Page 76 of Tiny Fractures

I wish I had it in me to just defy her, take the three steps that separate me from the outside world, and drive away to safety. But that’s not what I’ve been conditioned to do. Instead, my body betrays me. My legs carry me to the right, down the hallway, and to the doorway to the kitchen where I stop. My shoulders hurt with the tension seizing my muscles, anticipating what comes next, bracing for pain.

“I thought I told you to clean out the fridge yesterday, did I not?” my mom says against gritted teeth.

“You did.” My voice is feeble, which pisses me off. I’m not small by any means. I’m over six feet tall and weigh maybe 175 pounds. I’m muscular—lean and conditioned. But in my mother’s presence I feel tiny, weak, and like I’m five years old. She’s the reason I work out as much and as hard as I do. I had the honest belief that if I got stronger, bigger, she would back off a little, but it’s almost like the complete opposite has occurred. She just hits me harder now.

“So why did I find moldy bread in here this afternoon?” She points to a loaf of bread on the counter.

“I haven’t had a chance to do it yet, Mom. I had practice yesterday and then I worked last night,” I try to defend myself, knowing it’s useless. I could be running a fortune one-hundred company, and all she would see is the fact I didn’t do what she told me to do.

She pushes off the fridge, facing me. Her face is contorted with anger. “So did I, Ronan. I work every god damn day to make sure that you—spoiled, ungrateful little brat—have a roof over your head, food on the table, and gas in that fucking car of yours. And you repay me by dodging your responsibilities, not doing your chores, giving me lip, and not following the rules. And I’m really fucking tired of your shit and your weak excuses, Ronan. You’re not the only one who lives in this house!” Her voice is pitchy as she yells at me. “You are such a fucking failure, Ronan. All I ask is for you to contribute at home, but you can’t fucking do that because either you’re too fucking lazy or too fucking stupid. Which one is it, Ronan?” She puts her palms against my chest and pushes me backwards. “Which one, Ronan? I asked you a god damn question. Are you stupid or are you lazy?”

She shoves me again when I don’t answer.

“Or is it both? Answer me!”

What am I supposed to say? Her words aren’t meant to elicit a response; they’re meant to injure. And they hit the mark, slowly eroding my self-worth, wiping out any trace of confidence and self-respect left after years of being told I’ll never be good enough.

She walks back into the kitchen where she grabs the broom off its hook, and I know without a shadow of doubt what’s going to happen next. This has been her go-to form of punishment lately.

“Come here!”

I don’t move.

“Come. Here!” Her tone is authoritative, militant.

I blink, calculating my options and the odds of getting out of this unharmed. Absolutely zero. I’ve learned not to beg, not to ask her not to hurt me; it makes her angrier and draws out the punishment.

“I’m only going to tell you one more time, Ronan. Come. Here. Now!”

I walk into the kitchen, stopping in front of her, and she points to the counter across from her.

“Turn around and put your hands on the counter!”

I do as she says, closing my eyes as I brace my hands on the edge of the counter. I hold my breath, waiting for the first impact.

It comes a fraction of a second later. The pain is blinding when the metal handle of the broom connects with the right side of my back. I inhale sharply through my teeth but make no other sound. If I just shut up, it’ll be over faster.

The first hit is followed by another, and then another in short succession. Each time she pulls back and then lands another blow to my back, just below my right shoulder blade. A groan involuntarily escapes my mouth on the ninth hit, and I grip the counter like it’s my lifeline, knuckles white, keeping my knees from buckling under the pain.

After the fourteenth and final strike I slowly open my eyes, my head lowered, my breathing ragged. Yet I don’t dare retrieve my hands from the counter. I wait for more pain, never knowing when it’s over, when I’m safe.

It’s quiet with the exception of my heart hammering in my chest and my blood rushing through my head, drowning out any outside noise.

“Get out of my sight,” my mother says, sounding drained, like it was me hitting her.

I straighten up slowly, loosen my death grip on the countertop, and walk out of the kitchen. I’m deliberate in my movements so as not to show weakness, so she doesn’t see how much pain she inflicted. I don’t look at her as I pass.

Outside, I ease myself into my car, flinching when I make contact with the seat back.

***

“You’re early,” Shane states when I show up at Murphy’s fifteen minutes later, but his face falls when he sees my expression. “What’s wrong, man?”

I nod for him to follow me to the office, and he looks at me expectantly as I close the door behind us.

“I had a run-in with my mother. I just need you to tell me how bad it is,” I say, feeling so damn sore. It’s the first time I’ve been this forthcoming with him—or anyone, for that matter—about what my mother does to me. I’m not totally sure why I feel the need to share with him today of all times that my mother has hit me, but without further warning, I turn around and pull up my shirt.

“God, what the fuck?” Shane steps closer to me, carefully touching the throbbing area on my back. I flinch and take a sharp breath in through my teeth. Even the slightest touch elicits a sharp pain.

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