35. Cole

Burning pain seers up my ribs, warm blood seeping from my fingers as the car speeds out of the parking lot and onto the road. The trunk is large in the cop car, and I bounce around as he takes a sharp left, hitting my head on something hard.

I hiss through the pain. I don’t know if the bullet went right through, or if it went haywire inside me. All I know is that I feel dizzy and I’m lying in a pool of my own blood.

I can hear my dad talking, yelling, telling whoever is on the other end of the line to set something up. He shouts my name, but all I can do is tense everywhere and try to stay conscious. I can’t pass out. I can’t fucking close my eyes and let myself go. I need to fight through this somehow.

Rolling onto my left, I spit a curse through my teeth as I move onto the wound.

Sweat clings to my skin, or it’s blood. I don’t know. It’s sticky and warm, and my eyes sting as I force myself to stay awake. Feeling around the roof of the trunk, I hunt for a lever or a button, but my arm keeps getting tired, and my hand drops.

My breathing grows heavy, my eyes heavier, and when he goes over a bump, I try to snap out of the daze. I haven’t adjusted to the darkness. I can’t see shit, but I can hear him speeding up.

“Fuck,” I mutter. Each breath feels like I’m inhaling fire into my lungs. I think every time I move, the skin splits even more, and shit, it hurts.

Blinking through my dizziness, I use my free hand to feel around again as the car slows, turning right. Dad is yelling again, telling someone to be ready because I’m injured.

Who? Who is helping him?

Where are we going?

I wince as I roll onto my side again, holding my breath and counting until the extreme pain settles, but it only gets worse when I roll again, each time he turns the car.

The smoothness of the wheels on the ground changes. Bumpy. Gravel. We’re on a gravel road, or a dirt road?

He’s not yelling anymore.

The car slows to a sudden stop, and I hear the car door being thrown open and slammed. “Do you have what you need?” I hear my dad ask someone. They must nod or whisper a reply. “He’s in the trunk.”

Their footsteps grow close. Someone is standing right there, and I think I might be sick. My eyes are so damn heavy, but I need to fight. I need to get the fuck away from him.

As soon as that trunk opens, I’ll fucking dive on them, throw my fists and make sure I don’t let him win this time. He can’t use any weakness on me, because Blaise isn’t here, and my mom is⁠—

The trunk flies open to my mother’s worried, traitorous eyes.

Every atom of my being wants to ask her what the fuck she’s doing, and with my mind trying to fucking work against the darkness, my eyelids fall shut, their voices becoming an echo as I’m jostled and yanked from the car. My hand slips from the gunshot wound as I’m lifted in death’s arms, and although my heart is aching at her betrayal and desperate for answers, my fight leaves me.

“Woah,dude. What the fuck happened to your eye?”

I shoulder past my friend and head for my locker. He tries to catch up, getting in front of me again and pressing his hand to my chest.

“Don’t do that. Talk to me, Cole.”

Talking doesn’t help. It only makes things worse, because no one truly helps a deputy’s son from abuse. Not a soul in this town is going to report him, not even my school—four teachers know about my home life. And they only know because I opened my mouth to one teacher and they decided to run theirs.

But do any of them help me? No.

My dad getting his promotion was the worst day of my life, because since then, he’s been on a power trip. Only, he mainly takes it out on my mom. She accepts every shitty word. Every smack. Every time he comes home smelling like another woman. I walked in after school one day to some teenage girl who looked only a few years older than me with his shirt on, no pants, cooking breakfast while my mom was tending to my dying grandma.

She smiled at me, and my dad didn’t like that.

I had to listen to them for days before it stopped.

Then he came into my room and started talking to me about sex. How to be safe, ways to make sure I don’t get caught if I’m already with someone. He even went as far as telling me he’d make it easier for me by seeing if one of his girls would take my virginity.

I was thirteen.

Safe to say, I declined and told my mom. I think that was the first day he physically hurt her in a place the world could see, so she wasn’t allowed to leave the house and I was to keep my mouth shut.

It became a normality. My friends definitely know. I don’t even need to say anything. They take one look at my hand-me-down clothes that don’t fit me, the skin and bone of my frame, and the shaggy hair in desperate need of a cut, and they know my home-life is fucked up.

“You wanna hang out at my place after school? Some of the guys are coming over too. My parents are out of town until Monday and my babysitter is hot.”

I shake my head. “I need to go home.”

Or I’ll be the next missing kid on milk cartons and plastered all over the news.

I dodge any more questions and head to class. I’m just on time before the teacher walks in. I sit next to Georgina, my usual lab partner, and glance at everything she has set out. Fuck. We have a test today? I haven’t missed a single class in months. When were we told?

“It was posted on the school’s online board two days ago,” she tells me, seeing the worry all over my face. “Here. I printed extras for you.”

