~ Prologue ~
I sulked inside again, like I had for the past twelve or so years. Shrugging off my backpack, it was set down by the stairs and I made my way to the kitchen for a drink. A long sigh pushed past my lips as I kicked off my shoes. High school.
"Welcome home, Jack." My mother smiled, or at least tried to. It hurt to see her dead eyes. But I waved anyway while sipping my water, hoping that maybe dad would leave us alone today. "Got homework?"
"Not much. It's still early in the year and a Friday, so only Trigonometry." I muttered, examining the glass. The house is too quiet. "Is he home?" The words came out with caution as I looked into her eyes and I prayed that he went on a business trip or something. Her face fell and she just shook her head.
"It's only half past three. Your father will be home soon."
"Great."
"He's not that bad."
"Not that bad?" Scoffing, I reached out to tentatively grab her wrist, pulling up the sleeve of her blouse. "That's pretty bad, mom." The finger print shaped bruises hurt to look at, but they probably hurt more to have. She shook her head once more before pushing the fabric back down.
That wasn't even the worst of it. He'd broken bones before, and cut her back with kitchen knives. It was fucking scary. Not even the perfect circle burnt into my collarbone from his cigarette could compare to what my mother had faced. The saddest part was that she was afraid to leave him, because the thought that he'd probably try to kill her was terrifying.
I gave her a quick hug before grabbing my shoes and bag, heading up to my room and locking the door. It was the way things worked. I'd always hide out after school so that he wouldn't hurt me. In fact, the first time my father had broken one of my mom's bones was when he gave me that cigarette burn.
We'd been reading in the garden out back and he stumbled out, immediately tugging me up by my hair when he laid eyes on me. Of course, I yelped, so he tried to shut me up by using my neck as an ash tray. That only made me scream louder. And I told her, I fucking told her not to help me. But she did, and successfully got him to let go of me. I fell back onto the ground and blacked out when I heard a snap. When I woke up, everyone was gone. My aunt called me and told me my mom had broken three of her ribs. He'd forced her body against the house. And she almost punctured a lung.
I shuddered at the memory, pulling my worn out red spiral from my backpack. Senior year. I can do this. It's a blow off year, right? It's only September, but I think I can make it to June without a problem. We've worked out a pretty solid system for avoiding my father during the last five years with minimal injury (yeah, this is minimal for us).
The front door slammed downstairs and I cringed out of instinct. If we're lucky, he's not drunk, and he'll only yell. So I continued to work through the complicated math equations, staying silent and listening intently. There was nothing. That's scary and weird and not okay at all.
I threw everything on the ground and opened my door hastily. Okay, he could not be home if it's this silent. It doesn't work like that. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, he was there, as if he were waiting for me rather than my mother.
"Good afternoon, son."
"What's so good about it?"
"You shouldn't talk to your father like that." He snarled after taking a swig from the dirty flask he's owned since I was seven. Filthy fucking alcoholic.
"I'm seventeen. I can talk to anyone in any way I want to." I challenged and quirked an eyebrow. Yeah Jack, great idea. His fingers curled into the material of my shirt for a millisecond before I was shoved against the wall, sliding down and out of breath. My hands went to my neck as I attempted to regain oxygen.
"Stupid kid." The man I called 'dad' grumbled, walking into the kitchen. I swallowed thickly and stood up on wobbly legs, gasping to get more air. Lesson one; having the wind knocked out of you is no fun. Especially when your drunken father does it to you on purpose. "Ah, Joyce. Did you make dinner?"
"It's four o'clock, honey." She squeaked. Oh God, mom. There was a harsh smacking noise and I just knew she'd have a red hand print on her face tomorrow. And she'd try to hastily cover it with makeup on Sunday because it'd still be swollen and she needed to go to church.
I want to know what kind of God lets shit like this happen.
My parents got into their usual verbal conflict while I leaned against the wall and waited. It got heated, a lot more shouting from my mom's side than usual. I winced again. This is gonna get ugly. There was a blood-curdling scream and yeah, that was a little unusual. I peeked my head in, no longer seeing my mother. But I could still hear her yelling for help as my dad slipped his arm into his coat.
"What did you do to mom?"
"She got what she deserved." And that was it, he sped past me and out of the house. I tiptoed onto the tile carefully, nearly throwing up. She was pale and red was oozing from a rather large vertical gash on her forearm.
"Jack, call for help!"
"I-I... Okay, yeah." I nodded, swallowing the urge to vomit. Quickly dialing the three numbers I never thought I'd have to use, I pressed the house phone to my ear and tapped my foot, trying not to listen to her crying anymore.
"Hello, what's your emergency?" She sounded way too fucking cheery to be an ambulance dispatcher. Nearly choking, I told the woman what was going on.
"My mom's in trouble and there's like... A lot of fucking blood." I breathed out, putting my hand over my mouth to stifle a sob. Warm tears flowed down my cheeks and honestly, my friends would be calling me a little bitch right now if they didn't know why I was crying.
"Medics will be arriving in no time. Hang in there." She hung up after that, the dial tone ringing in my ears. I had to trust her. So I slammed the electronic down onto the counter, barely waiting five minutes before people were barging into the house and wheeling my mother away on a stretcher. I hadn't even told them where I lived.
"Can I go with?"
"Are you over eighteen?"
"No, but I'm her son!"
"I'm sorry, kid." The man muttered, running out to get back in the vehicle. I stood by the door, watching as they hurriedly attached machines to my mother before shutting the doors on the ambulance. The lights and siren blared and I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes.
What if she dies?
I shut the front door with force, sprinting back to the phone and calling the police.
"Bassam Barakat, he's the one who hurt my mom. The abuse has been going on for over five years, she went to the hospital in an ambulance ten minutes ago!"
"Thank you for calling. The search warrant has been issued, we'll try our best."
We'll try our best. What a fucking joke! If their best wasn't enough, my father would be home and killing me soon enough. Jesus Christ. I threw the phone, running my hands through my hair. I'm completely fucked. My dad is a criminal and my mom is probably going to die.
I let out another sob, viciously wiping my eyes. Fuck my life. Honestly, maybe this—
"Trying to put daddy away, Jacko?"
Shit.
