Page 18 of Lesson Learned

I stare at him, hands on hips for a few seconds to grab my breath, then systematically stamp on his throat, his face, his chest. I take a step back and kick him like I’m kicking a rugby ball between the posts, slamming him in the same spot on his side again, and again, and again. Then I move back to his chest, stamping harder, not stopping until I’ve felt the bend and snap of his ribs under my heel.

There’s no anger, no rage. That used itself up earlier when I first understood what he’d done.

Now there’s just the physical work of punishment, my only emotion a pulse of regret that this is what I’ve become. This is what life in my family ground me down to be.

A boy who enjoyed poetry, who found a wondrous rhythm in well-written prose now finding his rhythm in the snap of a rib, the crunch of bone, the springy give of beaten flesh bruising under my boot heels.

I wanted to sip cognac in front of roaring fires and stitch leather elbow patches onto my tweed jackets. Even having lived the transition I still wonder how the fuck I came to this.

My entire body shivers when I force myself to stop. There’s the sound of ragged breathing and it’s not me, so I guess the piece of shit is still alive.

I grab the shoulders of his denim shirt and drag him upright, staring at the blood bubble blowing from his right nostril. At the shine of crimson coating his yellowing teeth.

And I punch him. Even though I’m trying to avoid bruises, even though he’s so far out of it he can’t possibly feel one more blow.

I punch him to feel the smirk disappear under the grind of my knuckles, splitting his lips wide open, loosing a new spurt of blood.

When I drop him this time, I let him lie there. I move to the doors, kicking out the wedge and pulling them closed, letting them lock just as he told me.

The female bartender stands nearby, eyes staring with open caution.

“Leave him,” I warn her. “He’ll probably learn his lesson easier if he has all morning to think about it.”

She nods, then scampers to release the door so I can exit out the front. The bouncer looks in the opposite direction as I go past, a man after my own heart.

Patrick sits, waiting, unlocking my door as I approach. “Get it out of your system, did you?”

I crack my knuckles and he gives them a sharp look, shaking his head as he fires the engine and U-turns to go back the way we came.

They’re reddening but the skin’s not broken. Not even grazed. There’ll be bruises but nothing bad. Nothing more than a man my age might get fumbling some DIY in his garage.

There are flecks of blood covering my torso, my face, my pants leg, but none of it’s mine.

“You can drop me out here,” I tell Patrick as he pulls into my driveway. He ignores me to punch a keycode into the gate release. I’d make a mental note to change it but there’s no point. The house is staffed by people my uncle Creighton hired; they’d change it back or pass on the new number. They’re loyal to him not me.

Patrick parks near the front door, then gets out to accompany me inside. I don’t bother with another protest; if I insist he doesn’t have to come in, it’ll tip him off I’m hiding something inside.

The downside is he might now discover my companion all by himself.

“Drink?” I ask, crossing to the sideboard in the lounge. The wedding picture of me and Saski has been moved. Not much. Just a few millimetres to one side.

There’s also a light imprint in the carpet pile, near to the door. The kitchen’s on the other side of the room. On the pretence of fetching ice neither of us wants, I check in there.

Empty.

Hopefully, my little wanderer tired of roaming the house and went back to sleep. It lifts my heart to know she’s okay. Whatever the bartender gave her must be as short-acting as it was fast.

I’m heading back when Patrick follows me into the room, scanning it quickly, smirking at my discomfort. “Hiding something, are you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Could I borrow a sweater? It’s cold out.”

He’s back in the lounge, enroute to my bedroom, by the time I catch up to him. “Tell me what you want. I’ll grab it.”

“Why?” He pauses in the corridor, staring along the hallway to my bedroom door. It’s ajar. The light inside the room is on. A teasing note enters his voice. “Do you have someone in there you don’t want me to see?”

“I don’t like people going through my stuff.”

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