I’m not allowed on the internet. Social media, YouTube, gaming. All of it is cut off for me. Always has been. My parents are strict and think it will melt my brain or cause an addiction, and if I end up screwed in the head, I’ll never be able to be a provider for my future family.

Because I have no choice but to carry on the family name, so my full focus needs to be on my grades, and making sure I’m settled before I’m twenty-one.

My parents set the goal, not me.

Anyway, I’m sure the main reason we don’t have the internet in the house is because we’re borderline broke. Sure, Dad is a cop, but he doesn’t put food on the table or give my mom cash when she asks so she can buy groceries.

Honestly, I have no idea what he does with his money. Gambles, maybe. Or he pays for girls to sleep with him, which is something I’ve heard my mom scream at him for once.

I never want to be like my dad.

Georgina gives me a soft smile when the teacher tells us to begin. She’s cute, has blue eyes that you can’t help but stare at, and she’s nice to me. Maybe Dad will tell me to marry her one day.

An hour later, I hand in my test results and leave the classroom, my stomach growling when I walk by the canteen filled with students eating their lunch. I go to the bathroom, huddle in the stall, and lock it while I pull out the half-eaten sandwich from yesterday. I pull a hair from it, check the rest, then finish it in two bites.

By the time school ends, I’ve successfully swerved any questions about the swollen, bruised eye. Georgina did ask me if I was okay before the bell rang through the halls, so I was able to hide in the swarm of students and vanish out of the building.

Dad’s car is parked outside the house, and I can hear yelling. I take a deep breath, grip the frayed straps of my school bag, and stop at the front door.

“She was sixteen, Malcolm! Sixteen! You do know you’re going to jail, right? There isn’t a chance you can get away with this, you lying, cheating, piece of shit!”

“It’s her word against mine. Who are they going to believe? Some bratty teenager, or a full grown man with a badge?”

I hear a slap, and then there’s silence.

My heartbeat accelerates to an unhealthy pace as I open the door, freezing when I see my dad on top of my mom, his hands around her throat.

He’s so zoned out that he doesn’t hear me come in, or when I grab one of his golf clubs from his trolley. I don’t wait for a second to swing the metal at his head, knocking him over.

Mom gasps for air at the same time as saying my name. Coughing, she rolls onto her side to try to fill her lungs while I grip the golf club tighter and point it at my dad. It’s shaking, fucking trembling, and he has blood staining his hair.

“You,” he starts, pressing his palm to his head, bringing it away to see the blood staining his hand. “You fucking little shit!”

Dropping the club, I turn to run, my heart in my throat, but he catches my hood and swings me to the side, both choking me and hitting my head against the wall. The knee connecting to my jaw knocks me back, and I don’t have a chance to feel any of the pain because he’s fisting my hair and dragging me across the floorboards.

I kick, trying to tear into the skin of his hand with my blunt nails, but he’s too strong. I’m too weak to save my mom. She’s lying on her front, tears in her eyes as she watches my dad pull me right into the kitchen.

Without letting go of my hair, he grabs a knife from the block, and it’s enough to slap me into panic mode, and I fight back against him. I twist beneath him, kicking at his shins, managing to hit him between the legs to make him release my hair.

And I run again.

He catches up, slamming the front door when I pull the handle, and something like burning hot pain slices my hip. My dad doesn’t care that he just slashed me; he’s chasing me up the stairs. I jump over my mom, helpless on the floor.

Terrified. Frozen in place as her husband chases her only son. She’s not even trying to stop him from hurting me.

I get to my room, slam the door, and attempt to drag my dresser in front of it. Being so thin and weak, I barely nudge it from the ground before I hear his heavy footfalls, yelling, mocking me that I’m a little pussy who needs to be taught a lesson.

I pull harder, thankful the dresser shifts with the terrified adrenaline rushing in my veins. I twist and turn once I block the door, looking for a weapon. My window doesn’t open, and I’m not strong enough to smash it. I’m trapped.

I’m gonna die.

Gulping down bile when I touch my side and see blood on my palm, my bottom lip trembles. My dad bangs against the door, and my body jolts, my heart stopping, tears spilling down my cheeks.

This is it. He’s going to stab me, remove me from the equation so he can have all of Mom’s attention. He never loved me anyway. I was always in the way, a nuisance, the weirdo child who couldn’t hold down a friendship or learn things as easily as other kids. I wasn’t like his friends’ kids either. He’ll be glad to get me out of the way.

Maybe they’ll have another child who isn’t like me.

Mom’s voice is in my head, begging me to go to my hiding spot. There’s another bang on the door, moving my dresser forward, and it’s enough to rocket me toward my bed, scurrying under it. I push myself right to the other side, planted against the wall, and try to hide myself with the bags of used toys and large clothes Mom is waiting for me to fit into.

