Seasons of Change

40

September was nearly over, the weather finally cooling down and beginning to feel like fall. The Samson family had gotten into the groove of things, Rocco going to Kindergarten, Krist back in school while Atira took care of the house and babies for the time being. She'd be lying if she said she didn't miss her work but was enjoying the last two months of leave.

It was a Friday night, the youngest two were down for bed, Rocco was watching his wrestling on the living room floor while Atira read a corny romance novel on her Kindle and Krist was wrapping up his homework.

When his phone rang and the name displayed was "Dad" he'd almost hit the decline button. He knew his dad was strung out again and between him and Brad, his was fucking over tweaker shit. Something in his gut insisted he answer that night.

"Hello?" He grumbled.

A tiny whimper came through the other line, a small voice barely whispered his name.

"Markie?" He asked.

"Mm-hmm, it's me, Markie," he said in a hushed voice, sounding terrified.

Krist could hear his dad and Naveah screaming at one another, "Are you somewhere safe?" he asked.

"I'm hiding under my bed. Dad is being scary, he hurt my mom," the little boy sniffled.

He could feel his chest tighten, "Stay there, I'll be right over, you just stay on the phone with me and don't say anything, ok?"

"Okay..."

Krist hadn't even bothered to put real shoes on, he hurried out to his car in his house shoes. He wasn't sure what exactly he was walking into but he remembered being a scared little boy, younger than little Marcus, while his dad tripped out on his mom and terrorized the entire family.

Atira had tried to suggest that he call the police so he didn't wind up in the middle of things but he knew that if his dad was getting physical with his wife, she was going to lie to save his ass anyway. Mother fucker needed a taste of his own medicine.

He could hear the sounds of his father screaming at Naveah as soon as he turned the ignition of his car off, along with her shrieking at him to stop. Krist hurried up the rickety front steps, pounding on the front door police style. The commotion stopped, followed by a few low murmurs and then "Oh it's just Krist."

Marcus opened the door, Naveah nowhere to be seen, "Hey...what you doing here?" He asked suspiciously, his skin shone with grease and sweat, and bright red fingernail marks on his face and arms.

"Aye, can I come in for a minute?" Krist asked, heart racing, uncertain of what was about to happen but ready for what came.

"Right now isn't a good time," his father told him, "What is it you need?"

Krist put his foot in the door, "Where's Naveah? She good?" He asked, his heart beginning to pound.

Marcus froze, stepping close enough towards his son that he could smell the alcohol coming from his pores and the stink of the chicken factory, "Why, you and her got something going on?" He demanded, trying to close the door on his son.

The chaos and destruction in the tiny living room was apparent. The television was hanging off its wooden stand, dangling from its plugged-in cord. The coffee table had been flipped, papers strewn everywhere, and holes that Krist hadn't noticed previously were in the walls.

"Bro, ain't nothing going on with me and her, or her and nobody else, just want to know why you fucking scaring your fucking family like an alcoholic, cluck piece of shit. Thought you were past that point in your life."

The words had pretty much fallen out of his mouth before he could stop himself. This had infuriated Marcus of course.

"Like I am really going to let some panty-waist, stay-at-home dad who lives off his wife and has never done shit or amounted to shit come to my home and tell me shit about my life," Marcus retorted, pushing his way out onto the porch.

"Bro, you ain't nothing but an alcoholic deadbeat dad who works at the chicken plant, fucking anybody can get a job there," Krist snapped.

"And that's still more than you've accomplished in your fucking life!"

"At least my kids aint growing up wondering why their drunk piece of shit father ain't around half their life and when he is around he's fucking smoking dope and buying shit off them like a fucking loser, bro," Krist retorted, feeling a lifetime of anger, hurt, and resentment bubbling to the surface, about to erupt.

"You were already on that shit before I even took your sorry ass in!"

"Bullshit, Marcus, bullshit. I never even fucking touched that shit til I had to stay with you. And you the one who taught me to fucking smoke it. Some fucking great father you are," he scoffed bitterly.

"You just remember that I was the only one who would even take you because nobody else wanted you! You forget that, right?"

Krist spit out the corner of his mouth, "You gonna fuckin' show Lil Marcus how to fucking crack that shit back, not burn it, too?"

"You leave him out of it!" Marcus Senior inched closer to Krist.

"Why? It seems fucked up to think about getting your child all strung out? It makes you sick to think about when it's him but not me. You are sorry ass bitch, you know that, Marcus. For real."

"At least I pay my own way in life," his father laughed dryly.

"That's about all you got going for you, dude. You a shit father, shit husband, fucking fifty-some-thing-year-old tweaker alcoholic. Way to go!"

Krist could see Naveah creeping into the living room, her ponytail looked as though Marcus had grabbed her by the hair and yanked her around. Her right eye was visibly swollen and bruised to the point of being half closed and what Krist could see of it was that the white of her eye was completely red, her sleeveless ZZ Top shirt ripped halfway off her torso.

Reacting on pure emotion, he lunged toward his father, fist landing directly to the side of his jaw, three more blows and Marcus was on the ground. The older man had gotten one lucky shot in, cracking Krist's nose, blood spilling down his white shirt.

Krist hadn't stopped going at his dad because he was on the ground and it was only right to stop, he'd stopped because he was wearing his house shoes and knew he'd probably fuck his foot up if he kicked him. Not because he didn't want to keep going.

Panting, he told his father "Get up," and helped him to his feet. Marcus was pretty bloodied himself. Good.

"Get off my property," Marcus said between breaths, "Little piece of shit."

"I'm a piece of shit? Look what you did to your wife," Krist snapped, holding his nose with his shirt, "Your kid gonna have the burnt into his memory."

"Because he's not going to remember his loser brother coming over here because he's thirsty for his mother?"

Krist shook his head, "Fuck you, Marcus."

"Likewise, don't be coming around here no more. You ain't nothing more than a piece of shit to me."