“I asked you a question, boy.”

“And I already fucking answered it.”

The words exploded out of me, coated in red-hot anger. My nails dug into the soft meat of my flesh. If my nails were any longer, they would have cut into my skin. Instead, I felt the sharp, stabbing pain and swallowed it, letting it seep into me and soothe my emotions.

“Don’t you ever curse at me,” he said evenly.

I rolled my neck. “Then don’t do it to me.”

“You need to learn respect again.”

“Give me something to respect, and I will,” I bit back.

“Fuck you,” he spat.

“Fuck you too!”

The crack of the cane against my face was hard and fast. It felt like lightning kissing my skin. Wetness rolled down my cheek, but it wasn’t tears. I reached up and touched it. Blood stained my fingers, deep, dark, and slick. Searing pain washed over me. I could hear screaming, but it was far away, like listening to the ocean in a seashell. As if it wasn’t even real.

“What did you do! Henry, what the hell did you do?”

My mother’s hands grabbed at me, urgent and hot. The smell of garlic from her fingertips made me recoil. It was just like when I was a kid, one of those rare drunken nights when my father’s temper was too hot, and I paid the consequences.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” my father grunted. “The boy was mouthing off at me. It was a reflex.”

The same kind of reflex I’ve heard you had with suspects? Or prisoners?

I’d heard whispers about my father, but I never wanted to believe they were true. Now, I was pretty damn sure they were. I’d been brushing shit off and pretending he wasn’t as bad as I remembered.

I was right. He was worse.

“Get off,” I said as my mom dabbed at my bleeding cheek with a towel. “Mom, stop! Fuck.”

I picked myself up off the floor. Mom’s doe eyes tugged at my heartstrings, making me want to pull her to me and apologize. However, she was just as guilty as he was. History was repeating itself, and I was a scared kid getting blood wiped off of my face while she bribed me with treats and another hour of TV past my bedtime.

My chest squeezed so painfully that I could barely breathe. The images were too strong. The feeling of helplessness grew.

I can’t be here.

I didn’t look back at my father or mother as I turned on my heels and stormed out of the house. Her voice followed me, shaky and sorrow-filled. The old me would have stopped and gone to her because she was just as much a victim as I was. But I was over that bullshit. I was the one that should have been protected, and she was still defending him.

He didn’t mean it. How many times had she whispered that to me while cradling me in her arms?