“Are you alright?”
My head throbbed with each sharp turn of the car, a dull ache spreading through my body. I groaned, every muscle screaming in protest.
I wasn’t alright. Haven’t been alright in…God, I couldn’t even remember when I *was* alright.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m okay,” I lied, the words scraping past my lips. I was shaking, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands.
My mom adjusted the rearview mirror, fixing me with a look that was both pained and determined. She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It never did anymore.
She always took the wrong turns on purpose after a fight. A ritual. A way to talk, to calm down, and mostly, to stop the bleeding.
Today, blood gushed from my nose. My hand was clamped over it, desperately trying to keep the crimson tide from staining the worn fabric of her car’s backseat.
Memories flared – the sneers, the fists, the sickening thud of impact. I tried to be a good kid. I really did. I didn’t want these fights with kids I barely knew. Didn’t want to come home dripping blood.
But here I was.
The only reason I bothered trying to be good was my mother. It was the look on her face that killed me. The way she tried to mask the horror, to pretend it wasn’t happening.
She smiled through everything. Pain, anger, everything. Worry lines etched around her blue eyes, and strands of gray threaded through her dark hair. But she never looked old. Not really.
She never said a bad thing about anyone, which sometimes got her into trouble. I wasn’t the same. I hadn’t inherited her good nature, her easy smile. At least, I didn’t think so.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, her voice strained. As if a plate of pasta could fix everything. “I’m sure there’s some left…”
Not if Smelly Gabe was home.
Gabe, my stepfather, reeked of failure and cheap cigarettes. He owned a hardware store, but spent most nights playing poker and betting on games.
I’d called him Smelly Gabe since I was a toddler, and the name always triggered a vein in his forehead to bulge. It just…stuck.
He didn’t deserve my mother. She was too kind to tell him where his shoes were, too gentle to clean up his messes. She acted like his slave.
And it infuriated me.
Gabe hated me. He’d married my mom when I was a kid and hated me ever since. Hated my bad grades, my messy appearance, the fact I got into fights.
He was going to kill me when I got home.
As my mom parked outside our apartment building, she seemed close to tears. She pulled my head down, her hands trembling as she tried to wipe the blood from my face. I was at least a foot taller than her.
“You’re so handsome,” she murmured, trying to smooth my messy hair. It was a futile effort.
“You look just like your father.”
That comment made me want to scream. I wanted nothing to do with the man. Nothing.
She was right, though. In the few blurry pictures I’d seen, we were nearly identical. The same dark, sticky-up hair, the same sea-green eyes. Tall and lanky, with a snarky smirk.
But I hated the man. Hated him for getting my mom pregnant and then disappearing. Hated him for not paying child support.
He was the reason my mom married Gabe. The reason we were poor. The reason our lives were a mess. And I didn’t even know his name. My mother rarely spoke about him.
The apartment smelled like Gabe before we even entered. He grunted in acknowledgment, barely glancing up from whatever game he was watching.
“Sally, bring me some dinner, would ya?” he barked.
My mother sighed, her lips flattening into a line. She rushed to the kitchen, a silent, practiced routine.
As she delivered his plate, she started the water and wiped down the counters. She was always cleaning up after him.
She handed me an ice pack and fixed dinner for both of us. We ate in silence, the only sound the clink of forks against plates. When I finished, I helped her clean up and quickly retreated to my room.
I tried to avoid Gabe, hoping he wouldn’t notice me. I was wrong, of course.
“Punk, what’s the hurry?” he taunted, a burp rumbling in his chest.
My hand gripped the door handle, tight enough to make my knuckles ache. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t.
“I’m just tired,” I mumbled.
“Hmm…turn around,” he said, sensing something was wrong.
I sighed and slowly turned, pulling my hood over my face. I tried to stare at the floor, hoping he wouldn’t see the bruises.
He readjusted himself on the couch, his beady eyes narrowed. “Drop the hood.”
My hands shook as I pulled the hood down, trying to avoid his gaze.
“So, someone finally teach you a lesson?” he sneered, staring at my injuries. “Finally get a good punch?”
“I tripped and fell,” I lied, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Nothing serious.”
He shook his head, pointing a thick finger at me. “Why are your knuckles bruised, then? I’ve seen falls. That’s not a fall. You get in another fight?”
“I told you I tripped!” I exclaimed, my voice rising.
“Bullshit! Tell the truth!” Gabe practically yelled. “Four fights this month. You’re gone!”
Before I could rush him, my mother darted into the room, her hand gripping my chest and shoving me towards my room.
My mother wasn’t violent. She never shoved, never yelled, never said anything unkind. When she pushed me towards my room, I knew it was serious.
“Percy, go to your room,” she said sternly, glaring at Gabe, who looked like he wanted to tear me apart.
I nodded and hurried into my room, quickly tidying up. Gabe would claim it as his ‘office’ as soon as I left for school.
His muddy boots would sit on the windowsill, his magazines scattered everywhere. I stacked them by my door as I collapsed onto my bed.
I’d heard Gabe argue with my mother before. I’d been hearing it ever since they got married. The walls were thin, and Gabe was loud. But today…this fight was different.
After a few minutes of desperately eavesdropping, I heard a faint sob and the door to my room opened.
My mother looked defeated as she sat beside me, her hand ruffling my hair like she used to when I was younger.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
My mom rarely cried in front of me. She frowned, yelled, and became defensive, but never cried. She reserved this for moments like these.
“Why are you sorry?” I asked, fearing the worst. “What did Gabe do?”
She shook her head, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “He…he wants to send you to boarding school. He’s wanted to for years. I’ve always fought him, but…”
I knew it. I knew I was going. Once Gabe made up his mind, there was no changing it.
“We still have the weekend,” she assured me, wiping a tear from her face. “You’re going to stay here, alright?”
I shook my head. “I can’t go to boarding school. I have friends here. I love this city. There’s no money for it.”
“Gabe said there was,” she whispered. “You’re not going. I’m not letting him send you away. I’ll convince him. I’ll cook him all his favorite food.”
Although she sounded confident, I knew I was going to boarding school. Deep down, I knew it.