I remember how calm my dad had been on the drive home,

which made me nervous. His fingers clutched the steering wheel as

he drove the car up the street to our home. The wind was blowing

and kicking up a lot of dust. The sky was cloudy and I remember

wishing that the drive would never end.

But all things do and too soon we were pulling up in front of

the house. The grass had just been cut and the lawn-mowing guy

was still cleaning up the piles of cut grass that the lawnmower had

spit out.

“Go inside,” my dad had finally said and the low tone of his

voice meant I was in deep shit.

I grabbed my bat and glove and climbed out of the car. With

my head hanging low, I walked up the path, with my eyes fastened

on my feet until I made it to the front door. I only looked up to

open it and then I lowered my gaze back to the ground as I walked

in.

I started to climb the stairs, hoping for once that he’d just let

it go. But halfway up, I heard the front door slam and the wind

from outside silenced. I kept walking though, hoping that

somehow I’d learned how to make myself invisible.

“Do you want to tell me what the hell happened?” His voice

slammed against my back.

I knew I should turn around and talk to him, but I panicked

and only sped up. This was always a mistake. His footsteps rushed

after me and by the time I reached the top of the stairway, he had

taken ahold of my collar.

He jerked me back as he ran down the stairs and I struggled

to keep my feet on the ground as the bat and glove slipped from

my hand. “Do you realize how lucky you are?” He swung me

around in front of him and I tripped over my shoes and slammed

into the wall.

“Lucky?” I asked, getting my footing. “How?”

I usually didn’t talk back to him, but my head was in a weird

place. Someone at school had asked me what the bruise on my

arm was from and I almost told them the truth. That my father had

shoved me into the side of one of the shelves in the living room

because I’d spilled soda on the floor. But I’d chickened out and

through the silence a realization had occurred to me. My life was

always going to be this way.

“What did you say?” My father stormed toward me, the vein

in his neck bulging and his knuckles were white as he balled his

fists.

“I said I’m sick of this,” I muttered, with my chin tipped down.

“I didn’t do anything but lose a game.”

The silence that followed my small voice’s utterance was

fucking terrifying and when I finally dared to raise my head I was

shocked to find that his fingers had slackened and the vein had

resided.

There was a brief instant where he almost looked human and

I thought I’d finally gotten to him. But then his eyes reddened and

he stepped forward. “Do you know what my father would have

done if I’d lost the game and then talked back to him like you just

did?” He stopped and waited for me to answer.

“No, sir,” I said. “I don’t.”

He stepped forward and towered over me. “He’d have yelled

at me right in front of all those people and told me the truth

because the truth is what we need to become better.”

Sometimes when he got angry, he’d mention his father and

what he did to him, like he needed to explain his violence. I

wondered if that’s how I’d grow up, reliving his beliefs with my

own kids. The idea terrified me, that I could become that. I didn’t

want to become that and make anyone suffer.

I held my breath, waiting for him to hit me, but his arm

stayed at his side.

“I don’t get you,” he said. “You’re such a fuckup. No matter

how many times I try to teach you how to behave, you always

mess up. And then you lose that game in front of everyone and

make me look like a loser father who has a fucking pussy for a son.

You don’t deserve to be out there.” The muscles in his arms

protruded and the vein in his forehead pulsed. I wrapped my arms

around myself, waiting for the impact. “You don’t deserve

anything. You’re a piece of shit. And a fucking loser. You don’t

even deserve to be standing here.”

He kept going on and on, ripping into me, but not touching

me. Each word was a cut—a scar. On and on. Cut. Slash. Scar. Scar.

Scar. I felt small and invisible just like I’d been wishing for earlier.

When he was done, he turned away and left me alone in the foyer.

I remember thinking how much worse it felt that he hadn’t

hit me. In fact, I remember wishing he’d said nothing and had

beaten the shit out me. Then I could have curled up in a ball and

slept the pain off. Instead, the pain was inside my head, my blood,

my heart. I wanted it out so fucking bad and I did the only thing I

could think of.

I ran up the stairs to the bathroom and found the first razor I

came across. It was a replacement blade for one of my mother’s

razors. The edge was pretty dull and it had this strip of some kind

of lotion shit at the top.

It didn’t matter. It was enough. I put the blade up the back of

my arm and made a slice. It took several times before it split the

skin open, but each graze was gratifying. By the time blood seeped

out, I felt better. I moved my arm over the sink and let the pain

drip out.

I blink the memory away and rise to my feet. I need to get

the hell out of here. Now. I need to bail on this fucking road trip

and go home before I get too attached. I wipe the blood off my

arm and rearrange the rubber bands and bracelets to cover the cut

up. I hurry out of the bathroom and turn sideways to fit through

the people, heading for the door.

I’ll go back to the house, grab my stuff, and drive my bike

home, back to that fucking house where I belong because I can’t

survive anywhere else.

As I push through the last of the people, I spot Callie and

Seth on the dance floor. There’s a slow song playing and she’s

holding onto him, saying something with her forehead creased.

Her eyes look watery under the spotlight. I think about how

breakable she is and I glance down at my wrist, thinking about

how easy I break myself.

Chapter 12

#88 Don’t hold back. Let it all out.

Callie

“Okay, I think I might have messed up” is the first thing Seth

says to me as the bathroom door swings shut. There are a few

women in there, but they’re all holding beers and don’t seem to

mind that Seth’s in there. Either that or they’re so drunk they’re

mistaking him for a woman.

“What happened?” I lean against the bathroom sink.