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Past
High School
Jase
It’ll be the same tonight as it always is.
Punch. Kick. Jab. Kick again.
Nothing is as bad as his words, though. The scars he leaves will heal. The pain he inflicts on my flesh will disappear. The bones he breaks will fix themselves eventually.
It’s the words that stay.
It’s the harsh belittling that lingers around me like a stale cigarette.
It’s the rampant slurs on repeat that eat away at my sanity.
He knows this, yet he continues. I wish he’d just keep beating me, letting his anger flow through his fists instead of through his venomous tongue. It whips harder than his belts. It stings worse than his hangers, and it damages far worse than any brutality he’d offer.
“Such a waste. I don’t know why I let her keep you!” he roars, spit leaving his mouth from the aggression.
His knee connects with my gut, making me keel over from the force. My knees hit the ground, sending pain up my thighs as I hold my stomach in protest. The booze on his breath seeps with his perfidious expressions, making me even more nauseous. Tonight will be much worse than expected. When he’s drowning in his own crutch, it’s more brutal. He’s fucking ruthless.
“We should have given you up, but no, that whore wanted to keep you, so I let her. And look at you, wasting your life on a career you won’t continue with... on a life I pay for!”
His foot connects with my abdomen and my ribs. The crack I feel takes my breath away. He pulls back, his disgust for me always apparent. The lingering saliva on his lips is wiped before he proceeds to spit on me. A small vile smirk tilts at the corner of his mouth as he raises his fists to me once again.
When his ring hits my cheekbone, it takes everything in me not to cry out. The metal feels worse than his knuckles, making the skin rip, and I know it’ll be bleeding soon.
“God, what I’d do to have never dipped my dick into that bitch!”
Instead of allowing him to talk shit about my mom, I use everything I have to get up and launch at him. It’s futile really, but he wasn’t expecting me to fight back. It’s obvious in his lack of preparation as my fists collide with his face.
“You never deserved her! You’ve ruined everything! Instead of being a father, you’re an entitled prick that wets his dick whenever and with whoever!” I keep hitting until I’m yanked back. “You did this! You!” I bark as tears stream down my face. He can call me what he wants, tear me down, beat the fuck out of me, but not her. He can’t keep hurting her. Brant’s still form is unconscious, he won’t be hurting me anymore tonight.
When I peer back, I see my mom’s eyes glossed over. “Jason, baby. What have you done?”
She comes closer to me, her gaze scanning my body, connecting with my face. Her hands roam over me, her eyes barely containing tears. I flinch when she touches my lip and back up a little. Usually, Brant avoids my face. Can’t have the quarterback of a State Champ team with facial bruises, but this time, he drank a little too much, spewed his shit too much, and hit wherever he desired.
“He kept calling you names. I couldn’t have it, Mom. I couldn’t.” My chest rises and falls quickly, the heaving breaths putting too much pressure on my ribs that are sure to be cracked, if not completely broken. “I couldn’t let him degrade you like that,” I add, my heart aching more for her than all the pain surrounding it.
“Jason,” she coos, her eyes filled to the brim with horror, as if she didn’t know he hit me, that she didn’t know it wasn’t just her he put his hands on.
She seems to be experiencing too much emotion because she just kneels down and holds me, making the pain intensify while Brant snores nearby. Good, he’s alive. I still have a chance at a future.
She cries, her whimpers hurting me more than the sores on my body. Her pain is the worst thing to experience. She didn’t ask for this. She deserves better.
“You need to leave him, Ma. We can’t do this anymore.”
“I know,” she barely whispers, her hand making circles into my back. “I know.”
She takes me to the doctor. Two cracked ribs and eight stitches later, I’m at Denny’s house. He’s a running back and also a good friend. Ma told me not to tell Toby, that she’d make plans for us to leave, that we’d be okay.
But it didn’t happen.
*****
TWELVE WEEKS PASSED, and we are still here. He still beats me, and she still tells me she’s sorry. She drinks now, drowns herself in booze and pills—whatever blocks out the sounds of my bellows.
Tonight, though, when I fought back, he hit me worse. My eyes are black, and my stomach is hollow. Once again, I’m on my way to Denny’s.
We’re supposed to go to the drive-in to see some Stephen King remake. I’m not there for anything other than a distraction—well, that and booze.
As soon as I get to Denny’s, he hollers at me to help him pack the cooler with drinks and the truck bed with a couch. The other guys from the team are here, and Toby is supposed to be here, too. No matter how hard I try to not resent my brother for his father, I do. He is nearly a spitting image of him. He barely got any of Mom’s attributes. It kills me, seeing him, hating him, knowing it isn’t his fault.
Tonight, he’ll be here, thinking he’s cool shit with an easy life, but life isn’t fucking easy. It’s a lie, the biggest and non-whitest lie ever.
“You know, those freshman will be at this drive-in?” Denny muses, his eyes alight with joy.
Besides him, I see Francis. His lips tilt to smile at me, almost nodding in a way to say hey, what’s up? and I return the gesture.
“Not really interested in jail-bait, bro,” I say.
They all laugh, some agreeing while Denny stares at me stupidly. “You’ve got to get some ass with that wicked black eye. They’ll want to make it better,” he mocks.
