A/N: Warning: Child abuse and violence


I manage to bullshit my way through the conversation and Alex lets me stay until four. After that, he insists I go home and at least start on my paper – which proves how much he knows me. Though, who gets started on the first paper of the semester before they have to?

Before I leave the shop, I dig my phone out and type a message to Valerie, climbing into behind the wheel just after I press send.

To: Valerie

How's Patricia?

My friends may not care enough about their cars to bring them in regularly but I sure as hell do. There's no reason to drive a car around in a bad condition if you can afford to replace it. Or… if your parents won't go bat shit crazy at the mention of fixing something else with your car. Dad thinks I've spent too much of my money on Rider so I don't even bring it up around him. I need to fix my brakes tomorrow regardless of what he thinks.

I get a text almost immediately but I'm pulling out of the parking lot and I wait until I'm at a red light before looking at it. No need to ruin this car, especially considering a snowball has a better chance surviving in hell than I would of getting another one.

From: Valerie

Oh, I see how it is. More concerned about my car than me ;P

I roll my eyes and type back 'duh' before I drop my phone back onto the center console and continue down the road after I'm given the green light, wondering if I should pick up something for dinner tonight. Considering dad probably won't be coming home until late, a burger out from somewhere sounds fucking amazing right now. I'll start on my paper and when six rolls around, I'll head out to get food.

My car practically purrs as I drive it and other than the brakes, it's a mostly quiet ride. The tension from earlier has eased and the knot in my chest is less vice like in its grip. I can breathe a little easier as I drive back to my house.

I wave to the old lady still sitting on her porch and she waves back, dropping whatever she's knitting into her lap when she does. It takes my key twice to twist the lock open and I have to use the brunt of my weight to get the door to open. It sticks sometimes and I should probably fix it at some point. But, that's something to deal with another day.

The house is quiet and my eyes are instantly drawn to the TV. I wonder if I should watch an episode of something before starting on my homework. The clock on my phone tells me that's a bad idea if I still want to get something out to eat. I should focus for the next few hours, at least the promise of something greasy will give me something to look forward to.


Coming up with something important that I did this summer is harder than I thought and I restart my paper four times, wracking my brain to figure something out. Five thirty comes and goes and I'm still stuck staring at a blank page.

I've chewed my nails down to stubs and I can barely open the soda I finally went downstairs for. My cursor blinks on my screen as my laptop starts to drift into sleep mode but I prevent it by streaking my thumb across the track pad with an exaggerated sigh. I shouldn't be having to write this today. What the hell am I supposed to say about this past summer? Spent it fucking the hottest girl in school. I doubt Lancer would appreciate that.

At six twenty, I give up trying to figure out what the hell I want to say and I leave the comfort of my room to get a burger. I text Valerie to see if she's working tonight, before shrugging my shoes on and heading downstairs. I don't hear the sound of the television until I'm halfway down the staircase and by then I've hit the squeakiest stair in the goddamn world.

"Dash?"

His voice shouldn't send a shiver through me but it does. It fucking does and all the feelings of junior year come rushing back to me. I force myself to breathe and remind myself it hasn't happened in forever. He hasn't gotten that wasted in a long time. It's fine.

I force myself down the rest of the stairs, letting out a breath before I meet his gaze. I force a half-smile, glancing at the television so I can avoid looking at the glass clutched in his hand. "Hey dad." I nod toward the screen. "Anything good on?"

He gives a sigh, swirling the ice in the bottom of his glass. "Not really. It's all the same stuff. Companies trying to sell us stuff we'll never need." He's shaking his head when I look back at him and I'm somehow able to keep the partial smile on my face. He meets my gaze and tilts his head to one side. "Where are you going?"

I shrug a shoulder, wondering if I should just book it across the living room and ignore anything he says to me. "Going out to grab food," I respond, mentally calculating how long it would take me to get across the room before he manages to get up from the couch cushions.

"There's probably something in the fridge," he responds, swallowing a mouthful of alcohol before fixing his gaze on mine. "Go heat something up."

I really don't want to figure out what the hell he qualifies as food right now but I also don't want to chance pissing him off while he's drinking. I carefully shrug one shoulder. "Eh. I was saving that for lunch tomorrow," I say, not entirely sure if what's in there is even edible.

"Don't bother, I'm going to the store in the morning. Eat in tonight, I don't want our food going to waste," he says, reminding me that he doesn't care about what I eat. He only cares that the cheap food he gets leaves enough money for another bottle of Jack Daniels at the end of the week.

