A Bird in Flight | ✔︎

Chapter three: Maybe there is more to her

Callan

RED-RIMMED EYES, a face like thunder and his stormy gaze set right on me. His meaty hand clutched an empty bottle of whiskey and I could smell the alcohol on his breath all the way from the other side of the room.

Crouched behind the sofa, trying to steady my thudding heartbeat but that's impossible when I was frozen underneath my dad's icy glare penetrating the walls I'd built up around me. The whole facade was always obliterated the moment I passed the threshold of my house. Even at seven I had hardened the mask and refused to let anyone outside these household walls know the truth.

"You fucking pussy!" he spat at me, ditching the bottle at my head. I ducked and it shattered against the wall behind me, showering me with glass. "Don't you hide from me! Face me, like a man!"

His voice sent goosebumps crawling up my spine. The bruises and cuts from the beating the day before had barely healed and I was still nursing a twisted ankle and concussion from when my dad shoved me down the stairs.

My mom entered the room, stopping in her tracks as her eyes widened, assessing the situation. She had a small cut on her lip from when my dad struck her this morning for not making his coffee properly.

"What's he done now?" She sounded tired but a hint of boredom melted into her exhausted tone.

"What's he done?" my dad bellowed, the vein running along his temple pulsing as he balled his hands into fists. "He fucked up, that's what he did; that's all he ever does! A piece of shit who can't manage to wash up a few plates without screwing up!" He shoved his hand into his pocket, revealing the shards of the plate I had accidentally broken in the kitchen sink.

I started crying. I couldn't help it. The fear, the anticipation was gnawing holes into my black, broken soul. Even at seven, I was damaged. Even then I knew nothing but violence and rage, pain and terror.

He dived across the room, throwing a fist into my face and knocking me backward. My head collided with the wall at the same time as blood spurted from my nose and gushed into my mouth. My vision blurred and I fought to stay conscious as he backhanded me across the face, snapping my neck to the side and sending shock waves of pain down my side.

"Don't you dare cry! What the hell is wrong with you?" He shoved me to the floor and began kicking me in the side over and over as I heard my mom's footsteps fade away into the kitchen.

"See, she doesn't love you," my dad yelled, gripping my wrist fiercely as he wrenched me to my feet and hurled me into the middle of the living room. I lost my balance and crashed into the coffee table, crying out in pain as it was upturned, slicing my forehead open and bruising my arm. "You're unlovable! An unlovable, worthless, useless little shit! Your own mother hates you! Your own mother refuses to protect and defend his son. You are alone in this world, Callan, and it is exactly what you deserve."

Those words would scar me forever.

I just stared up at this big, terrifying monster, feeling my mind, body, and soul beginning to shut down. I vaguely wondered what he would do now.

His eyes were close but distant, shifting in and out of the present as his boot slammed into my gut again and I screamed out in pain.

"Fuck!" I cry out, my head thwacking against some hard surface, abruptly tearing me from the nightmare. I open my eyes, fists raised, shoulders hunched, blinking away the tears resting in my eyes. A whimper falls from my lips. I swear he's still here. I swear I can still feel the raised welts from when he hit me. I swear I can still taste the blood on my lips.

His presence continues to linger despite I've now fully convinced myself that what I'm looking at and where I am is actually the present.

I'm lying in a tangle of sheets and blankets at the foot of my bed. My breathing is uneven and ragged, my heart feeling like it might jump in my throat.