After Before and After

Phase 4: Chapter 70

He could feel himself shrinking in size as the object of his rage and suffering grew and grew. He never stood a chance before, and he certainly didn't now. He would lose, because he always did. He never showed fear, never cried, never surrendered. But still, Jack Merridew was David and Evan Merridew Golliath. Except, his life wasn't an overtold tale of triumph and redemption. In the real world, Golliath had won hundreds and thousands of times, like he did today, and would again tomorrow.

Making eye contact with Golliath was easy, at least for a hundred-and-five pound twentieth century David with lanky arms and the pent up rage of an offended drunk at the head of the bar. He looked Golliath-Evan in the eye, a daring but easy task. David-Jack smiled at the cruel giant, his way of smugly showing he wasn't anywhere near as afraid as he should've been. This always angered Golliath-Evan even more, and that was always the boy's intention. He never told a soul, but he wanted to anger the giant enough to cause him to lose his temper. He wanted his father to lose control of his anger while he kept control of his own. It was a power move his opponent never realized he'd been playing for years. At eight, ten, twelve, fifteen years old, he was smarter than the CEO of a national corporation that made millions in profits every year. That made him feel more powerful than winning the physical fight ever could.

And win the the fight he never did, and he never expected to. It was physics; the way Golliath-Evan used his weight, strength, and force to take out his much smaller, weaker, and younger opponent. David-Jack fought like he intended to win, like he somehow believed he had a shot at gaining the upper hand, but he knew he didn't. Golliath-Evan stood at over six feet tall, weighed just under two-hundred, with most of that being muscle. The boy was barely half his weight and couldn't bulk up in spite of his best efforts, even years into puberty. He worried he may embody the physique of a twelve-year-old child until he was well into adulthood, but that was a secret for another day.

David-Jack, in spite of his small figure and lack of muscle, wanted Golliath-Evan to attack him. He liked the physical closeness between father and son, craved it, in whatever twisted form it came. It made him feel like they had a relationship of some sort, a poor one that warranted bruises and hospital visits being better than no relationship at all. Jack Merridew had always been a physical person, whether that be in confrontations with his enemies or affectionate relationships with the short list of people he loved.

He saw Golliath-Evan lunge at him as he secretly planned for, the taunting smile on the boy's face until it was quite literally slapped off. The brawl began. Strategic punches that wouldn't leave marks in visible places. Kicks to shins that would be hidden by dress socks and shoes in court next week. The limp would only last a couple days, and if it persisted, a threat to hide it or a date for the other ankle to receive a matching injury. He was back-down on the scratchy carpet before he even realized he'd been pushed. A heavy body sitting atop him, his own body struggling to get air to his constricted lungs. He couldn't remember why Golliath-Evan was so angry. It had something to do with the testimony in court earlier that Friday afternoon. Something to do with Roger? Maybe not. Did it even matter? He couldn't breathe. He couldn't remember.

The next thing he remembered was a loud and dangerously close stomp next to his ear as he laid on the uncomfortable hotel room carpet. Golliath-Evan belted out one last threat before stomping off, leaving the beaten boy alone in the now empty room. Then time skipped back a moment; the loud stomp, half an inch from his head. His body shook. His ears rung.

Jack Merridew shot up in his bed abruptly, his hair matted with sweat, and his breathing too heavy for an activity as relaxed as sleeping. His sister stirred in her bed, and shifted around as she drifted into different stages of sleep. Jack didn't want to risk waking her up, he was in no mood for another of her lectures on provoking their father tonight. He checked the clock; 1:07 AM, it read. Knowing that Paige would wake up if he pushed their creaky bathroom door open, Jack opted for relieving himself in the communal washroom down the hall. He slowly rose from the bed, winced as he put pressure on his newly injured ankle, and hobbled out into the hallway.