And with the music pounding in my head, I almost don't care anymore.

Being myself isn't an option.

I want to be anything but.

Weeks blur together, partly because I barely feel present anymore. True to my word, I'm spiraling. That much is clear. Showing up to school high becomes my new normal, and football practice?

A joke.

The bruises are too frequent now, too hard to explain away. Coach pulls me aside, looks me dead in the eyes, and asks what's going on.

I lie. I have to.

There's no way I'm telling him what happens behind closed doors, that my own father uses me like a punching bag when life gets too much for him.

So, Coach fucking calls him. Like that's going to do anything except make my life worse.

And it does.

I walk through the door that night, high and out of my mind. The tension hits me immediately, heavy like a noose tightening around my neck. Scott waits for me, seething, fists clenched at his sides. I hear Mom trying to stop him, playing peacemaker like always. But there's no peace to be found in this purgatory.

"Where the hell have you been?" Scott's voice is low, dangerous. He doesn't slur when he's like this. No, when it's not just the alcohol, he's sharp. Mean. Calculated.

"Oh, now you want to play the role of caring parent? You're ten years too fucking late, Dad."

"Nate, please⁠⁠—"

It happens too fast.

He backhands Mom hard enough that I hear the crack before I see it. She stumbles back, clutching her face, and something inside me finally snaps.

"Don't fucking touch her." The words tear from my throat, shaking with pure hatred. I'm not scared of him anymore. I stopped being scared years ago.

Scott turns, bloodshot eyes locking onto me. "What did you just say to me, boy?"

"Hit someone your own fucking size."

He steps closer, away from Mom, whose lip is bleeding, her eyes wide with fear.

Fear for me.

"When did you decide to grow a pair, huh?" he taunts. "Look me in the eyes and say it, like a real man."

We're nose to nose now, his sour breath washing over my face. His bloodshot eyes bore into mine, unblinking, while a muscle twitches in his jaw. I don't back away, even as his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides. The room seems to shrink around us, the air turning thick and hot.

"Burn. In. Fucking. Hell."

His fist connects with my jaw before I can brace for it. Pain explodes in my mouth, metallic taste flooding my tongue. My vision blurs, but I don't stumble. I don't back down; instead, I laugh, and this throws him. I'm running on pure adrenaline fuelled by intense rage. The only thing I know to be true right now is a person who has no fucks left to give is lethal because they don't care if they live or die.