Page 34 of The Way We Are

My eyes bounce between hers, my mind shut down. “I can’t leave you here.”

“Then don’t. I’ll go.”

She slips out of my bed in a nanosecond, then makes a beeline for my window. Panic thickens my veins, worried my dad’s violent temper will frighten her out of my bed for another five years. Although she's aware of his less stellar attributes, this is the first time she’s witnessed them firsthand.

My worry doesn’t linger for long. Just before Savannah climbs onto the windowsill, she pivots around to face me. Fear is slashed across her features, but she isn’t worried my father is going to hurt her. She's worried he is going to hurt me.

"Please be careful," she begs, her croaky words bolstering the panic in her eyes.

When I nod, she clambers out the windowsill and steadies her footing on the trestle. If I hadn’t witnessed her scaling out of my window more than a hundred times when we were kids, I’d be worried she will fall. But I know she has this. Her back-breaking cheerleading routines leave no doubt to her agility, much less her flexibility.

I watch Savannah race across the dew-covered ground of my backyard while throwing on a shirt and a pair of shoes. When she slips through the paint-peeling side gate, I sprint out of my bedroom. Although shouted voices have stopped, my unease hasn’t weakened in the slightest. There's a voice that doesn’t use words, usually spoken by the devil.

Halfway down the corridor lined with family photos, I spot my younger brother, Damon. He's standing at the entrance of his room. His chest heaves up and down in the same rhythm as mine, his eyes just as wide.

"Where's Molly?" I ask him, mindful that he sneaks his on-again-off-again girlfriend into his room most weekends.

“She left last night. We got in a fight.” He scrubs his hand over his tired blue eyes. “Did I hear what I thought I heard?”

Damon is two years younger than me, and although I sheltered him from our father’s antics as much as possible when we were kids, the escalation of violence in our household soon became impossible to conceal.

Before I can confirm Damon’s assumption, our mother’s sobs creep up the stairwell. They are followed by the noise I anticipated earlier—skin slapping skin.

With Damon on my heel, I gallop down the stairs two at a time. Recalling my Dad's anger about incorrectly done laundry, I take a right at the base of the stairs instead of my usual left. My heart is sitting in my throat, but I continue storming through the house at a record speed, more determined than ever.

I find my dad in the laundry room, standing over my mom. Just like last night, all I see when my mom’s tear-stained face lifts to mine is Savannah. Although her face isn’t any more battered than it was last night, the vicious clutch my dad has on her hair makes my anger surge to an all-time high.

I see Savannah.

I see Axel.

I see red.

Before my brain can formulate a plan of attack, I charge for my father.

“No, Ryan, no!” my mom shouts seconds before Damon drags her from the line of fire.

She continues shouting for me to stop, but I can’t. I won’t stop. Not this time.Not ever.

The air in my dad’s lungs brutally evicts when I crash into his torso. My hit is so brutal, we sail out the back screen door before we smack into the patio with a thud. The bang of our bodies on the frail wood matches the vicious pounds my fists inflict on his ribs.

Shocked by my unusual display of violence, I get an additional three hits into my dad’s unprotected body before he realizes I have no intention of standing down today.

If he wants to fight, I’ll give him a fight.

The minute portion of air left in my lungs from our combined fall expels with a grunt when my dad throws his fist into my spleen. “You ungrateful little bastard,” he sneers, his whiskey breath winding me more than his punch. “I feed you, clothe you, and put a roof over your head, and this is how you thank me.”

“You hit my mother,” I grunt, my words as spiteful as his.

The laugh he releases between wheezy coughs has me seeing red. If I weren’t straddling his hips, I’d strangle him with the rear naked chokehold I used on Axel last week. Except this time, I won’t let go.

“I wouldn’t need to discipline her if she’d just fuckin’ listen.”

I raise my arms to protect my face from his wildly slung fist with only a second to spare. Although my quick thinking protects my skull, it leaves my body exposed to his onslaught.

Ignoring my mother’s repeated pleas for calm, we roll around the wooden deck of our backyard, going punch for punch. Fed up with fighting old school, my father curls his legs around my torso before yanking back—hard. It feels like my spine is about to snap from the awkward curve he places on my back, but I continue ramming my fists down on him, preferring to die like a man instead of a coward.

I soon regain an advantage on my father. Years of tactical training has nothing on years of built-up anger.

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