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Ryan saw red.
That was it.
Fuck it.
They were leaving right fucking now.
He had a car, money, and he could get them far, far away from here.
Head held high, Ryan stomped toward the door. He unlocked it and then flung it open furiously. He could see Wayne at the kitchen table from here, swaying back and forth in his chair, clearly wasted already.
Wayne glared at Ryan, taking in his scantily clad outfit with a sneer.
Ryan slammed the door behind him. “Let’s get this fucking over with.”
Wayne stood and growled. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
“Clothes.” Ryan snorted. “Maybe you’ve heard of them before.”
“You look like a fuckin’ bitch.” Wayne was fast even when he was drunk and he was across the room in seconds. He grabbed Ryan, slamming him up against the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frames.
Ryan grimaced. He could taste the beer on Wayne’s breath and tried to twist away as he spat, “Guess I got it from you.”
Wayne laughed.
Ryan knew what came next.
Wayne hit him and Ryan hit the floor.
Ryan curled up, nursing his split lip and swallowing back a mouthful of blood. The room spun and he couldn’t focus for a few seconds, seeing double of his hands on the floor as he tried to push himself up.
“What’s my one rule, huh?” Wayne snarled, not giving Ryan a chance to answer before he kicked him ruthlessly. “You left your sister alone to go whore yourself out, bitch boy. You’re fucking disgusting. You’re fucking pathetic.”
Ryan closed his eyes, taking all the abuse with quiet grunts and soft cries of pain as he collapsed against the wall.
“Give me your phone,” Wayne snarled. “Right fucking now.”
“Wh-what?” Ryan croaked.
“Give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”
“No. No way. I’m not going?—”
“Fuck you, you little brat.” Wayne dropped to a knee, smacking over Ryan’s body until he found the phone. He hit Ryan when he tried to take it back and sneered as he stood so he could stomp up and down on it. “Don’t need this, do you? Nobody needs to talk to a little bitch like you.”
Ryan didn’t bother arguing anymore. He knew from experience the only way this ended was when Wayne got bored. He wished he was stronger. He wished he was braver.
He’d killed so many men. He’d cut them down and ended their lives without mercy time and time again. He’d spilled rivers of blood, reveled in the violence and the sick satisfaction it gave him, and yet…
Here before his father, all he could do was tremble and wait for the end.
He felt so small, weak, helpless.
Pathetic.
Just like his father said.
Eventually, Wayne got tired, spat at him, and stumbled back to the kitchen.
