Blitzed(24)

Dad gets in my face, his eyes bloodshot, and I wonder if maybe he's got the DTs. He's certainly been forced to pull back on the booze this month. We're going f*cking broke. The only reason I still drive my car to school every day is because I'm worried if I leave it at home, I'm going to come back from practice one day and find that Dad's hawked it for booze money. "You're getting a smart mouth, you son of a bitch. You ain't cursing much anymore, and you've been acting uppity more and more. That little twat that I hear you talking to on the phone making you think you're more than a shit stain on the planet? Or are you stealing money from me to pay for some *?"

"You leave her out of it!” I yell, pushing him away. Dad can say what he wants about me, but there is nobody who’s allowed to denigrate Whitney. Maybe he’s right. Maybe since getting together with her, I've started to try and study when I can stay awake, and maybe my language is cleaning up a little bit, but that's not a bad thing. After we made love the week before and then had the homecoming dance, I feel like I could become a better person. "She's better than you!"

Dad comes back with something in his hand, and just before it catches me in the face, I recognize it as the old cordless phone that we still have on the wall. I never use the damn thing anymore. I have my cell, and I'm not even sure if it works. I think the service was shut off a few weeks ago after we got a bunch of notifications in the mail.

The handset cracks when it smashes against the side of my head, and I'm down, blood dripping from my temple. I've been hit harder in football, but before I can recover, Dad kicks me in the ribs, and even if he's just a shell of the man he used to be, he's still got almost two hundred pounds to drive into the kick. Pain explodes in my stomach, and I roll over into a ball while he stomps the shit outta me.

I know I should fight back. I know that I can. I could kick his ass if I wanted. But it's Dad, and even if Whitney makes me feel like I might actually be a good person, inside the four walls of my house, the truth is different, and the beatings have been going on too long. I promise myself that I won't cry though, and at least I hold onto that while he kicks me over and over until he's gasping and out of breath. "Stupid lying little shit," he gasps, spitting on me. "I should just kill you and save the state the trouble later on. You're going to end up in jail, Troy. I know it. You're just going to be some prison bitch who takes it up the ass for protection. That's what you want, isn't it? A big cock up your ass on a nightly basis. You make me sick!"

Dad stops screaming and holds his chest. I hope he's having a heart attack—maybe then the nightmare can stop—but instead, he turns and staggers back toward the living room. "You're eighteen," Dad says as he walks away. "Find your own house to live in. I'm done with you."

I crawl out of the house, drops of blood staining the walkway as I do, and I see our neighbors gather outside as I somehow get into the driver's seat of my car. Well, take a f*cking picture, people. It'll last you longer. Come see the truth, that the big man on campus, Silver Lake Falls boy hero, is nothing but a cowardly little punk who runs away from his father. I start up my car and drive off, not caring anymore. I wipe the blood out of my eye every once in a while when it stings, but I make my way to the school, not really knowing why, since my original plan had been to try and find some food. The world swims, and I lean my head back, closing my eyes for just a bit to catch my breath.

There's a knock on my window, and I open my eyes to see Coach Jackson standing outside, a cop car parked behind his Toyota. Great. Dad called the cops on me, and now I'm going to get arrested. I open my door and try to get out, falling to my hands and knees when I try. Just perfect. Now I'm the one who looks like a drunk. "No statement."

Coach bends down and helps me to my feet, and I see his eyes are filled with tears. "Oh, Troy," he whispers, blinking. "Oh, dear God, son, what did he do to you?"

"Nothing I don't deserve," I mumble, trying to focus. "Don't you know, Coach? I'm a piece of shit, just like him. At least you might get a State Championship out of it before I f*ck up my life. You know it's going to happen. It's fate. It’s a family tradition.”

Coach Jackson shakes his head, and the cop comes over. I see that it's George Walters, a crusty old coot who is one of the four cops in town, and he's got a camera. George lifts it up and snaps a few photos of my face, then turns to Coach. "Don't worry, Steve. This combined with what the neighbors said when they called in will keep Randy out of the house for a while. The rest depends on Troy here."

I don't understand, but Coach nods, waving George away. "All right, George. Let's get Troy cleaned up and looked to first. I'll take him to Dr. Burrows's clinic, if that's okay."

"That's fine, Steve. Want an escort?"

Coach shakes his head and leads me to his car. I collapse into the passenger seat, and he buckles me in before going around and getting behind the wheel. "I want you to know, Troy, the next few days are going to be tough, but I'll be with you the whole time. First, we're going to go to the clinic, get you patched up and checked out before you come home with me. In the meantime, don't close your eyes even if you want to. You may have a concussion, and I want Doc Burrows to give me a heads up if you're okay."

"Can't have a concussion, Coach," I mutter, leaning my forehead in my hand as he drives away. It's the only way I can keep my chin off my chest. I feel so weak. "If I have a concussion, Roberts is going to have to play QB Friday against Hartsville. No way we get by them with him under center."