Page 9 of Wrecked

Here in the kitchen, he was near the back door and freedom.

He couldn’t be in enclosed spaces. Savage had said that it was called claustrophobia.

Rebel didn’t give a shit what it was called, to him it was survival.

As the hours passed, Rebel wondered if he’d need to wait for daylight to do the deed. Didn’t anyone get up to get a fucking drink at night? He shifted his ass; it had gone to sleep a few times and he had had to get up to make it stop.

A creak sounded down the hallway.

Thank fuck. It was about time!

Pulling his knife, he slipped off the counter. He was totally unprepared when his mother’s lover flipped on the kitchen light.

Shit, he should have thought of that.

The man spotted him across the short distance and gaped, eyes wide.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Rebel lifted his knife and advanced, but the guy was awake and shoved the kitchen table at him. It toppled and Rebel dodged around it.

“Hank?” his mother said, coming down the hallway with her hand on the wall.

“Get back, Dory, and call 911.”

Rebel leaped, but his mother stepped into the kitchen at the same time and Hank deflected the knife blow. Rebel punched the guy beneath the chin, but Hank hung on. They crashed into the tipped-over table, sending trash and debris flying. Pans rattled on the stove when Hank flung him against the old white appliance. The black iron burners clanked and one fell with a bang to the floor.

Rebel was losing his grip on the knife because Hank was a big motherfucker and his grip was desperate, born of wanting to live.

“Stop it!” his mother screamed, grabbed the broom, and swung it hard.

The bristle end of the broom smacked Rebel in the back and then in his head.

The knife flew out of his grip and clattered to the floor. Rebel kicked Hank in the junk and the man released him, doubling over.

“Rebel!” His mother smacked him again.

Lifting his arm to protect his face, the broom hit hard.

“Ow.”

“What the hell are you doing!” she shrieked, holding the broom on him like a sword.

“I saw him manhandle you at the front door.”

“He was guiding me into the house.”

Rebel reached over and picked up his knife and gripped it tightly. “Why is he in our house?”

“This isn’t your house.”

“Get lost, you fucking loser,” Hank said, standing with a grimace. “She don’t want you here no more. You bring nothing but trouble.”

“She’s my mother, you’re just her latest fuck.”

His mother’s palm cracked against his cheek, shaking him so hard that Rebel’s ears rang.

Rebel stared at her in shock. “You’re defending him?”

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