Fighting the Fall ✔

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Four

Dustin King

Dad wasn't at the house when I got there. The driveway was devoid of the Mustang. It wasn't so unusual for a Saturday night, but I'd sort of expected to find him waiting for me to walk through the door. Especially after receiving such a hit -- any hit at all -- from me the day before. I saw the surprise in his eyes. I'd never hit him before. But, more than that, I'd seen the humiliation. I had a suspicion that, this last time, it was the humiliation more than anything that caused him to swing his own fist right back at me.

But he wasn't there, he wasn't waiting. The house was empty. Quiet. Dark. Lonely.

I finished packing quickly. There was no way of knowing when when he'd be back, so I didn't want to stay long.

I knew he must have been wanting much more than to inflict pain now; his goal had undoubtedly changed. Instead of aiming for and hitting the outer rings, he wanted the dead center, the bullseye. I couldn't help being a target, but I could at least choose to be a moving one.

My eyes surveyed the living room one last time. Hardly anything was as I'd left it days before.

A large hole had been created in the screen of the television.

Chairs were either upside down or on their side.

Shattered glass of different kinds was piled in the corner by the back door.

The living room was a mess, and the other rooms weren't much better. I could picture the entire scene -- Dad storming through the house after we'd left, destroying everything he could but not everything he wanted to, not everyone he wanted to. He'd settled for objects this time. But he wasn't one to settle for very long.

He would be back, and I couldn't be there for that.

Yet, as I stood in the doorway between captivity and freedom, I couldn't help hesitating. Behind me was everything I'd ever known, my whole life up to that point. The home I was raised in. Memories -- good ones -- were made here.

Except it was a house. Not a home, not anymore, and the memories were mine to keep no matter where I was.

Mom's words pushed me forward. Forward into freedom. Forward into life. Forward into safety and hope.

"It doesn't matter where you are. It matters who you're with. Let love be the walls and truth be the roof. Openness is the windows, trust is the floor, patience the rooms, and selflessness the door. Respect is the ground you build your house on. This is what makes a home."

This is not home.

I loaded the final suitcase onto the bed of my truck. It felt like it was all just a dream -- a good dream -- and I would wake with the bitter taste of hope still on my tongue. But this was really happening, things were changing. It was real.

Hope tasted so good.

At the same time, it was like a slow burning pepper, and I was preparing myself for the sting.

I knocked twice on the door before Bishop swung it open. McKenna stood yards behind him, relief spreading throughout her body when she saw who it was at the door.

"Did you lose the key already?" Josh asked. The joke didn't match his face; he looked more concerned than amused.

"Nope, I'm not you," I answered. I felt a little relieved to not have to fake a smile, even when I joked back. He wasn't faking one.

"Why didn't you use it?"

"Because." I looked away from his stare, knowing he was reading me and doing it well. I pulled out the first lie I could think of. "I couldn't find it but you know what? It's probably right where I last--"