I slowly draw in a breath as my phone vibrates in my back pocket, almost giving me a heart attack. "Dad, I don't think there's anything in the fridge," I respond, glancing back toward the kitchen. It's a mistake. I know it as soon as I hear the squeak of the couch cushions. I always forget not to turn my back on him when he's drinking.

"What did you say?" he demands, suddenly up from the couch, glass of alcohol still clutched firmly in his hand. His face is slowly turning red and I decide not to push my luck.

"N-Nothing," I manage to say, taking a step backward to keep distance between us. "I didn't say anything, I'll just… I'm gonna go heat something up."

I barely make it two steps out of the living room, heart hammering in my chest, before the glass in his hand goes flying past my head. It smashes against the dining room wall and sends my body into panic mode. My hands shake and I slowly turn back toward him, hoping that that's it. If he got his anger out on that one glass, he won't start on me.

"You calling me a liar?" my dad demands, taking a swing at me that I manage to duck. I shake my head quickly, trying to turn this around. But my hands are shaking and he sees it. "Stop your shaking, it was just a glass."

I wish I could. I wish it was easy to command my body to do the things he wants it to. I wish I could keep my head down and not bother him. I wish I could stop shaking and I really wish I'd heard the television before I came out of my bedroom.

"D-Dad, I'm sorry," I squeeze past my trembling lips, afraid at any second my words will stop reaching him and he'll forget I'm not a punching bag. "I'm just gonna go heat something up."

His face is turning redder the longer I shake and I wish I could just stop. Just stop giving him this fucking reaction. It always ends with me shaking regardless of whether he hits me or not. But this reaction always makes him angry. And if I don't manage to slip away fast enough, his anger will surge and I'll be on the receiving end of it.

"Let me get you another glass," I say softly, balling my hands into fists at my sides in an attempt to make the shaking less obvious. "Just l-let me get you another drink."

"I don't need another fucking drink," he snaps and suddenly he's all angry hands and quickly moving punches that I don't have time to recover from before the next one lands. His fist connects with my mouth and I know my lip is split before I even taste the blood. The next one is to the underside of my jaw when I fail to move out of the way.

I try to stagger away from him but he's too fast. His hands slam into my shoulders and I can't keep my balance, the back of my head hitting the hardwood of the dining room floor on the way down. I shouldn't freeze like this. I'm strong enough to fight back. But I can't. The only thing I'm able to do is protect my face which I realize too late is a mistake.

Dad aims for my midsection, landing a punch to my gut while his foot kicks my ribs, causing me to roll over in a yelp of pain. My rib explodes in pain and I curl into the fetal position, his leg drawing back for another kick, making the oxygen squeeze from my lungs.

"Don't you fucking call me a liar, you piece of shit!" dad yells, his voice too loud in the silence between my pained gasps. I try my best to protect my stomach by curling tighter but he knows where he's aiming cause each of his hits lands exactly where he means it to.

Weakly, I try to stop it. I raise my hands just high enough and attempt to push him backward, only pausing his attacks momentarily while he tries to keep his balance. I should have thought about what to do after the stop because I'm struggling to sit up when he starts again, yelling every obscenity he can think of as his fists work me over in an endless flurry of pain.

His voice is loud and I know it carries. It did when mom was here and she'd send me out in the yard to play, trying to protect me from all of this. The old lady across the street would call out to me and ask if I wanted some of her cookies. They were always freshly baked and just warm from the oven. I think of her every time Kwan's mom bakes cookies while I'm over. I wonder if the old lady thinks of me every time she starts making cookies. If I cross her mind when she's dumping chocolate chips into a bowl and combining them with flour.

What she's thinking of now? She can hear him, I know she can, just like she could when I was a kid. Every one of our neighbors can hear when my dad doesn't put the bottle down soon enough and I pay the price. What do they do when he starts? Turn their television up? Put on some music? I wish I had something to block out this noise. No matter how many times I try to forget, the sound of my own bones breaking invades my ears at night, reminding me that this is why I don't reach for anything more. Because I don't deserve more. Not when I can't stand up to my own father.


He leaves me on the dining room floor to do whatever it is he's going out for. Probably down to the local bar where he's known as a regular. What kills me isn't that the place will serve him even after he's beyond wasted. It isn't that they laugh with him and enjoy him coming around. What kills me is that he's only an angry drunk when he's around me. Like he can't stand the sight of his own kid. Like I piss him off so much, he'll kick and bruise until the anger is gone. Like I'm his personal punching bag and every time, I just lay down and fucking take it.

