Bloodlust

chapter two

-2-

My house is a small two-story house, red brick, a wooden porch, and grass that looks like it was once pristine, but has since faded. The whole house looks like that’s faded stained, and out of its prime. There’s an old red sedan in the cracked driveway; my mom is home, and my dad’s black car is missing. I step onto the porch that was once white until the paint peeled off the wood. I open the door, which creaks loudly, and I hear my mom in the kitchen.

“I’m home,” I announce as I run up the stairs to my room and dump my backpack on my bed. There’s a pile of schoolwork and CDs on my desk, the floor is cluttered with clothes and there are band posters on the dark blue walls. My room may be small but it’s mine. I run back to the kitchen and slide to a stop on the linoleum floor. My mom is at the table in her dingy blue work dress and an apron. She works nights at a diner and my dad works days. My parents both have to work and my mom took on nights to avoid my dad. My parents would get a divorce if they could afford it, but they improvise instead, avoiding each other as much as possible.

“Hi Anthony,” my mom says as she looks up at me, her graying black hair is falling out of its ponytail. She hands me a plate of pasta and sauce and I start eating immediately, surprised she cooked, but hungry enough not to comment. “How was your day?” she asks as she starts on her own dishes. My mom is the best cook I know. She’s a full-blooded Italian so it’s tomato sauce, not blood, the runs through her veins.

“It was good,” I tell her with my mouth full. “The usual.”

“How are your friends?”

“Good,” I say and she nods. The conversation between us is always awkward because it’s too easy to get in an argument. I hear my dad’s car pull into the driveway, my good mood, if I can even call it that, sours. My stomach clenches in fear and I drop my fork, no longer hungry as the door slams.

“Shit,” my mom says quietly. I don’t need to vocalize my thoughts because they’re exactly the same as hers.

“Laura,” my dad slurs as he comes loudly through the front door, slamming it behind him. “Where’s my fucking dinner?” He comes into the kitchen and I know he’s already drunk. He tosses his keys on the counter and slips off his jacket, revealing a sweat stained dress shirt.

“You never do anything for me,” my mom says bitingly, “Why should I have to make you dinner?”

Fuck. Sometimes I wish my mom just wouldn’t talk back to my dad like that. It’s asking for an argument, it’s asking to make things worse.

“Because I provide for you Laura! I give you a home, you give me food,” He jabs a finger violently in her direction and she flinches. I can feel the tension in the room rising and I wish I could leave. But I’m trapped. My dad is standing in the doorway of the kitchen and I’m sitting at the table watching everything.

“You provide for me?” my mom demands, “Is that why I have to buy my own food and pay my own bills?”

“Well whose fault is it that we’re poor?” My dad yells.

“It sure as hell isn’t my fault!” my mom yells. I stay quiet and hope that they’ll ignore me and leave me out of this. “I try as hard as I can!”

“You work at a truck stop!” my dad yells. “You honestly call that trying? You work in a minimum wage shit hole!”

“At least I’m not an alcoholic!” my mom retorts. There’s a moment of silence where my dad glares at my mom.

“Whore,” my dad seethes slapping her hard across the face.  

I won’t stand for this; I will not allow my dad to hit my mom. Not again. “What the fuck are you doing?” I yell as I step in front of my mom. “Don’t touch her!” My mom protests quietly, something about deserving it, but I don’t listen. I can’t listen.

“You little bastard,” my dad says as he shoves me into the table and onto the floor. “You think you can tell me what to do?“ He grabs the plate with my food on it, “Think again,” he says as he throws the plate at me. I see it coming and raise my arm in front of my face in defense. The plate shatters against my arm. I hear the noise before the pain registers. The pain bites into me and I wince but I don’t cry out. My eyes tear up as the pain worsens. Crying out is letting him win. He kicks my ribs and I curl in on myself as the pain blossoms through me. My arm starts bleeding and I get up and run to my room, making sure each footstep is loud and heavy. I want the pounding to shake the house, but all it does is make more noise.

“How dare you hit my son?” I hear my mom yell.

I try to tune it all out stuffing my things in a duffel bag and in my backpack. I need to get away from this house. I need to get away from my parents. My dad is an alcoholic asshole and my mom just encourages him by fighting with him all the fucking time. I grab clothes and my iPod, refusing to leave music behind. I bandage up my arm and grab my stuff. I slip a sweatshirt on, waiting until I hear my mom leave before I toss my stuff carefully out the window. I lower myself from the window, landing a little hard on the ground but it doesn’t feel like anything is broken or sprained. I lean against the side of the house and take a deep breath. When I exhale the breath is shaky, but I grab my stuff and start walking.