Instead of answering, he gives another knock, “Baz, you’ve got sixty seconds to clear your little girl out of the room before I get inside.”

The bit of shock I experience at Dro’s show of compassion in wanting to spare this little girl the sight of violence that’s about to take place quickly disappears at the sound of muffled crashing inside. That spurs Droski into action. Wedging the flat head of the crowbar between the jamb and the knob, it takes him three hard, forceful jerks of his hand before the door pops open. Honestly, I could’ve been spared the fucking sight of Baz’ lily-white ass trying to climb out the window. There’s another man present and while the lower half of his body is relatively covered by a bed sheet, it didn’t take much at all to see the outline of his dick. Still hard.

“Jesus, fuck.” I give him a wide berth as I make my way inside. Dro has already run ahead of me intent on grabbing Baz before he makes it out of the window. The apartment’s tiny. Nothing unexpected there. It smells like booze, sex, and cigarettes. I take a quick inventory of the place. Next to the ashtray on the coffee table are three white lines of what I can only assume to be coke. The doors to the bedroom and bathroom located across from each other have been left partially open. There are water stains on the ceiling, slowly bleeding down to the walls that had probably been white once. There’s a cigarette-burnt, green shag carpet that’s supposed to hide the heavily worn linoleum flooring beneath. Seated on the shag carpet in front of the TV that’s a throwback to the 90s is the little girl Dro wanted cleared out of the room.

There’s a cartoon on; some overly pink girlie show with ponies and castles. Something I’m assuming would’ve ordinarily grabbed her attention. But instead, her brown eyes are fixated on the all-too-real scene playing out in front of her. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t react. But the array of emotions flying across her face is all too familiar. There’s sadness there and confusion mixed in with fear. But it’s the dominant emotion, the anger gleaming in her rich brown eyes that stirs a memory from a past I can’t exorcise.

***

Don’t fucking cry.

Don’t make a fucking sound.

Those are the only two thoughts circling around inside my head. I have maybe a few seconds to breathe before I hear the whistle of the whip carve through the air. My body tenses and my teeth clench as my fingers ball into fists at my sides so tight from the strain that they appear bloodless.

Crack!

A sharp, sucking breath that’s more a gasp than breathing tumbles out from my dry, cracked lips as my back arches away from the force of the impact. The blow of the whip brings on an explosion of pain, but it’s the tiny hooks attached to the four black leather straps that makes it excruciating. The hooks claw into the wounds that are already there, tearing open the skin on my back while scraping down to raw flesh. When they’re tugged free, taking slivers of skin and blood with it, I fall forward. My hands reach out in front of me, the stiffness of my bruised arms is the only thing keeping me from cracking my head open on the concrete floor. The sweat covering my body is like salt slowly seeping into the gashes. It hurts like fucking hell.

“Look at your brother, Noah. Look at what you’re doing to him.” The voice of our tormentor taunts my brother. I hate that voice, and more than anything else, I hate the man it belongs to.

“All I asked was that you touch him. It’s not like you haven’t done it before.” There’s a short, humorless laugh. “You’ve done plenty of very bad and very dirty things to each other.”

“Cau-cause of you…you…sick fuck…” I should’ve anticipated the kick that slams into my side, sending my beaten body crashing to the ground.

“Every time you tell me no, this stupid little dog is going to get hurt. You already know this, Noah…”

“Don’t…don’t you listen…don’t listen, Noah…he can’t do shit to me…” It hurts to talk. Hurts to breath. It hurts to fucking blink. What I want more than anything right now is my mom. She’d make the hurt go away. I’d curl up on her lap. She’d pet my hair and hum a song. I’d listen to her sing and die peacefully on her lap. That’s the only thing I’ve ever prayed to God about. Not that he ever listens. But that’s what I’ve always wanted. To die in her arms. To be taken away from this hell and the demon who rules it.

But that hasn’t happened yet. Mom is one suicide attempt away from a mental hospital. No one is listening to me pray because it’s as if God doesn’t exist. No one is going to save me and Noah. That’s why I can’t pass out. He’s got nobody but me. I can’t leave him alone in this. And I think…I think Dad’s coming close to breaking him. That’s why I always try to draw Dad’s attention to me. I can handle it. When he’s beating the shit out of me, he leaves Noah alone.

The heavy thread of approaching footsteps is all the warning I get before beefy fingers fist through my hair, gripping a handful, and tug me up so that I’m dangled from only that hold, my toes barely touching the ground.

“I’m going to make sure that an ocean liner can cruise through your filthy little asshole when I’m done with you, dog.”

I’m shaking. The pain feels like it’s coming from every pore on my body, but the anger gives me something to focus on. It’s a pitch-black pit centered right at my core. With one eye swollen shut and the other barely open to see much, I stare up unflinchingly into the dead eyes of Satan himself.

I scoff, “I’m only twelve and my dick is bigger than yours, fucker.” I spit out the mucous-filled blood that lines my mouth.

He sends me sailing through the air. My body lands with a sickening thunk against the oil burner. He takes one, two, three giant charging steps toward me, barreling down with all the force and power of a two hundred and some odd pounds man subduing a child.

“NO! Dad. No! I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Please! Please let me do it!”

I can’t hear Noah over the sound of my flesh tearing as our dad makes good on his threat. I can’t hear my twin begging and crying anymore because my screams are too loud.

“AHHHHH!”

The scream brings reality back into focus as the slivers of the dark memory blur away. It’s the little girl fighting and screaming as dick-sheet guy pulls her father into the room and slams the door closed.

Even with the barrier of the bedroom door closed, the muffled “I want my daddy!” can still be heard. “I want my daddy!” she cries again. It’s a high, screeching sound that coincides with her father’s tortured scream. Looking over to the side, I see Dro raising the crowbar and slamming it down on Baz’s right kneecap. He does it again and again, like he’s hammering a nail into wood. All there is is the screaming. So much fucking screaming. “Daddy! Daddy!”

“Shut the fuck up or I’m going to blow your daddy’s head off!” Can’t stand kids.

Silence. Fucking golden.

Approaching Dro, I’m quick to realize his method isn’t going to get the job done any faster. All the goddamned screaming is bound to get someone to call the police, sooner or later. I don’t want to be around if they decide to make it sooner.

Drawing the SIG from the back of my jeans, I close the short gap between us and send the butt of the gun crashing against Baz’s face. “Where the fuck is it?”

Residual shit from my latest memory develops into blazing anger. I can’t see straight. All I want is to beat something to a bloody pulp. I press the gun to Baz’s temple. I’d settle for shooting him, too. “Talk, or I pull the trigger.” Serious as fucking cancer, I take off the safety, my finger poised at the trigger. There’s a silencer attached to the barrel. No one will hear anything.