Page 2 of Southie
The arguing increased.
I turned my music up even louder.
Far from the lanky teenager looking to play the hero, stepping in now and beating some sense into my old man wouldn’t be a problem. However, I’d learned my lesson a long time ago about jumping in between them.
I dreaded the day my parents died, but not for reasons one might expect.
My dread stemmed from the pomp and circumstance everyone would expect because of their passing; something they wouldn’t get. I feared death, but not for my parents. For them, I prayed it was close. I held no love for them, for the life they’d given me. And while they gave me life, in their deaths, I’d be able to breathe a sigh of relief. No more pulling my father out of whatever mess he’d gotten into, and no more watching my mother move through the world like a fucking zombie.
My number one priority since I was a kid was to get away from my parents. So, the streets of Southie became my home. My real family lived on the streets. In the neighborhood, I’d been mixing it up with some older boys since my parents stop caring about what the fuck I was doing or where the hell I was going.
On the block, the boys taught me how to fight, and I learned to throw a proper punch. Around the age of nine or ten, fighting had become my only outlet from the shitshow at home. Although the older neighborhood boys weren’t blood-related to me, they became my family. They gave me my first beer. My first shot of Jameson Irish Whiskey. My first hit from a blunt and hooked me up with my first piece of pussy at thirteen.
All the boys considered me their younger brother and treated me like family. Most parents would cringe knowing what we did on the streets. Not Donie and Laura. Wrapped up in their addictions, what their only child was up to on the streets of Southie didn’t matter.
Fighting became a part of my everyday life, and I’d gotten good at it.
Really good.
Around the age of thirteen, I got brave and used the fighting skills I’d learned in the streets and tried to protect my Ma during one of his drunken tirades. Pops screamed at her about being a lace curtain Irish bitch, trying to be better than what she was. I’d had no clue what he meant, but he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it so hard she screamed out in pain, and I’d needed to do something before he broke it again. She was my mother, not a good one, but that didn’t change who she was.
I’d been watching the arguing and physical abuse between them for years, and the older boys taught me enough to at least do something.
In the heat of the moment, I’d done what any teenager would. I stepped in. Though my father was a bastard, he’d never once laid a hand on me. Sure, he cursed me out many times, called me a worthless piece of shit, or yelled I should’ve never been born, but he never once beat me.
Now, my Ma?
That’s a different story.
A vicious backhand to the face was the thanks I received from her that day for getting involved in “grown up’s business.” A bruised face with a one-inch gash courtesy of her wedding ring connecting with the fleshy skin of my right cheek was my reward. As a result of her reward, I skipped classes for a few days because I couldn’t explain the bruise or cut to my teachers without getting the cops involved.
How would that work when my father was a cop?
There was no way in hell I’d go into the system.
Despite the sound of dishes and furniture breaking in the other room, Ma’s slurred screams and my Pops’ incoherent curses wouldn’t make me take one step in their direction. She could take her ass whipping while I remained in my bedroom out of “grown ups business,” drowning out whatever they had going on between them.
Later, she’d escape with her pills, and he’d drown in his alcohol.
Noticing the time on my watch, I needed to leave so I’d make it on time.
It was pointless sitting in this shit hole dwelling on things that wouldn’t be changed. They’d never change and would remain in their fucked-up relationship until they killed each other or until one of their addictions did.
Pops would remain a drunk and Ma a pill head.
I sprung off my bed, pulled on my worn black leather jacket, grabbed my black duffle bag, and slid out the fourth-floor window of the apartment, scurrying down the rickety fire escape.
With every heavy step, the screech of metal echoed in the night. It was a risk leaving this way, but I’d rather risk my life making my escape down the condemnable fire escape instead of going through the apartment to face the carnage and insults that would come my way if I walked out the front door.
As soon as my boots hit the wet pavement, the regret of not dressing in heavier clothing set in. The walk home tonight would be even worse.
I pulled the collar of my leather bomber jacket up around my neck, seeking whatever little warmth it provided. With my one free hand shoved deep in the pocket of my worn blue jeans, hoping to stave off the frigid night air, I clutched the duffle bag thrown over my shoulder with my other ungloved hand.
Snowflakes fell steadily as the wintry winds picked up, making the trek to the warehouse district down by the docks a little more difficult than normal. The weatherman had reported a large winter storm bringing heavy snowfall. Near blizzard conditions would move in later tonight, but having to hike through the cold or snow didn’t bother me. What worried me was the impact on attendance.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t keep the fans away. The fewer people that came, the smaller the purse. I’d be screwed if that happened. I needed as much money as I could get my hands on.
I arrived at the gray metal door of the large rundown brick warehouse by the docks and placed three rapid taps against the cold metal. It cracked open, and the stale, warm air from inside the old red brick building wafted from the opening, invading my nostrils. My nose scrunched up at the putrid smell.
