Page 128 of Chokehold
“I’m sorry,” I cry quietly, tears soaking my cheeks in terror. “Don’t hurt Mom.”
Touching the cut on the side of his head, he stares at his blood, glaring at me. “When I found out we were having a boy, I was excited. I told your mom I was going to raise him to be just like me. I was going to teach him sports, take him to games, and show him how to become a man. I was going to make sure if we ever had another kid that he could hold his own and have their back against bullies. I wanted a son I could be proud of for doing well in school, getting a job, marrying someone who would pass on the family name.”
He flips the knife in his hand, staring at me. “But I got you instead. Pathetic. Useless. Fucking weak.”
Dad goes to drop the blade down on me, but Mom tackles him from behind, making the knife drop and them both to topple to the side.
“Run, Cole!” she screams, hurrying for the knife as she quickly crawls away from Dad. “Run!”
I don’t run, though, because when I get to my feet, Dad grabs my mom by the throat and snatches the knife from her grip, and I catch his wrist before he can swipe it at her neck. Adrenaline overtakes, and the dire need to save my mom.
My knee drives into the back of his, bringing him down, and I start punching him in the face with a tight fist. I’ve never hit someone like this before. It hurts my wrist, but I keep going until he falls back and I’m on top of him.
“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” I yell as I keep hitting him, seeing blood coming from his nose and lip. “I fucking hate you!”
The punch to my side catches me off guard, and I fall off of him, winded, coughing, my eyes bulging from the force of it. I try to get up, but Dad grabs my foot again, turns me on my back, and my eyes widen as he grabs the blade and hits the sharp edge against my shin like he’s using an ax.
I scream and scream and scream, begging for him to stop when he keeps going. Slashing, axing, mutilating my right leg until Mom grabs him from behind and pulls him off.
Dizziness mixes with the agonizing pain. I’m shaking on the ground, hearing my mom crying for him to stop, a scream from him slapping her.
My head lifts, eyes dropping to my leg. Just below my knee is gushing with blood, flesh ripped apart from the assault from my father, and bile rises in my throat as he picks up the knife again, heading straight for me.
Mom screams like she’s being strangled, tugging at his arm, and I push my hands into the ground and slide myself back, back, back, until I hit the wall. I cover my eyes, waiting for his next attack, but it doesn’t come, because my mom has thrown herself to her knees and begs him to leave me alone, crying to him that she won’t leave.
We’ll stay a happy family while I sit in a puddle of my own blood.
That night, when my mom rushes me to the ER, I’m treated, labeled as self-harming, and from then on, I’m the psychologically fucked-up kid who needs constant surveillance, a psychiatrist, a “buddy” when I’m at school.
The scars are there, covered in ink. Hidden. Like all the abuse and torture I endured while living with that monster until Mom finally chose me.
Until the monster came back for me to finish the job.
Two days pass. The police are as useless as a sloppy condom in a trash can. I’ve lost count of how many times I have checked my phone, praying to hear from Cole while also knowing I won’t. What’s he going to do? Message me?
Hi Blaise, my battery died. We’re at Starbucks. Come meet my dad.
Seated with my elbows on the kitchen table, I smack my head, muttering, “Fucking stupid.” I hit my head again, but the dull ache doesn’t help.
Detective Calleary, a middle-aged man with a beer gut and impressive sideburns, and his colleague, Jones, look at me equally pityingly. My father remains a statue beside me while the coffee machine splutters in the background, filling the air with its rich aroma.
“It’s the least I can do,”Dad said when the detectives entered the kitchen to inform us about their progress or lack thereof.
Dragging my hands down my face, I blow out a long, tired breath. The coffee machine falls silent, but no one moves. I’ve lived in the same black hoodie and jeans since the night Cole was taken. I had a quick shower to wash away the blood, thendressed like a robot. I pulled the hoodie over my head, barely aware of sliding it down over my T-shirt.
Lowering my hands, I stare at my abused cuticles. My cracked knuckles are slowly healing, and something about that—the proof that time moves on even when we don’t want it to—angers me. I don’t want another fucking day to pass until they catch Cole’s dad and lock him up for good. I haven’t slept for more than an hour or two at a time. I’m fucking tired. No, scrap that, I’m exhausted.
The anger inside me boils over, and I slam my hand down on the kitchen table. No one reacts, not even when I shoot to my feet and kick over the chair.
“Blaise,” Dad tries, sounding tired.
“Fuck you,” I snarl, ripping the stupid fucking coffee machine from the wall and tossing it into the sink. Scalding water splashes onto my arms and hands, but I don’t give a shit about the pain.
Detective Jones stands from the table and puts his meaty hand on my shoulder. I shrug him off, breathing like a bull.
He takes the hint and holds up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Sorry…”
I look between them all, feeling like a scared animal backed into a corner.
