Standing By

Because I've Been There

(Chance)

Pulled back into a corner. Creeping. Trying to hide. Trying to get away. Have to avoid him. Not tonight, he can't do this tonight, not tonight, I can't go to school bruised up again.

"You there," my stepdad slurred. "Boy. Get your worthless ass in here."

My mother squeaked the downstairs door open a sliver. "Please," she whispered at me. "Don't—don't make him mad."

"Not my fault," I whimpered, trying to slink back into the kitchen, away from him.

"You always make him mad, sweetheart," she whispered, rubbing her hands over her face worriedly. "Just—don't challenge him, don't fight him. He'll go easier on you."

"Kristy!" he yelled at her, slamming the door in her face. "This is between me and your worthless son!"

I heard her cry behind the door, muttering my name over and over again. Jack, my stepdad, barely tolerable when sober, impossible inebriated. And once again, stupid me had failed math, for the second quarter in a row. Numbers, math, and algebra never have been my strong point. And when you have a crappy-ass teacher, it's a recipe for disaster.

"Boy," he snarled at me. "Does your pea-sized brain comprehend that one plus one equals two? Get your useless ass in here." He lunged at me and got his arms around my waist, pulling me back in the family room. Mom had told me not to fight it, but I couldn't help it; I struggled against him, hoping beyond hope that just once, I could get my scrawny ass away from him.

Jack grabbed my arms and pinned them behind my back, cocking my arm at such an angle that I knew it would break if I struggled. I had no choice. I couldn't go to the hospital for a broken arm. There'd be 'investigations'. They'd take me away from my mother, who was about the only reason I was still around, otherwise I'd have killed myself or run away a long time ago, just to escape this vicious cycle—drunk, sober, drunk, sober, drunk, getting beat every time he drank. Time and time again. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to shove all my feelings inside of me, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

"Piece of shit," he grunted at me, punching me upside the head until I saw stars. "What do your mother and I got to do to get you to act right?" I braced myself as he aimed a punch at the bottom of my ribcage. "Can't you fucking pay attention to your teacher? Adam doesn't do his homework. Adam was late. Adam doesn't pay attention. Adam was doodling in his notebook. Adam was looking and studying on his music instead of algebra. Adam Adam Adam! Every! Fucking! Day!"

I winced as he came down hard on my jaw, and I wiggled it back and forth a few times. Thank God, it didn't seem broken.

"You're fooling yourself, boy, if you think you're any good at that music crap!" Jack added, his words hurting and cutting me more than just the fists he was pounding on my body with. Music was one of the few good things in my life. Every day, second period, with Mrs. Schafer. I lived for music class, always ready, always studied and prepared, always giving my best. Mrs. Schafer always appreciated and praised my efforts, telling me I was her best student. That made me feel good about myself. Made life worth living, just for one hour of the day, being told I was good at something. Being listened to. Being—valued. I loved it when I could just close my eyes and immerse myself into the sounds, the notes, my mind filled with nothing but the soul-moving music, then to be able to hear my own mousy voice molding into the notes, replicating each pitch perfectly. I was not mousy Adam when I sang. I was not the quiet kid who was easy to pick on. I loved hearing my voice grow and gracefully hit the notes I never thought I could. Maybe one day my speaking voice will settle down and I'd sound rich and warm even when I talked. I loved the nuances, the lower notes that I was able to hit and sustain that many of the other boys could not. Mrs. Schafer's budding little baritone, she called me.