Page 27 of The Bad Boy Rule

I lock my bike up, pocketing the keys in my sweatpants pockets and haul myself and all of my shit through the front door, immediately assaulted by the overwhelming stench of stale beer and sweat.

Not that it’s surprising. The one and only thing my father is good at is being a drunk fuckup.

“Shut the door behind you, boy. You’re letting out all the fucking cold air,” he grunts from the recliner in front of the TV, his voice heavy, words slightly slurring.

I roll my eyes, slamming it behind me. I don’t even glance at him as I walk by because I already know exactly what I’ll find—him in an old, stained shirt that smells as bad as he does, a pair of boxers he probably hasn’t changed in days, with a twenty-four-ounce can of beer clutched in his meaty hand, watching the same reruns ofWWEon the TV.

I’ve thought about this a hundred times, maybe even a thousand times in the last ten years. How if I didn’t hate him as much as I did, I would almost feel bad for him. For his pathetic, disgusting existence that’s been reduced to this—drinking himself to death in front of a busted-ass TV in a piece-of-shit trailer. That’s his life. That’s the only future he’ll ever have, and it’s just… sad.

But he chose this life. He makes that decision every morning he wakes up, and I hate him for every day that my mom and I have been subjected to his selfish decisions. For making us suffer because he’s a weak and dumb motherfucker that gets drunk and tries to use either of us as a punching bag for his anger.

He used to beat the shit out of me when I was younger. Back when I was smaller than him, but now… most of the time, he knows better. Unless he’s shit-faced and not thinking at all.

I never hit him back. I never engage in the bullshit because I know that if I did… I’m not sure I would be able to stop. Not when it all comes pouring out of me. The years of pent-up rage, hurt, fucking disappointment. I don’t know if I’m a good enough person to not let that anger take over.

I’ll never become him. Even if it fucking kills me. Even if sometimes walking away is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do when he gets drunk and tries to put his hands on my mom.

Those are the nights that I see red. That I feel out of control.

The nights that I feel like maybe Iambecoming him, and panic seizes my chest.

“Saint?” My gaze swings to Mom, who appears at the end of the darkened hallway, her thin brown robe wrapped tightly around her. I hate how the old fabric is draped over her shoulders, swallowing her, a combination of stress and not taking care of herself the way she should because she’s taking care of my father instead.

“Hey, Ma.” I open my bedroom door and set my bags down on the floor, turning back to her. “Sorry I’m late. Had to stop by Tommy’s to pick something up.”

“Don’t be sorry. I just wanted to wait up for you to make sure that you got home okay. You know I always worry about you on that bike. I left you a plate of red beans in the microwave,” she says as I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her to me, resting my chin on the top of her head. She feels so small and delicate in my arms, and it makes something deep and dark in my heart twist.

“Thanks, Ma. You okay? How was your day?” I pull back and look down at her, taking in the dark bags beneath her eyes and the lines wrinkled near the corners, exhaustion evident on her face.

Her eyes are the same dark chocolate shade as mine, the one thing that I got from her.

Ma used to be different. Happier, lighter, even though I was so young I can hardly remember those days. The days before everything went to shit and my life wasn’t as fucked-up as it is now.

Back when Ma used to smile and laugh. I miss her laugh.

If there’s any good inside me… it’s because of her and only her.

We wouldn’t even have this piece-of-shit trailer if it wasn’t for her and the hours that I pull at Tommy’s when I can, but honestly, even then, we’re barely scraping by.

Most nights, it’s beans and whatever I can grab on campus for next to nothing. It’s not my house that embarrasses me anymore; I stopped giving a shit about that long ago. I knew better than to ever invite friends over. If someone ever picked me up during high school, then I’d have them pick me up at the grocery store down the street.

I hated being embarrassed by where I lived and where I came from.

Turns out it’s not the house or the fact that my family’s poor that’s the embarrassing part. It’s the fact that my father is an alcoholic asshole.

I could strangle that motherfucker with my bare hands and not feel an ounce of emotion.

Maybe in a different life, I could’ve been a good guy, but with my father’s blood running through my veins, I’ve always been doomed.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m fine, Ma. I’m too stubborn to die.” I grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Thank you for dinner. I’m starving.”

She nods, and her eyes soften as she peers up at me. “Welcome, honey. Your…” She trails off, glancing down the hallway to where my father sits. “Your dad’s in a mood tonight. Best steer clear, okay?”

Yeah, I have no plans to deal with his shit tonight, so I’m grabbing my dinner and staying in my room till tomorrow with the door locked.

After hugging Ma good night and grabbing my shit, I walk through the living room, fighting the urge to kick over the recliner that my father’s passed out in, drunk or high or probably a mixture of both.

He doesn’t stir as I pass, a deep snore pushing past his lips. As fucked-up as it is, I’d rather deal with this version of him than the one where he’s just getting started or using his fists as a way to take out his anger. Starting shit with me for no reason.

---