Before
He looked forward to seeing Teresa at the carnival. He used to leave the camper every morning with his feet dragging and heart heavy, but ever since he met her, there'd been a light in his eyes that not even his father could extinguish.
She didn't show up very often. From what he knew about her, she had school and was always busy taking care of her brothers. When she did come, it was always on the weekends and she could never stay very long.
Still, he enjoyed her company, no matter how short of a time he got to have it. They'd sit criss-cross on the grass and talk about everything and nothing, as if they'd been best friends forever.
She was his only friend. And he believed he didn't need anyone else.
It was a bleak Saturday when Teresa came back to the carnival. Per usual, a large hoodie swallowed her.
She sat down on the grass in front of his booth without greeting him. Her pleasant smile had vanished, replaced with a scowl. She had her hoodie pulled over her head to shield most of her face.
Concerned, Patrick left his booth and sat down before her. As much as he wanted to reach out and tug the hoodie off her head, he refrained himself, instead asking, "Teresa? Are you okay?"
She nodded, still refusing to show her face. He knew something was wrong. Cautiously, he scooted closer to her and pulled the hoodie off of her head.
She didn't push him away, but she did duck her head, her hair falling into her face. He brushed the strands away and lifted her chin up with a finger. His heart stopped beating for a millisecond once he saw the purple bruise circling her right eye.
She refused to look him in the eye. She busied herself with tugging on a loose thread of her jeans, silent and ashamed.
"'Resa," he breathed, a pang hitting him square in the chest. "Did he do that to you? Your dad?"
He already knew the answer to that, but he needed her to say something, anything. He hated her silence. He hated her father for doing this to her. A red, burning hatred that urged him to find this man and throttle him with his bare hands.
"Yeah," she finally uttered, her voice small. "But it's not a big deal, really. It doesn't even hurt anymore."
He didn't understand how it was so easy for her to brush off her father's abuse. To make light of something so big. Her bruise was dark and mottled and he knew it still had to hurt, but she was willing to lie to protect him.
"It is a big deal," he insisted, trying his best to keep his composure. He wasn't at all angry with her, but at her father, for doing this to her, for causing her pain. She was the last person to deserve it.
"Please don't," she whispered, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were pleading. "I don't want to talk about it, okay? Can we just hang out like we usually do?"
He didn't want to drop it. He wanted to make her see how terrible this was, how it wasn't something to gloss over. But with the way she was looking at him now, silently begging him to let it go, he had to drop it. For her.
"Okay," he conceded. "Are you hungry?"
She shook her head. "Just...talk to me."
He did. He talked about whatever came to mind, words falling off his tongue until it was time for her to go home. He wanted to keep her there with him. He was terrified of what would happen if she returned to the place where her father treated her like scum, but he didn't have a choice. He couldn't protect her like he wanted to.
When it was time for her to go, he watched her leave with wary eyes, a stone sitting heavily in his stomach.
XxX
"Where's the rest of it?" His father's gruff voice reached his ears, and he looked up from his sketch of a petite girl with dark hair and big green eyes. He hurried to hide it under a dirty plate.
"Where's the rest of what?"
"Don't play stupid with me, boy," Hank spat, eyes heated. "Where's the rest of my money?"
Patrick then noticed the clump of bills his father was clutching in his hand. To anyone else, it might've looked like a lot. But to his father, it wasn't nearly enough. He always craved more, more, more.
"That's all of it," he said, forcing his voice not to shake. A weak voice was a guilty voice.
"Liar. You've been working the booth everyday, haven't ya?" Patrick nodded. "Then there should be more."
"There hasn't been many customers—"
"Bullshit!" Hank shoved a mug filled with random pencils off the table, making Patrick flinch at the sound as it clattered to the floor. "You've been stealing my money. Haven't ya?"
"No!"
"Either you've been stealing my damn money, or you haven't been working like you're supposed to. Which one is it?"
"I haven't stolen any money," Patrick swore. "And I've been working. Just like you told me."
"I don't believe you," Hank sniffed. His eyes then found the sketchbook hidden beneath the dirty plate and snatched it, ignoring the boy's pleas and protests. "Oh, so this is it. A girl."
