Late, late night. His brother had fallen asleep at the foot of the steps. Jake’s father was in the living room upstairs, mumbling to himself, arguing in Korean, descending into a drunken haze. Jake had stopped shaking, and touched his face lightly. He checked the dressing his brother had applied over his cut cheek, a mix of butterfly bandages and gauze, studying the contours of rising bruises. After Jake had cut himself, his father had ordered Eugene to clean the wound and then sent them downstairs.
Jake noticed movement in the corner of the basement, something rippling in the darkness. He heard his brother grinding his teeth.
He focused and thought he saw a goblin hurrying by. His brother groaned in his sleep.
Jake kept still, hugging his legs and listening to the click of the furnace, the sign of the flame kicking in. His skin prickled with anticipation.
Jake couldn’t believe his own actions. He had taunted his father. Speak English! Speak English! And he had seen the purplish veins popping out on his father’s forehead, knowing what was going to happen, and yet Jake hadn’t been able to stop himself. The first backhand sent Jake flying across the kitchen floor, and after a stunned moment, Jake pulled himself up unsteadily, and said in a tight voice, You can’t do that to me! Then, Jake wasn’t sure what happened. He started charging his father again and again, only to be swatted away and then pummelled and kicked. He couldn’t get up from the quick kicks and yelled for his brother’s help, but Eugene stood motionless, staring. Help me, Jake yelled again, but his father pointed his finger at Eugene and said something in Korean, and Eugene shook his head and cried, his arms at his side. Speak English, Jake yelled, and felt that last blow to his chest turn everything off, and rolled away and grabbed the knife from the counter. His father crouched down, arms ready, and Jake dove at him, knife poised, but his father moved quickly, effortlessly, and the next thing Jake knew he was suddenly on the floor, his face bleeding, the wind knocked out of him. He couldn’t remember how he had arrived there. He wasn’t even sure where the knife had come from. It had appeared in his hand.
His father barked an order to Eugene, and then looked down at Jake with a dull, even gaze and lumbered out of the kitchen. Eugene hurried over and whispered, Why’d you do that? Why’d you push him? But Jake had only said, You didn’t help me.
As he listened to his brother asleep on the steps, he checked the bandages on his face. His cheek stung. Eugene’s breathing slowed and deepened. Jake felt a release, a freedom he didn’t understand. He wasn’t afraid.
Soon, their father stopped mumbling upstairs. The house became quiet, the stillness punctuated by a creak in the floor, a doorway settling, the wind outside. Jake was wide awake, unused to the silence. He stared out into the darkness, warmed by the furnace. He listened to everyone breathe, and was lulled by the cadence of sighs. The furnace clicked off. He rose up, used the screwdriver to pick open the basement door, then wandered silently through the house, heading to his bedroom, broken lamps and overturned furniture strewn along the floor. He stopped and stared at his sleeping father. He thought of all the things he could do right now. He could get the knife if he wanted to. He felt stronger. He was stronger. He studied his father, then turned away. For a moment he saw the ghostly image of his mother in the corner, watching him. She clapped her hands lightly, applauding. He rubbed his eyes. She disappeared. He focused, and soon saw clearly through the night, and glided down the hallways in the peaceful aftermath.