Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

MY HOUSE, MY RULES

TEDDY

I wasn't always like this.

I didn't come into the world as the abusive, narcissistic son of a bitch I turned out to be. No, I was once a child—innocent, soft even, though not soft enough to be shielded from fists and belt blows. I didn't grow up the way my classmates did, cushioned by cotton wool and warmth. I was raised in a house where my father's hand and his belt spoke more often than his words ever did.

I can still remember that first slap. I couldn't have been more than five, barely old enough to grasp what I'd done wrong. I'd been standing there, just in front of my father's armchair, squinting at the Sunday paper he held. I was curious about the bold letters on the front page and dared to read the headline aloud, my small voice soft in the silence of the room.

That was my first mistake.

Before I could blink, his hand struck out, whipping across my face with a force that jolted my entire body sideways. My cheek burned, stinging from the blow, and my little eyes watered. I looked up at him, stunned, only to meet his cold stare.

"What did you just say, Theodor?" he growled, his voice thunderous, filling the room and crashing over me like a wave.

"Da, I—" I stammered, but his hand shot out again, his palm cracking against my cheek, harder this time, enough to make my eyes sting and blur with tears I couldn't hold back.

"Oh, are ye gonna cry, boy?" he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Little Teddy's gonna bawl, is he? I'll give ya something to cry about." He yanked me onto his lap, forcing the paper back into my hands. "Read," he barked. And every time I stumbled, his hand would whip across my face, hard enough to make me gasp. If I so much as sniffled, he'd hit me twice as hard. But the worst of it? My four older brothers watched, arms crossed, laughing while Da walloped me.

They all called me Teddy because, to them, I was as soft as a teddy bear. Not that I was harmless, but I wasn't anything like them—bigger, tougher, and as mean as Da himself. Half the time, they'd conspire to trap me in a headlock, just to laugh as I squirmed to get free.

I hated them for it.

I hated him for it.

I hated the whole bloody lot of them—Da, Ma, my brothers.

And Ma—she never let me forget how much of a disappointment I was. "Why aren't ya like him?" she'd snap, pointing to one of my brothers, or worse, comparing me to her friends' kids. "Why aren't ya as clever as him?" "Why can't ya dress like that?" "Why aren't ya good enough?" Her words bit deep, always driving home the same message: I was never enough. Someone out there was always smarter, better-looking, or quicker than me.

School was just one more excuse for Da to give me a hiding. If by some fucking miracle, I managed to do better than my brothers, it was ignored. But if I did worse—even a fraction worse—I'd pay for it with bruises.

As I grew, his anger grew too, and the slaps became belt lashes. I remember one day, cornered by my brothers, who pushed me too far. I swung a punch, aiming for my eldest brother, desperate to defend myself. But Da came home just in time to catch me mid-swing. He dragged me by the hair into the garden and stripped his belt off right there, lashing into me until my back was raw and burning, each strike digging deep as Ma and my brothers stood by, watching, not lifting a finger to stop him.

The next day at school, I'd catch whispers from the lads. "Your da's off his rocker," or "Your da's a proper psycho," they'd say, snickering. "Your da's a proper psycho."

I ran away more times than I can count, sneaking out at night and sitting on the pavement, hoping someone, anyone, would take notice and whisk me away. But no one ever did. If Da found me, he'd drag me back, shouting, "Ya ungrateful little shit! How dare ya run off when I'm breaking my back to keep food on yer fucking plate and a roof over yer fucking head?" I'd have to stand there, head hung low, as he berated me for my supposed ingratitude.