Dizzy, the black stars as his body hit the floor. Craig moaned, and from the corner of his eye he saw the next kick coming. He tensed, but tensing didn't help with the pain. One swift kick to the stomach and he was gasping around the sudden absence of air, absence of oxygen. Everything was filled with pain. Every crevice of his being.
Slowly he pulled himself up after it was over. He could still feel the blow to his stomach, could still feel the exquisite pain.
Upstairs, in his room, curled up on his bed. Tears in his eyes. Why did he always think that this wouldn't happen again? The days and months between beatings didn't make a difference. It would always happen again. When the pain was fresh and the bruises yet to form he knew this. Only with healing would he forget.
When things were relatively good both him and his dad pretended that nothing like this ever happened. He was never punched, never grabbed and thrown against walls, thrown to the floor. He wasn't ever covered in bruises. That wasn't his life.
He was isolated. He watched Angie and Joey from behind tombstones at the cemetery, running if they caught a glimpse of him. He couldn't invite people over because, because it wasn't safe. He never knew from day to day what his father's mood would be like. At other people's houses he was in awe of the environment, of the lack of tension, of the tendency his friends had to say what they wanted to say. He'd see them say and do things that he wouldn't dare and their parents would barely react.
After his mother died the beatings really started. Before her death he'd been hit, slapped, but never, never like it was now. Maybe his dad thought he'd tell her, and now there was no one to tell. No one to run to.
He knew it wasn't like this for most kids. At Emma's house for the barbeque he could tell that Emma was more self-assured, more comfortable in her own skin than he'd ever be. He felt comfortable there. He liked Spike, liked her laid back attitude, her calm demeanor. His father was anything but calm. Even when he was being nice there was this underlying tension that was nearly unbearable. Suffocating. He was always on edge, even when things were good.
Spike, smiling and laughing with Snake. Snake was tall and blond, his blue eyes looking out of his freckled face. Mr. Simpson. He felt like he could trust him and wanted to tell him…something. Some message in a bottle, an S.O.S. call for help. But he couldn't say anything. Saying something went against his coping mechanism of pretending that things were fine. Laughing it off. Nothing fazes him. He can handle it. He can compartmentalize his life. The smiling face at school, with friends, out in public, because that life was not connected to his life at home. That life was not connected to the fear and the yelling and the dripping sarcasm and the belittling and the getting strapped and getting punched and getting kicked.
The double life couldn't last for long. It would tear him apart. But right now, in the sun, laughing with Angie, it was okay. The double life was just fine.
Joey's flashy red convertible suddenly appearing in the sun. Craig's breath caught in his throat and he moved behind Emma, trying to hide. Joey couldn't see him here. He'd tell his father. He wasn't supposed to be around them, but Angie wouldn't tell. He looked down, eyes shifting from side to side. Maybe Joey wouldn't see him. Maybe he'd be okay.
"Craig?" Joey's voice and Craig cringed at his name. Of course he'd see him. Why did he think he could hide? There was no hiding.
"What are you doing here?" Joey's voice was critical and cautious and Craig didn't like it.
"I invited him," Emma said, narrowing her eyes at Joey's bald head. Angie was off somewhere else, he'd lost track of her after she'd screeched, "daddy!"