Page 90 of Monsters

Chapter 30

THEN

LUCAS

“Why don’t you just fuck off like you always do, Mason?” my mother slurred her words. Her pink lipstick was starting to smear, a tell-tale sign. “You’re just like your father, you know that?” She pointed her index finger in spite. “So, pack your shit and go.” Callously, she threw her coffee mug in the sink, but it hadn’t been used for coffee. It hardly ever was these days, but she didn’t know that we knew her ill-disguised secret.

Mom was drunk.

Again.

She became like this every time Anthony Borelli, her boyfriend, broke up with her and threatened never to return. The break-up never lasted long, unfortunately. We could handle a drunk mother. We could deal with the malicious outbursts even though sometimes they cut to the bone. We could cope with the vomit and the passing out, despite having to miss school to ensure she didn’t stop breathing or choke on her own mess.

She was hurt.

Broken-hearted.

What we couldn’t handle was the physical abuse. The three of us suffered at the hands of her new lover who had quickly become a poor supplement for my dad. For months, bruises marred our bodies. There’d been split lips, a continual run of black eyes, a fractured collarbone and cracked ribs, two concussions, endless punches to the face and head, and my mother had even been stomped on until unconscious. There had been countless blackouts, too many to add up. Times when we’d be forced to take turns guarding the bathroom door while the other played nurse. But still, after all the blood, injuries and tears, she welcomed him back into our family home as if everything he did to us was out of love.

She was blinded.

Stupid.

Dad left without a word and Mom clung to the nearest asshole as if somehow, he could mend her shattered world.

But he never did.

“Didn’t you hear me?” she bellowed through tears, swaying slightly on her feet. “I said pack your shit and go.” Her words further angered my brother who had returned home after a fortnight of being MIA. He did that. When Mason reached his limit, when he was close to doing something murderous, he’d retreat. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave me. But there was little choice in the matter. By nature, Mason was violent. He was a schoolyard scrapper with a high pain threshold, who thrived on the adrenalin rush. I’d seen it on many occasions, especially at home when he always fought back to save us. But there was always a limit as to how far he could be pushed.

I’d seen it in his eyes most times.

The desire to kill Borelli.

Yet, there was always one thing holding him back. He was old enough to be tried as an adult. And for that, I was glad. Borelli had already damaged us enough, I couldn’t lose a brother to a life sentence. Therefore, it all came down to our mother’s decision.

“When is this gonna end, Mom?” Mason yelled, hands spread wide as he leaned across the kitchen island bench. “Seeing your children beaten almost to death every time you let that piece of shit back into the house is okay with you? Having him knock you out cold every argument is a healthy relationship? Do you know what he does to us every time you lie spread-eagled on the ground?”

Mom shook her head in denial, cheeks reddening.

“He knocks you out, and then he comes after us. That’s what he does. He comes after us because we fight for you.” There was no disguising the accusation in his tone. “We defend you because we love you. When the fuck do you fight for us? Have you been up to Lucas’s room lately, Mom? Have you seen how many holes are in the fucking drywall? Do you know what that’s from?”

My mother turned away, too ignorant to hear the truth. Mason was having none of it.

“Turn around,” he demanded. She jumped with fright but otherwise remained still. Using his forearm, he swiped at the array of plates and cutlery stacked on the counter sending each item soaring through the air before smashing to the ground.

“Turn. The. Fuck. Around!”

Slowly, my mother did as she was told, albeit sheepish.

“Those holes are from Anthony-fucking-Borelli smashing Lucas’s head repeatedly against the drywall. Your fucking son. And you just keep letting him into our home.”

The front screen door creaked open and slammed shut. We stilled, dread consuming us all. My mother’s blue eyes grew wide with that sickening mix of terror and hope. Mason’s fists clenched by his side as he turned to watch the door.

“Go upstairs, Lucas,” he hissed, not looking at me. “Now!”

The heavily-booted footsteps across the wooden floor moved slow and deliberate. They grew closer and slowly I sank back out of view from our intruder to the hallway stairs, but still where I could just make out my brother and mother anxiously waiting.

Outside, the rain had grown heavy, and deep, rumbling thunder rolled close by occasionally shaking the house. Lightning flashed like strobe lights through the windows, a constant reminder of the darkness surrounding us.

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