Page 23 of Five Summers

I stay there, watching the red taillights disappear into the distance, merging with the night. I turn and make my way down the front path, feeling the anticipation growing as I approach the front door. I'm waiting, ears on high alert, trying to catch any faint sounds before I go in.

Nothing. It’s dead quiet. I lift my hand and turn the doorknob, then step into the quiet house.

The room is pitch black. The microwave clock, usually a source of light in the room, is now completely dark.Great, the power is fucking off again.

Closing the door behind me, I navigate the room with uncertain steps. My foot accidentally kicks an empty bottle, making a clinking sound as it slides across the floor. I wait in silence, holding my breath, straining to hear the slightest sound.

Out of nowhere, a voice shatters the silence, catching me off guard.

“Where the fuck have you been?” His voice drips with venomous hatred, like a poisonous serpent ready to strike.

I remain quiet, my heart pounding in anticipation of the impending confrontation.

Squinting into the darkness, I strain my eyes, hoping to catch any flicker of movement that might reveal his whereabouts. The last time he caught me like this, the sharp throbbing sting of pain in my face lasted for days. My injuries got everyone at school talking and asking me what happened. There was no way I could tell them the truth. So I lied. I told them I got into a fight with some guy who caught me banging his girlfriend. Only Ace knew the truth. Because he knows my old man’s a piece of shit. That’s why he worries about me.

My eyes dart around the room, searching for him. And then I hear the unmistakable sound of the whisky bottle slamming onto the table. Fuck he’s close. Too close for my comfort. I need to get out of here. I stand still, my mind racing as I contemplate the two choices before me. Either go back the way I came or sprint down the hall to my room. But it doesn't matter which one I choose. He's so close, he'll nab me before I can make a run for it.

“I guess you've been screwing around, just like your mom, no doubt.”

His words pierce deep into my heart, bringing forth a flood of memories of my beautiful mother. But now is not the time to linger on that matter. I need to get the fuck away from this psycho.

Moving slowly, I take each step with caution, my breath held tight, afraid of the repercussions if even a whisper escapes me.

One step. All good.

Two steps. As I let out a slow breath of relief, I can almost taste the freedom of making it to the hall and then I can flee to my room before the fucker can catch me.

As I take a third step, the floorboards groan under my weight, echoing through the room. But before I can even react, he has me pinned against the wall - his hand tight on my neck.

The impact hits me with such force that my bag and guitar slip from my hands, crashing onto the ground.

With his face inches from mine, his alcohol breath stings my nose.

“You worthless little bastard,” he spits out.

“Fuck you, asshole!” I hiss, my voice strained as I struggle against his tight grip.

His grip on my neck tightens, and my pulse becomes a relentless drumbeat in my ears.

“I should've kicked your ass out when your mother died. You worthless fuck.”

“I’m not fucking worthless,” I say. “Just you wait. One day I'll be something.”

“Ha!” He laughs. I feel the wetness of his spit hitting my face. “Dream on big boy, because it ain’t gonna happen. Nobody fucking wants you. Not even me, and I thought I was your old man.”

“Let me go, you fucking asshole,” I manage to gasp out, my nails digging into his hand that refuses to release its grip on my throat.

His fingers relax on my neck, giving me a momentary sense of relief, but he quickly regains his strength and forcefully shoves me back. His face hovers so near to mine that it’s almost touching. I can practically feel the waves of anger coming from him as he glares at me.

He despises me with every fiber of his being. I can feel my breath being snatched away as his hands constrict around mythroat, my body fighting for oxygen. My vision becomes warped and hazy. I am on the brink of passing out when he retracts his fist and delivers a powerful blow to my face.

Agonizing pain shoots through the side of my face like a fiery spear. I collapse onto the unforgiving floor. My mouth tastes the blood as it flows from my nose, staining my lips. I'm struggling to breathe as I wipe the blood off my nose with the back of my hand.

Despite the darkness, a piercing sound breaks the silence, leaving me even more breathless. It’s a jarring sound, like splintering wood. And I know exactly what it is. My heart aches knowing it’s my guitar, the one my mother gave me before she passed away.

"How are you gonna make it now big shot without your guitar," he sneers, his words laced with mockery.

What that guitar represents to me is invaluable. It was my ticket out of this place, but, most of all, it was my mom's prized possession. The loss of it reduces me to a whimpering child.

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