Page 98 of There's No Us Without You
Nope.
He wouldn’t . . .
Would he?
Fuck. I groan and continue on my mission to my car.
That’s a future problem.
When the familiarold brick house I lived in as a kid comes into view, I take a deep breath and ease my grip on the steering wheel. This place does nothing but bring back nightmares frommy childhood. Ones I wish never existed—or at the very least, wish I could forget.
I suppose they aren’t all bad, though. Sometimes I get small glimpses of my mum, but then they fade, overshadowed by the darkness that seeps back in.
There’s no light left in this house. There hasn’t been since the day my mother decided she was better off without her family and left her two sons to fend for themselves.
I’m not even sure why I still think about her. It’s not like she gave a shit about me and Tyler. God forbid, she had to be a parent after she gave birth to us.
Jenny’s car is parked in the driveway as it always is, so I pull up behind it, and put my car into park. I take a moment to stare at the old brown single storey with its faded roof and vines climbing up the front before I get out of the car.
The gravel under my feet slips and crunches as I make my way up to the front door. Those tiny rocks may seem innocent enough, but they can do damage if used in the right way.
One night in particular—I was fourteen, Tyler eleven—my father came home in a good mood for once, two frozen pizzas and a carton of beer in his hands.
I was in the kitchen, sketching in a notebook, when he threw the pizzas at me and told me to cook them. Apparently, he’d won some money on the horses and wanted to celebrate.
Great fucking celebration it was.
He disappeared into the lounge room and opened the first of many beers. Tyler was showering at the time, so I put the pizzas in the oven and took my notebook to my room to finish my sketch while I waited for the pizzas to cook.
Half an hour later, the smell of something burning alerted me to the fact I forgot to put the oven timer on.
I raced into the kitchen, but it was too late. My father was already yanking the pizzas out with his bare hands. Eyes cold, heslowly turned his attention to me. I stepped back just in time to sidestep a flying pizza. It slammed into the wall behind me, my father’s eyes widening before he lunged for me.
I darted out the front door, only for him to grab me around the neck of my shirt and throw me to the ground, face first into the gravel.
His foot pressed against my cheek, he dug in, the tiny rocks cutting up my face on the opposite side.
I didn’t dare cry out. No fucking way.
“You’ll fucking starve tonight,” he said, spit flying. “Do you hear me, boy? The next time you burn my fucking dinner, you’ll be out here eating dog shit.”
He left me there, slamming the front door on his way back inside. I rolled onto my back, sucking in deep breaths.
The next day at school, Emerson had cupped my cheek and asked what happened, his hazel eyes full of everything he knew I wouldn’t admit.
Long story short, I never burnt another pizza.
Jaw clenched, I press my key into the lock. It’s still the same one I used as a kid, although more often than not the door was left unlocked, my father forgetting to lock it in his state of drunken stupor. Even the once bright-red door, now faded and peeling, is still the same.
Everything that lives, or ever lived, in this house is still the same.
Even me.
Although I like to think I’ve changed, if only a little. It’s only when I step back into this hellhole, I know I’m far from a changed man. When I’m here, I’m that same tired, scared child just trying to survive another day with his alcoholic father.
I must have a masochistic kink because I still show up every week like the good little boy I am.
When I enter the house, I shove my keys into the pocket of my shorts and head down the hall. Jenny is in the old, dimly lit kitchen to the left—everything about it screaming nineties—and when she notices me hovering, she drops the knife she’s using to chop vegetables and comes over to hug me.
