Chapter 1
"Get back here, you little shit! I'm not done with you yet!"
I heard Dad shout that from behind me as I bolted into his bedroom and locked the door. Hell, what else was I going to do? When your father is on your heels with a two-by-four in his hand and eight beers in his belly your only real option is to put a locked door between you and him.
Sometimes Dad has a reason for beating me. Lord knows I ain't always a good kid. I stay out late with the gang when I know Dad expects me home. I sometimes forget to do the dishes before he gets home from work. Once, he caught me stealing cigarettes out of his dresser drawer. He had used his heaviest belt on me that time. But this was different. This time I didn't do anything wrong.
"Johnny! God dammit, you open this door," my father shouted. The thin door of his bedroom muffled his voice, but only slightly. He was drunk. I could tell by the way his words mashed up against each other. He was drunk and mean as hell and he was angry at me just for breathing.
"Leave me alone, Dad! Please just leave me alone." My voice was strong at first, but I heard it taper off at the end. I was scared. He sounded madder than I'd ever heard him.
A loud womp resounded through the house. The thin, plaster walls shook with the force of it. Dad was clearly trying to shoulder his way through the door. He would make it through after another couple shoves. That's when hot anger boiled in my veins. I didn't do anything wrong, yet Dad was still going to beat me senseless. I thought of all the times he had hit me for disobeying him. I sure didn't love those lickings, but deep down I didn't mind them so much. Deep down, I figured I deserved to get beat. I did something wrong, so I got punished. But this was different. I hadn't done anything to deserve it this time. It wasn't fair. I wasn't going to take it.
I dashed over to his dresser and ripped open the top drawer. There was something in there that I needed—something I had noticed the time I had stolen Dad's cigarettes. In the bottom of the drawer, tucked under the stained white undershirts was my father's gun. It was an old Colt revolver. Despite my boiling blood, I shivered when I laid my hand on its inky black surface. I lifted it, feeling its icy weight in my hands and just had time to flick open the cylinder and count the six bullets inside before a loud crack sounded behind me.
I turned to face him. Dad towered in the doorway, his huge hands gripping a four-foot-long piece of wood. His eyes, dark and fierce, were glued on me. Though he was drunk, I could tell he was alert enough to do me some real damage if I gave him the chance. I raised the gun, clutching it in two shaking hands.
"Stay back," I croaked.
To my horror, he laughed—threw his head back and let out one bark-like laugh. "You ain't gunna kill your own father."
He was right. I couldn't do it. I could hate my father for all the pain he caused me, but hating and killing are two different things. I stood frozen with my finger on the trigger. Dad took my moment of inactivity as proof that I wouldn't shoot and brought the two-by-four down on my knuckles. The gun flew from my fingers and landed with a clatter on the rough wooden floor. I was too stunned to react and he landed another blow, this time across my shoulder.
I fell to the ground hard and turned away from him covering my face. I knew that if I just lay still and took it, he would eventually stop. The hard piece of wood came down on my shoulder blades and ribs, hips and forearms. Harsh, radiating pain lanced through my flesh wherever the blows fell.
"I'll teach you to threaten me with my own gun," he grumbled. He hit me even harder.
"Stop. Please-" I begged. It hurt too much to do anything but plead.
"I'll stop when I'm good and ready."
The two-by-four just kept coming down. Pounding, bruising, breaking. I was crying. It was more misery than I could bear. Fathers aren't supposed to do things like this, are they? I thought of Ponyboy's father and how he had died in that car wreck a few months back. Pony was still broken up about it. Soda and Darry were too. I wondered briefly what it would be like to have a father who loved me; a father whose death would break my heart. I bet it would be real nice.
The two-by-four struck me across the chest knocking the breath out of me. It occurred to me that I might actually die from this. I didn't have a lot of muscle over my bones. I figured I couldn't take much more. The pain was too much. But I didn't want to die yet. There was too much I'd never seen; too many places I never got a chance to visit. It wasn't fair.
All of a sudden I really didn't want to die. The flames in my blood ignited again. I burned with the desire to live. I peered out from under my shielding arms and my eye fell on the gun. It lay on the floor mere feet away.
Without another thought, I did what I had to. In one motion, I grabbed for the gun with both my hands, cocked it as I aimed it at my father's chest and pulled the trigger.