I smirk. “Yeah, maybe they’ll want to comfort my dick. Not a bad idea.”
But I’m not in it.
Whenever I mess around with chicks, it’s for the sake of escaping, to forget the bruises on my body that I blame on football and messing around with my friends. Tonight won’t be different. I always wanted to sleep with someone under the stars. Maybe it’s my lucky night.
We lift the couch into the truck bed, add in some pillows and blankets, and then pack the rest of the necessities. After stopping at some burger joint, we get dinner and shakes and head to the drive-in. Half the guys hide in Denny’s blacked out cab, so we don’t have to pay as much to enter.
As soon as they wave us through, directing us to the biggest lot, we hop out and get everything set up. The theater is quaint. There are only three screens, two of which aren’t all that big. They’re for the lesser production-type movies.
Each Friday, they play two movies, one right at dawn and one after that until almost two in the morning. It’s fun to hang out, but the theater is beaten up and unused most days.
“What movie are we seeing?” Francis asks me.
I chomp down my food. Mom always taught me that talking with a full mouth was disrespectful, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it now. “Some Stephen King remake,” I garble.
His face scrunches, but he laughs at me. “Bro, chew your food, or you’ll choke.”
“Okay, Mom,” I exaggerate.
He flips me the bird and heads in the direction of the cinema café. They sell everything a normal movie theater does, so he’s probably getting popcorn. If I’m still hungry, I’ll probably pop in for cotton candy and a pretzel. I’m a sucker for movie foods.
Everyone heads for the bathrooms, and I’m stuck sitting on the couch, waiting for the sun to set. It’s weird, being here, being a part of something normal when my life is such a mess.
When everyone is back, the previews are taking up the screen, and I’m already bored. It’s not like me to be here and sober. Like my mom, I drink to forget.
The sun finally settles behind the peaks. The guys bring out the cooler full of booze and toss me a Bud Light.
“Thanks,” I say with a nod. In the next moment, I’m chugging, slurping it down, drowning in my own shitty life.
After my third beer, I’m not even paying attention to the screen. At some point, a bunch of chicks come over, and one immediately sits beside me.
“Hey,” she whisper-shouts, scooting to where her bare thigh touches my cargo short-clothed one.
I lift my head, my eyes scanning her. “Sup.”
She smiles softly, almost as if hiding the fullness of a real one. It’s not from embarrassment or shyness, but from finally winning something. I’m not even sure of what she thinks she’s won.
My mind’s cloudy from the beers. They always go right through me. She places her palm on me, her fingers putting pressure on my thigh. The girl is hot. Brunette, long legs, nice rack, cute smile... but she isn’t what I need.
What I need is more booze.
What I need is an escape.
As she strokes my leg up and down like she’s pretending it’s a dick, I watch the people around us.
“So, you’re a junior?” she asks, interrupting my people-watching.
Nodding, ignoring, and not giving her anything, I watch in the distance, seeing my brother. He’s with a girl. She’s not meek but not outspoken. Hell, she even seems bored, almost like she doesn’t want to be here either.
The girl stroking my leg makes her way up to my crotch, grabbing gently, trying to bring my attention back to her.
When she begins kissing my throat, I take a look away from mystery girl, giving this chick a little attention.
She’s worked hard. Might as well give her an inch. Lifting her, I set her on my lap, her thighs on either side of my hips. And then she grinds down on me as I take her mouth. Her lips aren’t as puffy as I thought, not as welcoming as I’d hoped, and no matter how much she tries stroking her tongue with mine, my attention keeps going back to the girl with my brother. His arm is across her shoulder, almost as if he’s claiming her. She’s beautiful, and I want her. I want to see why she intrigues me, what makes her tick, what fuels her life.
When the mystery girl sees the girl on me, she shields her face, scrunching her nose in disgust, then she taps on Toby and walks away. Now that she’s gone, I’m bored again. Pushing the broad off my lap, I go to apologize but realize I don’t even know her name.
“Next time?” she comments.
I want to roll my eyes but refrain. Attachments aren’t my thing.
“I’m Ellie, by the way.”
“Next time,” I mutter, not meaning it.
Leaving her on the couch, I search for the girl. I only go ten steps in the direction she left when Francis and Toby stop me and hand me another beer.
Popping the top, I chug, needing to wash the chick with the overactive tongue from my mouth. “Who was that girl?” I ask non-committedly, pretending I don’t care, but I do. I need to know.
“Who?” Francis questions, looking around.
Toby’s eyes connect with mine. “My girl?” With those words, it’s as if he’s stamping a do-not-touch brand on her, one I’m sure to ignore.
“Yeah, her.”
“That’s Sparkle,” he admits with pride, sticking his chin higher. “She went to the bathroom. What happened to your eye?”
Instead of answering, I chug my beer. “What’s wrong with yours?” I deflect, noticing he’s sporting a shiner too.
“I was messing around with Benton. He elbowed me,” he answers but doesn’t meet my eyes.
He probably expects me to grill him but I don’t, I blow him off and finish off my beer.
When I turn and walk away, I’m surprised my body allows it and doesn’t stumble. Then, another guy hands me another beer. When I remember—or try to remember—where that girl went, I’m already past tipsy. The numbness sets in, and I’ve already forgotten what I was meaning to do.