves better than me. I can't taint her with my brokenness.
And yet all I desire is for her to want me with the intensity I want her. I want to hold her and comfort her, show her that I can make her happy and rid her of the sorrow in her eyes. I want to show her that, despite my failures, I can be what she needs. I want her to be the light that overcomes my darkness, the ring of brightness that surrounds the moon in an eclipse.
I need her.
Staring at the radiant beauty in front of me, I open my mouth. Silence comes out. My throat tightens, and the words will not come.
No one wants to hear you! No one!
I expel a shaky breath and suck one back in. I perform this motion multiple times, hoping it will clear the constricting feeling in my throat.
I try to speak again. "Lu-Luc—" I groan, partly out of frustration and partly out of pain. "Luc-"
Why is this so hard? Just speak, moron. She's not even here. It's only a picture.
I slam my fist into the ground. One word, Ace. Just say one word.
I focus on the image, on the smile lighting her face, and I take a deep breath.
"Luc- Lu- Hi." I nearly hit myself.
Hi? Hi! All you managed was 'hi'? That barely even counts as a word.
I groan aloud and stuff the picture back into its home in my pocket. Tamping the pain down as best as possible, I use the couch to pull myself up. Once in a standing position, I hobble to the stairs and begin climbing shakily to my room.
It's progress, I guess.