Then Now Always

Chapter 7

THEN

Zane

It's past midnight when my house comes into view. The amber hued lights beam at me, emerging from the living room window. It can only mean one thing—he's back. I pick up speed, my strides broadening until I'm practically jogging. Up the cement-gray porch steps, I swing the front door open.

My dad, though he hasn't deserved that title for a decade now, sits in the brown leather recliner in the living room. Even though it's a big chair, my dad fills it. He's a big built man. More than six feet tall with a beer gut that spills under his checkered button up.

"And where the fuck have you been?" his voice booms between the cream walls while black eyes pin me in my spot, full of malice and hatred.

"Party down by the lake." No point lying, if he doesn't already know, he'll find out eventually. He always does.

He shifts forward in the seat, squares his broad shoulders. "Party, eh? Is that what you do while I'm busting my ass to provide for this family?"

The nerve on this fucker. "Provide for this family?" I scoff.

He hasn't been providing for this family for a long time now. The money he "busts his ass for" goes straight to the alcohol.

Pans and dishes clatter from the kitchen. My mom emerges with a tray of food on it. Her eyes, the color of the shallow part of the ocean, flicker to me and she gives me a small shake of her head warning me not to start anything tonight. Warning me that my dad isn't in a good mood. But when the fuck is he these days? He hasn't been in a good mood for years now. Rapidly turning into the man that we don't want around.

It's hard to imagine that there was a time in the past where he was a decent dad and husband. A decent person.

But I can still remember when we were a family. Or maybe even then he was a shitty person but my mom hid us from the monster he was though neither me or Lena have asked her about it. How do you approach the subject? Hey mom, how long has our father been a piece of shit for? And if it was all his life then why did you marry him?

It doesn't matter now anyway. It won't change anything now.

My mom approaches my dad and he grabs her by the wrist, his ugly calloused fingers digging into her skin.

She whimpers, the sound of a deer in the arms of a predator. Her eyes instantly dart to me, flashing with warning. Silently trying to say, don't get into this. Go to your room.

But I'm not going to ignore what's happening right in front of me. I'm not going to stand by and let my dad put his hands on my mom.

Only a coward would.

"Let go of her."

My dad's eyes dart to me. "Shut your mouth, boy."

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size, or do you get off on beating up a woman?"

Sick fuck.

His eyes turn into slits, staring me down. "If I was you, I'd watch your mouth." He twists my mom's wrist, and a hateful smile dusts the corner of his mouth like he's enjoying the pain he's causing. She doesn't make a sound now, because she doesn't want me to step in. She wants me to ignore what's going on in front of me.

Fuck. That.

"Yeah? Or what?" I taunt, crossing my arms. Desperately trying the fucker to release my mom and focus on me instead. Focus on putting his son into line.

It works.

He pushes my mom to the side like she's just a piece of garbage he'd been waiting to dispose of. Then he rises and strides toward me.

"No!" my mom yells, but my dad's already got me pinned against the wall.

His rancid breath bubbles with alcohol.

I don't fight him anymore. Not after that one time I beat him up and he pressed charges against me. I spent the night in a cell worrying what he was doing to my mom and sister while I wasn't there to protect them. Now, I'd rather take his wrath instead of subjecting my mom or sister to it.

I'm not scared of him anymore. What's he going to do to me?

Beat me up?

I can take it.

I've been taking it for the last decade.

So I zone out and think of something else to take my mind off it. Sometimes it doesn't work... most of the time it doesn't work. Because what else is there to think about that's going to take my mind off my own father laying fists into me while telling me he wishes that I wasn't his son?

Lena is in my room by the time I barely make it up the stairs with bursts of pain shoot up my side.

She's sitting cross legged on my bed, my black sheets pooling around her knees. When she notices me, she shoots up and races toward me, my face is in her hands getting turned and twisted in every direction as she examines the damage.

"I hate him," the words spill out of her mouth. "I wish he'd just leave and never come back."

I sigh and shut my eyes. "Same."

She pulls me toward the bed and pushes me to sit down. Once I do, she's dotting my face with an alcohol wipe, cleaning the blood on my lip. She looks so much like our father, especially in comparison to the photos from when he was younger. Blonde hair shields her cheeks and a constellation of freckles litter her face.

She hates it. Being compared to such a shitty person. Whenever someone says "Oh, look at you. Aren't you your father's daughter!"

She puts a wide smile on her face and says, "I have my mother's eyes."

"That's not going to happen though, is it?" Lennni says.

"Hmm?"

"He's not going to ever leave, is he?"

I shrug. "You never know, we might get lucky."

She hands me the Tylenol with a bottle of water.

It's become our routine. I take the beating and she patches me up while my mom makes sure he doesn't come up here. In the morning, if we're lucky, he'll leave again. If we're not, then we'll have to tiptoe around him for the next couple of days. Then we repeat the process.

When he's not home, life is much simpler.

"Lenni," I call out before she slips behind the door.

She turns, her mousy hair framing her heart-shaped face. "Yeah?"

"I'll get you out of here. I promise."

She gives me a sad smile like she does every time I say that and closes the door behind her.

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