I jolt and freeze, holding my breath as the dresser tips over, and the door swings open. I can’t see him through all the stuff hiding me, but I can hear him walking into the middle of the room.

“Cole?” He says my name through his teeth, footsteps going to my window. “I’m sorry, Cole. I shouldn’t have hurt you.”

I grit my teeth so hard, my jaw hurts, and more tears threaten to slip free as a demonic laugh sounds around the room. “Come out so I can see where you’re hurt,” he drawls, pulling open my wardrobe and slamming it harshly, showing his anger. “Where the fuck are you?”

He hums to himself, then I flinch as something smashes on my wall. The only thing it could be is the picture of me and my mom that sat next to my bed. The version of my mother I miss. The version who vowed to protect me, love me, care for me. Not this new version who forgets to make sure there’s food in the house or to unlock the door while she’s gone for two days with Dad.

He steps on the glass, getting closer. Closer. Until I can see between bags that he’s kneeling next to my bed, and I stop breathing, shaking, fucking trembling as he leans down.

He has blood on his cheek from the dripping wound I made on the side of his head. Good, I hope it hurts nearly a fraction of what you put me and Mom through.

“I can see you.”

It’s the last thing I hear before he grabs my leg and drags me out from under the bed.

“Dad, please!” I scream as he drags me over the glass from the smashed picture, little cuts on my back making me wince. He grabs my jaw painfully, forcing me to look up at him, but before he can speak, I say, “Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dad, please.”

He mocks me with a baby voice. “Dad. Please. Sorry. Don’t. Please. The same tune, different fucking day with you.” His hold grows painful, and I think my jaw might dislocate or snap when he brings the knife to my cheek. “Why can’t you be normal? Why do I need to be stuck with a defective kid?”

“I’m not,” I try to say. “I am normal.”

He laughs in my face and lets go of me, causing me to fall back on the glass, cutting my palm. It hurts, but not as much as my hip. It’s bleeding through my clothes from the wound.

“I’m sorry,” I cry quietly, tears soaking my cheeks in terror. “Don’t hurt Mom.”

Touching the cut on the side of his head, he stares at his blood, glaring at me. “When I found out we were having a boy, I was excited. I told your mom I was going to raise him to be just like me. I was going to teach him sports, take him to games, and show him how to become a man. I was going to make sure if we ever had another kid that he could hold his own and have their back against bullies. I wanted a son I could be proud of for doing well in school, getting a job, marrying someone who would pass on the family name.”

He flips the knife in his hand, staring at me. “But I got you instead. Pathetic. Useless. Fucking weak.”

Dad goes to drop the blade down on me, but Mom tackles him from behind, making the knife drop and them both to topple to the side.

“Run, Cole!” she screams, hurrying for the knife as she quickly crawls away from Dad. “Run!”

I don’t run, though, because when I get to my feet, Dad grabs my mom by the throat and snatches the knife from her grip, and I catch his wrist before he can swipe it at her neck. Adrenaline overtakes, and the dire need to save my mom.

My knee drives into the back of his, bringing him down, and I start punching him in the face with a tight fist. I’ve never hit someone like this before. It hurts my wrist, but I keep going until he falls back and I’m on top of him.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” I yell as I keep hitting him, seeing blood coming from his nose and lip. “I fucking hate you!”

The punch to my side catches me off guard, and I fall off of him, winded, coughing, my eyes bulging from the force of it. I try to get up, but Dad grabs my foot again, turns me on my back, and my eyes widen as he grabs the blade and hits the sharp edge against my shin like he’s using an ax.

I scream and scream and scream, begging for him to stop when he keeps going. Slashing, axing, mutilating my right leg until Mom grabs him from behind and pulls him off.

Dizziness mixes with the agonizing pain. I’m shaking on the ground, hearing my mom crying for him to stop, a scream from him slapping her.

My head lifts, eyes dropping to my leg. Just below my knee is gushing with blood, flesh ripped apart from the assault from my father, and bile rises in my throat as he picks up the knife again, heading straight for me.

Mom screams like she’s being strangled, tugging at his arm, and I push my hands into the ground and slide myself back, back, back, until I hit the wall. I cover my eyes, waiting for his next attack, but it doesn’t come, because my mom has thrown herself to her knees and begs him to leave me alone, crying to him that she won’t leave.

We’ll stay a happy family while I sit in a puddle of my own blood.

That night, when my mom rushes me to the ER, I’m treated, labeled as self-harming, and from then on, I’m the psychologically fucked-up kid who needs constant surveillance, a psychiatrist, a “buddy” when I’m at school.

The scars are there, covered in ink. Hidden. Like all the abuse and torture I endured while living with that monster until Mom finally chose me.

Until the monster came back for me to finish the job.