Page 66 of Tangled Desires

Disgust crawls its way up my throat. “Oh, God.”

“A few years later, I found some older kids. They taught me how to fight, how to handle myself. Street fights became my way of blowing off steam.” His jaw tightens. “Then one night… Gary hit Michael. Smacked him just because he didn’t make it to the toilet on time. It was the first time he laid a hand on Michael. I... I just snapped. Beat the shit out of him.”

The anger in his voice is raw, full of rage that still burns deep. “The police showed up, saw the bruises, the cuts. They ruled it self-defense. I spent a day at the station, no juvie, but Gary was locked up after some investigation. Things didn’t get better, though. Not right away. After that, Mum met Joe. She’d been sober for a bit—luckily for her—but we were taken off her, thrown into foster care. That’s when Joe stepped in. He’d been friends with Mum for a while, and he offered to take us in.

Mum had to prove she was fit to look after us again, and somehow, she got custody back, which... feels like bullshit. Things were better when Michael and I were with Joe.”

“Did things get better after that? What happened?” My voice is quiet.

“For a while they did. Mum ‘tried’ to stay clean, but she fell back. Hard.” He shakes his head. “Joe put her into rehab. He actually took care of us—better than anyone ever had.” His voice cracks, the rawness of it hitting me hard.

“Didn’t she—did she ever try to protect you? Your mother. Whilst all… that was happening.”

“Maybe, in her own way,” he mutters finally. “She’d shove us in cupboards or our wardrobe sometimes, tell us to stay quiet. It felt more like she was obeying him, but maybe it was her way of warning us.” His voice drops, barely audible. “Doesn’t change the fact she wasn’t a mother to us. I took care of Michael. Not her.”

All I hear is the hurt in his voice, the years of responsibility he carried. “All I ever wanted was to protect Michael. Keep him from going through the same shit I did. That night when Gary hit him…” His voice cracks, and without thinking, I grab his hand.

“What about you, Harrison?” My voice shakes. “Who looked out for you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” His hand pulls back slightly. “I was the oldest. It was my job to cop it, so he didn’t have to.”It doesn’t matter. How can he think that?

“Itdoesmatter.” I pause. “Youmatter, too, Harrison.”

His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, I see everything—the hurt, the weight of it all. His expression is unreadable, but I can feel the pain in the way he looks at me.

“You didn’t deserve that. No one does.”

His jaw works. “It’s too late now. It’s what I had to do. Michael is my brother. I’d take anything if it meant he didn’t have to.” The tension in his face is impossible to ignore. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s bracing for something, but his arms hang loose now, not folded tight like usual. For a moment, he looks… vulnerable. Exposed.

“Is that why you sleep with the lamp on?” His face reddens slightly.

“Yeah,” he hesitates. “Back then, at night, we’d hear our father. The yelling, smashing shit around, hitting Mum. She’d scream, even cry sometimes—just one room over. I’d lie there, waiting. Wondering if he’d come for us next. The light… it made it feel like we had control oversomething. Like it was safer.” He shrugs, the movement stiff. “I don’t know if Michael still does it, but I never stopped. I need it.”

I let the silence stretch before I ask. “And the granny flat? Why the separate place?”

He sighs, his voice heavy. “Back then, they’d happen almost every night. I got used to it, grew to expect them. But now, asan adult, they hit me randomly—depending on how stressed or tired I am. Sometimes it’s like I get this gut feeling, like a storm rolling in. You just know when the thunder is about to crack.” He pauses, his gaze distant. “I needed space. Privacy. My room was next door to Michael’s, and I kept waking him up. Mum and Joe’s room was too far to matter.”

“Do they know about the nightmares? Joe and your mum?”

“Joe does—he’s seen it happen a couple of times. But Mum?” He snorts, shaking his head. “Never. And she probably wouldn’t care even if she did.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the strands falling messily over his face, and for a second, his guard drops. Just enough for me to see it. Beneath all the layers—his tattoos, his cocky grin, that endless energy—there’s a man holding himself together with scars, built from everything he’s survived. A quiet, aching strength that tells me he’s carried too much for too long.

“Have you ever thought about seeing a psychologist? Or a counsellor?”

“What, because I’m fucking psycho? Nah, I’m good.”

“Christ, Harrison, that’s not what I’m saying.” I huff, rolling my eyes. “A psychologist isn’t for ‘psychos.’ They’re trained to help people deal with stuff—feelings, reactions, shit like that. Or even a counsellor. Just… someone who knows what they’re doing.”

He clenches and unclenches his jaw. “Michael’s been on my ass about it, too. Says I should talk to someone. But I don’t see how some stranger is supposed to fix anything.

“I don’t know if I can just… open up to someone I don’t know.” His fingers find the hem of his sleeve, twisting it, fidgeting. It’s a nervous tic I’ve noticed before.

“You’ve just opened up to me.”

“But you’re not just anyone, Immy. You’re…” He trails off, like he can’t find the right words.

“I’m what?”

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