"It's nothing, dad, please." Patrick knew begging wouldn't do him any good; his words always fell on deaf ears. Still, he tried to get his father to put the sketchbook down. "She's no one."
"No one, eh?" Hank rolled his eyes and tossed the sketchbook across the camper. "She's someone, alright. And you've been blowing off work for her. Right?"
"No. I've been working."
"Don't lie to me, boy," Hank warned. "There should be more money than this. It's barely a few hundred! You think your job is gonna work itself? Do you?"
"No, sir," Patrick muttered, desperate to be shooed off to his "room." Arguing with his father was exhausting. It was like nothing he said mattered. Everything was always wrong or lies or talking back.
"You know better than to get distracted by some girl who wouldn't even think twice about scum like you." Hank fell back onto the dingy orange couch and ran a hand through his greying hair. "Next time you forget about your job, I'll make you know your place. Understand?"
You know better than to get distracted by some girl who wouldn't even think twice about scum like you.
"Yes, sir."
Scum like you.
Hank shoved a crumpled wad of cash into his hand. "Go into town and get me a pack of beer. Don't spend it on nothin' else."
Patrick obeyed wordlessly, like a dog with his owner. He left the camper and started his trek into town, kicking rocks while the blistering heat scraped the back of his neck. All that registered in his brain was his father's cruel words.
And perhaps he was right. It was stupid of him to believe even a tiny bit that Teresa would go for someone like him. He was scum, as his father had so nicely put it. Nothing but a fake carney. Unworthy of love.
Teresa deserved better.
The trip to town took a whole forty-five minutes on foot. Patrick's face was tomato red by the time he reached the liquor store.
He'd had to go into town many times to retrieve useless items his father swore he needed, like beer and cigarettes. While he was just a kid, everyone in town knew his dad, so it was easy to buy those things without an I.D.
He pushed the door open and a gush of cold air hit him, to which he breathed in gratefully. He trekked to the back and snatched up a pack of Bud light, feeling eyes on him as he trudged to the counter.
The store owner, Jeff Reilly, rang up the beer without hesitation. He smelled of weed and watermelon gum. "Twelve bucks, kid."
Patrick tossed a wad of cash on the counter.
Jeff counted it, then pushed the beer towards him along with a receipt. "How's your father doin?"
"Fine," was always Patrick's clipped reply. He didn't want to conversate with anyone. He just wanted to buy the beer and head back to the carnival.
As he left, he swore under his breath at his father. If he wasn't terrified of getting in trouble, he would've gotten himself a bottle of water, because the heat outside was unbearable. But instead he was weak and a coward, always doing whatever his daddy said because it made his life easier.
He was ten steps out the door before a familiar raspy voice reached his ears.
"Hey."
He whipped around at lightning speed, a smile immediately tickling his lips when his eyes fell on her. Her dark hair was in a long braid this time, and she was enveloped in a zip-up hoodie and baggy jeans.
"Hey," he said, walking back to greet her. "What are you doing here?"
Her eyes darted to the pack of beer in his gripping hand. "Same as you, I guess."
"T-This isn't for me," he immediately said, hoping she didn't think he was a drinker like her father. "It's for my dad, I swear."
Teresa smiled warmly. "I know that, doofus."
"Oh." He breathed out a sigh of relief. "Okay. Good."
"I'm buying some for my father, too," she said, her smile slipping. "It's sad, don't you think? Kids going out to buy alcohol for their parent. It's fucked up."
He hadn't heard her cuss before, but the word sounded silky and sweet. He nodded in agreement. "I wish I didn't have to, but doing what my dad says is easier. Does that make me a coward?"
"No," she answered without hesitating. "You're not the coward. Your dad is."
His eyes flitted to her bruised eye. The swelling had gone down and it was a pale purple. He wished he could make it disappear, wished he could sweep her away from her monster of a father and hide her in his arms forever.
She noticed his pointed gaze and absently lifted a hand to touch her eye. "I'm fine, Patrick. Really. Once I get back home and give him his beer, he'll be nice again."
"He should be nice all the time," he argued.
She simply shrugged, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her zip-up hoodie. "Life can't always be sunshine and rainbows. I've accepted that a long time ago."
She turned away from him and started for the liquor store, his feet still planted on the gravel when she disappeared inside.
