(4) Excerpt

Jackson comes home late to his father drunk in the foyer, what horrors take place? How does Jackson withstand it all?

Jackson Doloro

“I told you, dad, I need to go to bed.” He was really, really drunk, three vodka shots and five beers, by the look of the room. All courtesy of the fully stocked bar he insisted on keeping in the foyer. God, this house was annoyingly - and possibly dangerously - large. I was trembling with fear, but I clamped down on my urge to run, to get out of this house, away from this man. It made me sick, he made me sick. The fact that he enjoyed it brought swaths of  pain to me, slamming into my heart so hard it felt as though my body was just re-oriented.

He got up from his seat, wobbling, unable to stand or walk properly. “I,” He began, “don’t seem to give two little, flying f***s, boy.” He sneered, the last word stretched for added effect.

He grabbed for one of his empty beer bottles, his hand fumbling for it just a minute, and broke the end off. I was glad I was fully clothed, though the thin cloth of my t-shirt or the worn-out state of my jeans would do nothing to protect my fragile, weak, flesh. He swung his beer bottle, like a bat, his dumb, toothy smile making him look a little like captain Jack Sparrow before a good escape, or the rare fight. He exhaled through his nose in anticipation of the words about to be flung out of his mouth via his tongue. “Stupid, stupid, boy.” It was an effort to keep my knees steady, locked in place as he wobbled towards me. “I should have pulled out.” He laughed, waving the beer bottle across his face, wagging his wrist. “No, no, I change my mind.” His fist shoved the jagged edge of the bottle into my side, just above my hip. I felt my pupils flare as I took a shocked, deep breath.  “Because then, I would be able to do this.” A devilish smile pulled at his lips as he pushed the glass deeper into my body and I bucked over, the movement causing the bottle to drag along my side, and pull right out the back.

“Look at you,” His voice crooned, he peeled himself away just after twisting the bottle around a little. “Bucking like a weak animal.” I did my best to keep silent, pressing my lips together to stifle a shout.

Mom could never know. It would break her. And having her asleep, two rooms over was a dangerous line that I toed. I had to keep my mouth shut, breathe through the pain and maybe i’d live. Maybe he’d let me go soon and i’d be able to get to the first aid kit fast enough. Maybe i’d have enough bandages left over and the tweezers would be clean enough to pick out the bits of glass I felt lodged in my side.

The sadistic gleam in his eyes suggested i’d be running to that kit tonight, if I could move at all. “Ah,” He ripped the bottle from my side, I felt a warm trickle of blood slide down my side, soaking the top seams of my jeans. How was I going to get that stain out? “Let me go get my tools.”  Tools, so that’s what he was calling them tonight. “And so you don’t get any ideas tonight,” He shoved his fist up into my gut, and a knee to my groin. The only thing that kept me from mouthing my pain was the fist that made its way to my mouth, as well. He wiped my blood off his knuckles and slid into the kitchen.

I fell to my knees, the pain. Oh. My bleeding lip trembled as I heard him shuffle around in that kitchen, knowing what was to come. The tired flooded me, the emotional pain from just hours ago coming along with it. Lee. My mind traveled to her, to what I saw in her just hours ago, what I saw in her clouded blue eyes fixated on that river edge. What had been done to her? What was wrong? Her shouts, her reaction to me coming near her. She was both revolted and calmed by me.

I shouldn’t have left. I should have tried to speak to her. But she probably wouldn’t have spoken to me, she had plenty of chances to that evening. The last thing I wished was to humiliate myself, or make her uncomfortable by prodding.

I clutched by side, a soft whimper of agony slipping out as I remembered the shards and the oils on my skin. The gash, jagged and unforgiving, barked in pain at my touch. I let go.

I needed to vomit.

“Boy,” I sat up as straight as I could, I almost smelled the hot copper it was so close. “Maybe this will teach you to come home late and try to sneak your way upstairs.”

How he got so close without me realising, I realised, was because of my own shortcomings. Tired, confused, hurt both physically and emotionally. In the seconds it took me to process myself he had already been pushing that searing hot pan into my back, the sad little shirt probably burned, or ripped.

A foot to my head, down on the floor. I guess that was his mercy. He allowed me to pass out, while he finished ripping and burning my body. Not to disable me, no. Just some . . . ‘discipline’.

I guess I felt relief when my head was slammed into that hardwood floor and it all went black.

Author's Note

What do you think of this piece? Would you be able to understand it without understanding a lick of the backstory?