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Please don’t make me shoot you, kid. For fuck’s sake …
The boy bristles but not because of me. Because of the sound of footsteps in the hallway behind him.
“Hey, you little cocksucker …” Daddy Dearest appears in the doorway, and I can smell last night’s liquor on him from here. “You find a coffeepot back h—”
His beady, bloodshot eyes drift from his cowering son to whatever—or whoever—the kid is staring at, and the second they land on me, I’m on my feet. Backpack in one hand, gun in the other, I sprint for the counter, hoping to clear it before the bastard can get a clean shot on me, but the sound of skin hitting skin stops me in my tracks.
The man shouts a few choice expletives at the kid, but I can’t hear them. All I can hear is that backhand. It reverberates through my jaw, just like it did the first time I got hit in the mouth. The sting of pain, followed by the burn of humiliation.
Words like, “Shoot him, stupid,” and, “Give me that fuckin’ gun. I’ll do it,” slide off my back and land on the floor in a meaningless pile of syllables as I turn and face every motherfucker who ever put his hands on me, all rolled into one.
The rage that has been building inside of me all day now feels like a tiny match … that just got dropped into a can of gasoline.
I surrender all control of my body—give it over willingly—and watch like a spectator as I charge straight toward that piece of shit. His rodent-like eyes widen in shock just before my shoulder careens into his bloated fucking belly, sending him stumbling backward into the wall.
The noises make it to my brain first—something plastic clattering to the ground, boots shuffling over dirty floors, the dull smack of knuckles hitting teeth, the melodic ping of those teeth hitting the tiles—and then the physical sensations begin to come through. The rush of adrenaline through my bloodstream, the crunching pain in my right hand every time it connects with his face, the delicious strain of muscles in my left arm as I fight to keep him upright against the wall. Vaguely, I register his flailing arms, his dirty fingers trying to punch and poke whatever parts of me he can reach, but he can’t hurt me.
Nobody can.
Not anymore.
A new sound rises over the pounding of blood in my ears, and it pulls me back to reality like a bucket of cold water.
It’s a small, cracking voice demanding in an unconvincing tone that I, “Stand back.”
Fuck. The kid.
I release his old man and step back with my hands in the air as the bastard’s limp body slides down the wall.
“Back up,” he says again, pointing a .32 at me with shaking hands.
I do as he said, my knuckles screaming in pain and my chest expanding violently with every breath I suck in.
“‘Bout fuckin’ time, you piece of shit,” the old man spits through the fleshy pulp that used to be his lips. His eyes are swollen to mush. A river of blood runs from his broken nose down his mouth and chin. And when he rolls his head toward the kid, he garbles, “Shoot him, stupi—” but he doesn’t get a chance to finish his command.
A bullet above his right eye shuts him up forever.
I flinch as the blast echoes around me. I turn with my hands still raised and face the corpse’s maker. His posture is taller, his good eye narrowed in resolve.
He’s not looking at me when he lowers his gun, and he’s not speaking to me when he says—no, declares—“I’m. Not. Stupid.”
The heat of the moment changes from charged and frenetic to stifling and heavy.
This is the world we live in now.
No social workers were coming to help this kid.
No Department of Child and Family Services.
No cops or judges or family attorneys were gonna fight for him.
And there won’t be any coming to investigate this crime scene either.
This is the new justice system.
And right now, I’m scared to ask myself which one is better.
The kid finally looks at me, shock giving way to shame as he awaits my judgment, but I have none to give him.