My lungs are barely drawing in any air and each slow movement is agonizing. I don't know how long he's gonna be gone but I know if he comes back and I'm still in this spot, round two will begin. I used to be able to walk away from these kind of situations with a couple of bruises and a busted lip but that was when mom was here. When she would stop him before it got too awful. She was always stronger than me. Standing up to him when he'd fly off the handle. I guess that's why she left me. Didn't want to take someone so pathetic with her.

I'm sitting up, cradling my head in my hands when I hear a soft knock on the door. My blood freezes for a split second before I realize if it was dad, he wouldn't be knocking. His key would be in the door and he'd just barge back in here. When the second knock sounds, I realize I have to answer it. Or at least see who the fuck it is.

With every ounce of strength I still somehow have, I manage to get on my feet. I stagger as I walk and it's so fucking painful tears are springing to my eyes with every slow step. I don't want to know what my face looks like but I also don't want to scare the shit out of whoever's on the other side of the door. I use the screen of my phone to assess the damage but other than getting the blood off my chin, there's nothing I can do.

I open the door slowly, squinting against the dying rays of the sun behind the old lady from across the street. It takes an effort to act normal as I ease the screen door open, drawing on strength that I didn't know I had. "H-Hey," I wheeze out, trying to keep talking to a minimum.

Her eyebrows draw down when she gets a look at my face. "Are you… alright, dear? I heard shouting." She tsks softly when she gets a look at my face but I don't need this. I'm not that seven-year-old kid anymore. Cookies and chocolate milk aren't going to fix me this time. I can't pretend this problem away and dumping everything on my elderly neighbor isn't fair.

I nod slowly, gesturing to my face. "I got into a fight with some guys today and my dad didn't appreciate it. Said I shoulda just let it go," I respond, my mouth moving robotically through the age old lie. It's always the one I fall back on cause it's the easiest to utter.

My neighbor shakes her head slowly but takes a step back from the door. "Honey, if-"

"I'm fine," I respond before she can even finish her sentence. With a shaky hand, I jerk my thumb back toward the inside of my house. "I gotta… get back to my paper," I mumble. She doesn't look like she's going to leave my porch so I shakily loop my index finger around the handle of the screen door.

"If there's anything I can do, you… you just let me know, dear," she says, her face painted with concern. I don't want her to worry about me. There's nothing for her to be concerned about. I'm used to this kind of thing. I'm just rusty at dealing with it. I'll be fine.

I slowly ease the door closed, giving her my best attempt at a smile before it's fully closed. I spin the deadbolt, wishing that kept out my dad, before I turn away from the door. I slowly trudge toward the stairs, each step agonizing and bringing a new wave of pain.

The first stair almost kills me. It rips through my body, stealing away all the oxygen I was trying to hold onto, forcing me to take in a new breath. Which is just as fucking painful as everything else. I think a small whimper tumbles from between my clenched teeth and I do my best to pretend it didn't happen. There's nothing more pathetic than laying down and taking it from him and then crying my fucking eyes out cause I'm too scared to stand up to him.

My body sags against the railing as I climb the stairs, each step more painful than the last. I try to pretend it's not. If I just act like it doesn't hurt long enough, it won't anymore. I can block it off for a while and not feel anything.


I make it into my room and collapse onto my bed with another strained whimper. I can't bullshit this. It hurts. It fucking hurts so badly and I can't breathe. And ugly tears are streaking down my face, reminding me how pathetic I am. The only way this could be worse would be if… ah yes, right on time. The equally pathetic sobs follow almost immediately and I twist my head far enough to bury it into my pillow, silencing my suffering.

Crying isn't an awful thing. Believe it or not, I don't condemn the people around me for shedding tears when something bad happens. But for me, crying is stupid. It doesn't change my shitty situation and despite what people on the television say, it doesn't make me feel better. It only serves as a reminder that until I graduate high school, I'm stuck here forever towing the line between pissing my dad off and not doing whatever the fuck I want.

My phone vibrates in my pocket again and it hurts when I twist my arm to get it out. A text lights up my phone and I slowly slide my thumb across the bottom of the screen, exhaling when my best friend's insane punctuation lights up my screen.

From: Kwan

Can I call u?

Rather than taking the effort to text back, I roll over onto my back, fighting against the tears springing up behind my lids, and let myself have a few minutes to pull myself together. If Kwan can tell how hard I'm trying to sound normal, he'll be worried about me constantly. So I tuck the pain away to the recesses of my mind and pretend it doesn't hurt, keeping as still as possible as I dial Kwan's number.

