Danger Zone

*Trigger warning for domestic and animal abuse.

Click. Open. Click again.

There were nearly thirty tabs open on Dash's faded computer screen, all of them videos from various sites of football passes, snaps, punts, touchdowns–basically any footage he could find to study over for the upcoming football season. Casper High may have lost the championship by two touchdowns, but Dash was more determined than ever to make sure that never happened again. He might have failed most of his classes the past year (due to a distinct lack of effort), but when it came to football, he was all business.

As he pored over different huddle techniques, Dash spared a glance to his right at his chihuahua, Pookie, napping peacefully on his mattress, his little chest rising up and down in content. Another involuntary look over his left shoulder assured him that his subtle warning system–an extra helmet propped against his door, which would move and make noise if the door opened–was in place.

Good. Dash could only relax so much when he was in the house, so every precaution counted. The door's lock, having been busted about two months ago in a flurry of rage, was beyond repair. And if history was any indication, his "father's" head should be nodding backwards on the couch any second after the consumption of one-too-many beers and the lulling soundtrack of informercials blaring on the TV set in the background.

Set up for the night, Dash turned forward again, picking up his soda and sipping diligently through the straw while his eyes stayed glued to the screen. A few minutes later, he could hear Pookie ruffling his comforter as he woke up and stretched.

A few more minutes into the next video, Pookie jumped onto the rug below and started to yap at the back of Dash's desk chair.

Dash, too engrossed in his footage, only mumbled, "Be quiet, boy…"

The dog simply continued his endeavors, his barks growing louder and more annoying with each passing second.

"Come on, Pookie, I'm trying to-"

It was the sound of heavy footsteps storming down the hallway that finally broke Dash's focus.

"Oh, shit."

There was about five seconds left before all hell broke loose.

Dash turned around in his swivel chair, bending forward towards the ground to desperately calm his dog down. "Pookie, please. You can't make noise!"

Slam. Dash's door swung open, practically cracking the door and sending the helmet spiraling across the floor to hit his dresser.

Peter Baxter stood dangerously in the doorway, dressed in ripped-up muddy jeans and a stained undershirt that barely covered a slight beer belly. His brown hair and beard both were overgrown and unkempt, and his eyes were glazed over with the signature of alcohol. He glared at Dash.

"If you don't shut that damn mutt up then I will." As if to back up his threat, he stumbled a few steps in towards the chihuahua, who subconsciously backed away towards the bed but still continued to yap loudly.

"Okay, geez. I'm trying. I think he just wants to go outside for a bit," Dash answered as he bristled at his dad's audacity. Under his breath he added, "And he's not a mutt. But I know who is."

"What was that, boy?"

"Nothing."

"Hey! When I ask you something, you answer me! What did you say?" Peter was only a few feet away from him now.

"I said…he's not a mutt." Dash stared with an implied undertone at the older man. His head pounded with adrenaline at his own attempt to backfire his dad's insult.

The subtext flew over his drunken head. "Yeah he is. Don't try to change what I already know. And dammit, boy, that rat's still making noise! Guess I gotta shut it up myself."

"NO! Don't touch him!" Dash lunged forward as his dad reached down to grab Pookie by the scruff of his neck. His tackle sent both men into the wall before Dash scrambled back quickly, standing up defensively but still holding his ground. Pookie was off to the side, cowering in fear now.

"Did you just tackle me?" Peter raged as he stood up with difficulty. "Wrong move, boy."

In the next moment everything started to move in slow motion for Dash. His dad pushed him squarely in the chest, sending him backwards to crash into his desk chair. As he fell, Peter picked Pookie up again with one hand and threw the small body against the far wall, watching in satisfaction as the dog lay unmoving along the baseline.

Dash sat in shock on the floor, before anger bubbled up and overtook his common sense, causing him to bounce back on his feet and shove his father with more force than he knew he had. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Peter ignored his question, bracing himself as he got back up. He rubbed the back of his head where it had hit the wall. "Now you're asking for it." He didn't mince any more words, instead taking the opportunity to grab Dash by his collar and throw him violently to the ground.

Dash only had a second to breathe before he felt a foot meet with his abdomen, the wind effectively knocked out of him. He cringed in anticipation of the second kick, thinking to himself, Not again. He was sick of his dad's abusive nights, which seemed to be more frequent lately. The fact that he had harmed Pookie though refueled his spirit with vengeance, causing him to roll on his back and yank his dad's leg to bring him to his level.

The two rolled around on the ground, trying to get punches in here and there. Peter's fury only seemed to grow with each daring hit his son landed, which made him drunkenly backlash with harder hits of his own.

At some point, Dash found a chance to stand up, taking a second to recuperate as the older man got up much more slowly.

"What's the matter, boy? Too upset over your dumb rat mutt to fight anymore?"

Dash felt something snap in his head. "I hate you. Rot in hell."

Without even giving him time to process the words, Dash brought his fist back and threw as much power as he could into the resounding knockout hit that landed on Peter's nose. His grubby hands flew to his face as he fell backward unconscious on the floor.

Dash felt numb, his knuckles still ringing from the impact. He needed to get out of there, far away from that monster before he woke up. Letting his brain snap back into focus, he reached far under his bed and grabbed the backpack he kept at the ready for moments like this. It had extra clothes, a first-aid kit, some food and money, and an old spare cellphone he had reactivated secretly under Kwan's name, who was the only other person who knew about the emergency number.

Fortunately, Dash was still wearing his shoes from the day, so all he had to do was grab his letterman jacket and slip it on, before he slung the backpack on his shoulders and found a hoodie in his dresser that he gently wrapped the still-unconscious Pookie in. The dog had a severe gash on his head from hitting the wall, but otherwise seemed relatively unharmed. Still, he needed to find him help fast. He cradled the bundle in the crook of his arm and made his way down the stairs and out the front door.

Dash started to jog down the sidewalk, wanting to get distance between him and the house as fast as possible. He wasn't certain where to go first, but all he knew for sure in that moment was that he done with that place. For good.

I love the Dash abuse arc (originally inspired by textsfromghosts on Tumblr).

Part two to come later today, if y'all want it. ;)