Page 114 of Tiny Fractures

“Excuse me?” she says, taking another step toward me, her hands on her hips. “I’m not raising you to be a god damn hooligan, Ronan. You’re making this family look bad walking around looking like you got into a bar fight.”

I don’t know if it’s some remnant of the adrenaline that was thrashing through my body not even an hour ago or the utter hypocrisy my mom is throwing in my face, but I shut up the voice in my head that tells me to back off and instead decide to double down on my already disrespectful comment. “I don’t get you. You beat the shit out of me all the damn time and you don’t care what I look like.”

Yep, that did it. Her face darkens and she shoves her hands against my chest, pushing me back. “So, are you telling me you enjoy getting the shit beat out of you? Because that’s what I’m hearing right now, Ronan,” she yells, shoving me again. “That you’re asking for it.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” I yell back, matching her volume.

“Because you’re a fucking piece of shit, Ronan. Because you’re a waste of space, a fucking worthless, no-good screw up who should never have been born,” she screams at the exact moment that she smashes her fist into my cheekbone, exactly where Adam caught me earlier, catching me off guard. She shoves me a third time—hard—toward the open garage door. I fall backwards down the three steps, trying desperately to get a grip on the doorframe to prevent the fall, but I’m unsuccessful and crash into the steel utility shelf, pulling it down with me.

Pain shoots down my arm the moment I land on the concrete floor, and I grab my right shoulder as I try to find my footing.

“Fuck,” I groan. I can tell I’m hurt. I shut my eyes tightly, gritting my teeth as the pain rips through my body. I attempt to breathe through it, to maintain my composure. I refuse to show weakness when she’s around.

“Ronan!” My mother’s voice is sharp as she calls my name.

“I need a second, Mom. Please,” I breathe, not ready for more of her bullshit. Why the hell did I have to provoke her? Was I really asking for it? What the hell is wrong with me? I’m so screwed up. I take a sharp breath, push myself up off the floor, and climb the three steps back into the house and to the kitchen.

My mother’s expression—full of anger just seconds ago—has changed to one of concern. She finally lets me pass as I continue to cradle my hurt shoulder against my body.

“Let me see,” she urges, following me into the living room.

“No, please don’t touch me!” I whimper with another wave of pain. I’m pleading, I know, and I know how much she hates that, but right now I don’t have the willpower to play her games. I can feel myself crashing.

“Ronan!” Her voice is all authority again. I stop in my tracks, obeying, and lower my left hand from my right shoulder to allow her to examine me. “Your shoulder is dislocated,” she diagnoses me, alive in her role as a nurse.

“Yeah, no shit,” I mutter.

She gives me an angry look. “I’m going to set it.” She extends her hand toward my shoulder, but I flinch back.

“What? No!” I protest, my voice panicky. No way am I going to allow her the sadistic pleasure of hurting me even more.

“Ronan, I need to put your shoulder back in its socket.” Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and I just about fucking lose it. “It will feel a lot better once it’s set, I promise,” she urges now, her voice soft, and I get whiplash from her constantly changing emotions. It’s nothing I’m not used to, but it’s particularly exhausting and unpredictable when I’m in pain and have a hard time processing the threat level.

I analyze her face for a few seconds, unsure of the right move, unsure of whether I should allow her to help me or if I’m setting myself up for more pain. But my shoulder throbs painfully and I’m desperate for relief.

I take a deep breath. “Fine.”

My mother’s body relaxes as she takes a couple steps toward me, then places her left hand on my shoulder and her right under my elbow. I dip my head down and close my eyes, bracing for the inevitable. “I’m going to count to three,” she says, her voice steady. “One…”

She pushes my arm up forcefully and relocates my shoulder with a loud pop.

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, taking a sharp breath in. “What happened to the three count?” I ask through gritted teeth, breathing hard.

“I find that nothing is worse than the anticipation of pain.” She takes a step back, admiring her handiwork before she turns and walks into the kitchen, where I hear her open the freezer. I stand there, eyes closed, wondering how the hell I got to this place, what the hell I did to deserve all this. Well, I know what I did, what it is that I’m doing—I keep fucking up. I keep not being good enough, ever. I open my stupid mouth when I just need to shut the fuck up. God damn it. I can’t do anything right. I can’t keep Cat safe; fuck, I can’t even keep myself safe. I’m worthless.

My mom returns to the living room with a bag of ice. “Here, you’ll need to ice your shoulder and take some ibuprofen. Your ligaments are overstretched right now. And put some ice on that,” she adds, motioning toward my cheek.

“Okay,” I say, feeling unsteady on my feet. I take the ice from her and place it against my shoulder, then walk out of the living room.

“Where are you going?”

“Upstairs so I can change. I still need to get back to work,” I say, and I don’t wait for a response as I make my way to my room. I change as quickly as I can, my shoulder sore, my face throbbing, and get back downstairs in less than five minutes.

My mother is back in the kitchen when I walk in. “Please take the trash out with you,” she says like nothing happened. Her voice is even, normal, just like I’d expect any mother to sound. It’s such a god damn mind fuck.

I grab the trash bag, ready to walk back into the garage to deposit the trash in the can and get into my car.

“I’m sorry for hurting you.” My mother’s voice is quiet as I pass by her, and I almost miss what she just said. She sighs, puts down the coffee mug she was just rinsing, and turns to me. “I don’t want to hurt you all the time.” Her eyes search mine for acceptance of what she’s telling me.

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