It rings twice before Kwan picks up, sounding breathless as he talks. "Dash, oh my god I just left Jared's place."

He speaks in a rush and it takes me a couple of seconds to catch up with what he's saying. "What?" I ask, my voice quiet only because it takes too much effort to raise my volume any higher. "You were at his place after the party?"

"Uh-huh!" he gushes into the phone line and I catch the faint sound of a breathy laugh. "Y-Yeah, after we left the party last night, he asked if I wanted to go back to his place and see some of the photographs he took over the summer. Dash, he was vacationing in Ireland!"

I move to run a hand through my hair, almost forgetting how much pain I'm in. I have to bite down on my lower lip to keep the strangled noise in. "Y-Yeah?" I ask, grinding my teeth together to keep myself distracted. "So he's good then?"

"He's amazing. I-I mean, his work is amazing… n-not that he's bad either…" Kwan mumbles, sounding flustered. I chalk it up to the pain I'm in cause it takes me a minute to catch up to his train of thought and I know exactly why he sounds breathless.

"Dude. Did you get some action last night?" I ask, laughing carefully when he makes a squeak. "So that's why you turned down those extra shots. Wanted to remember tonight, huh?"

"Sh-Shut up!" he stammers, letting out another groan. "Dash, he was so perfect. Last night was perfect. His parents are out of town so we had the place to ourselves. I-I don't even know how it happened, we were just looking at his photos and then the next thing I knew, we were… well, y'know."

It hurts too much to laugh so I just have to hope that he can hear the grin in my tone. I lick my lips, keeping my gaze on the ceiling as I draw in a breath. "So, as your best friend, I have to ask." Kwan's quiet when I say that, waiting patiently on me to speak. I almost feel bad for teasing him this way. "Were you top or bottom?"

"Dash, oh my god, I hate you."


Dad doesn't come home when the evening turns to night and I'm finally able to breathe a little easier. I don't know what my face looks like but I'm pretty sure it's bad. It feels bad. And I can't move without new waves of pain rippling through me.

For a while, dad just stuck to my face. It was harder to conceal but it didn't hurt nearly as bad as this does. I guess he decided if he was going to beat the shit out of me, he'd at least do it right. Make sure I couldn't move for the next few days.

Fuck.

Tryouts are on Monday. I'm a shoo-in for the quarterback position again but not like this. Coach is probably going to chalk it up to me being hungover or something. But still. Disappointing everyone by either not trying out or failing miserably. The thought of skipping school crosses my mind but I don't know which would be worse. Coming home to face dad after school or lying in bed waiting for him to get back.

My phone vibrates before I can decide.

From: Alex

You're not coming in to work tomorrow. I've already instructed the guys working not to let you in. Write your paper! You can do it!

It's almost ten and I guess he's just now getting off work. He always stays at the garage as late as possible but bitches at me if I try to do the same. I've called him a hypocrite before but it doesn't change anything.

Part of me wants to text back and tell him what the fuck happened after I came home from work. But the other part of me doesn't want him to worry. It's not fair to dump all this ugly shit on someone who never asked for it. I wonder if he'd known about all of this when he hired me if he would have changed his mind. I barely want me around, I can't imagine he does.

From: Alex

Also, good luck at tryouts on Monday! Not that you'll need it but it's still nice to hear! :)

He puts a smiley face at the end of his messages to try and make people smile when they read it. They used to drive me insane but I've gotten used to them from him. I manage to hold my phone in a position that doesn't kill my ribs with every movement.

I don't know how to tell him how much it helps just knowing I have the garage waiting on me, whenever I manage to stitch my broken pieces back into place. It's the one constant thing in my life. Helped keep me out of the house when I was younger. Picked me back up after mom left and shattered everything. And I know it'll help distract me from this. My dad, Paulina, every fucked up thing that's bound to happen this year. I don't know if this one word explains all that but I hope he gets at least part of the meaning behind it.

To: Alex

Thanks


A/N: Poor Dash. He just can't catch a break and I won't let him.

So, normally I'd skip a week and post the following week but I decided to post today cause I had oral surgery and I'm at home so I thought, why not. So, you guys get this a week early! I'm not sure how that's gonna affect whether or not I post a chapter next Tuesday or not... hmm... we'll see.

But yeah, Dash's life is pretty fucked up. I almost feel bad for everything I put him through. I'm sure there'll come a time when I actually do feel truly awful for the things I've done to him but today's not that day.

Anyway, please let me know what you think! I really appreciate feedback and reviews make me super happy. I hope you enjoy!