A/N: I can't thank all of you enough for the kind feedback - it's very much appreciated! The subject matter in this story is much darker than what I usually write, and I just wanted to say that I'm glad you're willing to take this particular journey with me. Many thanks to my beta, too - she rocks as a friend, she's mega-talented, & she's a fantastic listener / supportive shoulder / sounding board. Without her encouragement, I probably would've put these chapters straight into my recycle bin.
I just want to restate the obvious, here, and remind you all that there is a big, huge trigger warning with this whole story. It applies to every chapter. Not every chapter will follow the format that the first two use, but for the most part? They're all pretty dark.
And now, on with the story...
Part II (Age Nine): How Sad To Know the Routine So Well…
The force of the blow knocks him off his feet and he stumbles forward with outstretched arms, as he tries to dodge the sharp edge of the table. His face stings. His cheeks are hot with anger and residual pain, and he feels the burn of embarrassment flood across them just before he lands. And this time, he does it correctly. He manages to successfully avoid the furniture and land on his knees instead – in a shaking, sickened pile atop their faded brown rug. But he doesn't dare relax, though.
Not yet.
There are shouts coming from above him. They're filled with angry, hateful, awful words. And although he has already heard them a thousand different times in a thousand different ways, the cuts they leave behind still mark him just as deeply as the first. Repetition doesn't make the humiliation any easier to swallow, either.
He pays attention to everything lately. He studies the smallest sound and the tiniest movement, in hopes of finding a pattern to whatever starts the madness. Like a trigger. A clue that will tell him when to fight back, when to hide, and when to just accept the pain. And it's all a game, really. A little chess match he plays in his own head – trying to stay ten moves ahead of someone who is older, stronger, and bigger than he is.
Lucky enough, he's always been good at that game.
This time, he gets only as far as step number two – avoidance – before the footsteps begin again. They thud toward him, sounding hopelessly loud in their small home, and he tries to scramble out of the way because he already knows what is about to happen.
Boots.
The man always wears steel-toed boots.
At least it's wintertime, though. The extra layers of clothes he's wearing will help to smother the pain.
He glances up just in time to see the first kick coming, and he manages to roll himself into a tight little ball so that the back of his thigh takes the worst of the punishment – not his bony, nine-year-old shin. Wham! The sharp steel-toe slices into his skin and he cries out immediately. He's scared, and he's hurt, and he just wants to understand why all of this keeps happening. Why his mum's arms keep getting bruised, and why he can't go to sleep at night without hearing things that no little boy should have to hear… and why someone who is supposed to love him is always so cruel.
The second kick lands on his ribs – on the right side, where he's still sore from last time. So he cries out – pleads with someone, anyone, everyone to come and help him, because surely something is broken now. It burns. His whole body burns. He's scared and confused, and yet… he starts to feel calmer, too, because things have never gone past two kicks before. One slap across his face and two kicks below the belt – that's how it works.
How sad to know the routine so well.
It's one slap across his face, and two kicks below the belt, and he can count just fine, thank-you-very-much. He might not know how to predict the beginning of his father's madness yet… but that's exactly how it's been ending lately. So in a crazy, sickening, twisted sort of way, he almost welcomes the burning pain in his ribcage, because it means that everything is probably done.
He grimaces as he presses his palm over his side for support, and then turns over again – looking up at the man who is standing above him. He's never been this brave before. Never this bold. The eyes that stare back into his are dark with frustration and rage, and a second later – when a fresh string of curses drops from that angry, angry mouth, he decides that maybe he was wrong this time. Maybe everything isn't done. Fear thuds down into his stomach as he watches those cold eyes in the low evening light. Every heartbeat makes his body ache with pain, and he thinks he might vomit all over the floor.
He needs to get up.
To stand.
To feel safe again.
He just wants it all to stop.
But the words come again when he's halfway to his knees. They're louder this time. They're loud and cruel, and he just…
…he just…
He can't do it anymore. He can't. It's all too hard, and too much, and why can't they be a normal family for a change? One with a white picket fence, and a mum who doesn't cry, and a dad who doesn't make promises that he can't keep?
The words begin to slur, and his father stumbles forward. The man laughs. Sneers. Draws his foot back again to have another kick with those heavy, heavy boots…
And this, he realizes, is the precipice. The tipping point. He might be a child, and he might be scared, but in that mental chess match he's still playing, he sees only one way out. He can either face his fear, head on… or he can wait for the inevitable pain.
What he lacks in size he more than makes up for in speed. He's a fast kid, you know. Very fast. He is fast, and the alcohol has made his father a little bit slow, and by the time his brain realizes what his body is doing, he's already on his feet – quite literally facing his fear, as he starts to shout at the top of his lungs.
"Dad, please!" he says – his voice slicing through the thick, stale air as time seems to freeze all around him. "It's enough, already! Just stop!"
His heart is pounding and his fists are clenched, and he has no clue how he's actually managing to breathe, because every inhale feels like a knife stabbing into him, and every exhale burns with humiliation and shame. It should not have gone this far. Too far, too far, too far, too far. He still feels sick – thinks there's still a good chance he might vomit. And he's so tired, too. He needs to sleep. To crawl into his bed and under his covers and sleep away from everything bad.
He's never shouted like that before. Not to his mum, or to his dad, or to anyone at all. He's always been the quiet one. Fast and quiet, like a mouse. But he's nine now. And he wants to be a lion.
His father looks stunned, because this wasn't a part of anyone's plan. Defiance… bravery… rebelliousness. Those words have never been in the Lightman family script until now. Until now, women and children were seen – not heard. And little boys named Cal didn't scream at their fathers.
He concentrates on breathing. Wills his stomach to calm down. And while he's trying to stop his own hands from shaking, his father's hands are steady. They reach out for him again. They try to slap and shove and push and pull… but he dodges. He rears back, unsteady, and braces himself with one arm against a bookshelf as the other shoots outward in self-defense.
In self-defense, yeah?
Should that word even be in a nine-year-old boy's vocabulary?
His ribs ache. The pain travels down, down, down – past his knee, to his shin, to his ankle, and back up again – and he honestly has no idea how he's managed not to cry. Maybe because he's too stubborn? Too scared? Or maybe…
…maybe he just doesn't want his father to "win" that part of this war. To break his spirit. To make him feel weak.
Because he isn't, you know?
He isn't weak at all.
His muscles tense in tandem, waiting to see what will happen next. And he looks past the angry face to a point behind it instead: his mum. She stands at the doorway – with one hand on the frame, and one outstretched towards him – and edges into the room. She takes one step… then a second… and by the third, distance pulls her fingertips away from the splintering wood, while instinct curls them into a fist at her side.
"Cal…"
Her voice breaks on the last letter of his name, and he isn't sure why, exactly, but the sound propels him forward. He doesn't even think - he just moves away from the wall on instinct, and doesn't stop moving until he stands right in front of his father. And he stands up, too. Straight up. He's not slouched; not crumpled. He's tall.
And brave.
And strong.
Because he's nine, now – not six. Remember?
And he hates the way fear makes him feel inside.
To be continued...