Free Unbroken by Jasmine Carolina Page B

mother you were the worst of the three of you. She treated you like a baby, gave you everything you ever wanted. She pacified you, and what did that do? Let you think you were the king of the fucking world. Well guess what? If it wasn’t for your mother, you wouldn’t even be here. I didn’t want you. I told her she should have aborted you, but no. She just couldn’t do it. She was always too emotional for her own fucking good.” His eyes close and his head lolls back. I think he’s done, but I should know better. I start to walk away from him, thinking that he’s fallen asleep. The minute I’m a foot away from him, his beer bottle clocks me in the back of the head. I grab my head reflexively and turn back around to face him, fists clenched. “You’re a poison , boy!”
    From there, he lists my failures. The fact that there’s never any food in the house, that’s my fault. The fact all Mom’s jewelry is 99% gone, that’s my fault, too. The fact our car got repossessed, my fault. The fact the house is a mess right now, my fault. The fact he has to sell shit to get alcohol, my fault. The fact we have no cable, no Internet, no phone, my fault. The fact he has no friends or family, you guessed it. My fault, too.
    Usually, I stand there and take it. He doesn’t have much on me. I know for a fact that when it comes to providing for this family, I’m a better man than he’ll ever be. And I know there’s not much he can say to hurt me, because the only real failure of mine is my inability to commit. And since he doesn’t care enough to know about my girl troubles, he doesn’t have that to use against me. But that doesn’t stop my fists from clenching so tightly that when I open them, there are four crescent marks in the center of each of my palms. Doesn’t stop my heart from racing so fast that I’m almost tempted to fight back. Almost.
    Today, though, there’s something that’s stirred within me. I’m tired of taking his shit, tired of lying on the ground while he beats me. I don’t want to take it today.
    “When Mom died, she took the best of you with her,” I whisper.
    He tenses up, but he doesn’t say anything. I think for a moment that he didn’t hear me, and I feel proud that I’ve said something that can hurt him. It might be the first thing in years that I’ve done to stand up for myself. He clambers to his feet, waltzing into the kitchen. The door to the refrigerator rattles open, beer bottles clanking against each other. I listen as he opens one, and then I hear the fridge slam closed. I stay rooted to the spot, because I can’t leave until he dismisses me—a rule I learned by the time I was six years old, long before alcohol became his only love. He starts toward me, and I look down, afraid to make eye contact.
    “Get out of my house.” His voice is gruff.
    I shake my head, immediately regretting my momentary lapse in judgment.
    He hates me, I know he does. And to be honest, I don’t blame him. I look the most like Mom. He hates me so much that he’d have beaten me dead a long time ago if he really wanted to. But even so, he’s never put me out before. He’s never told me to leave.
    “Dad,” I say, willing to plead with him. “Please. Don’t do this.”
    The beer bottle bangs against the table in the dining room as he puts it down. He storms over to me, grabbing my shoulders roughly and pushing me toward the door.
    “Get out of my house! Get the fuck out!”
    “Dad, stop! Let me get the kids. Let me get them, and I’ll go!” I’m panicking now. He can’t put me out, not like this. Not when I don’t have time to get up the stairs and get to them. “Let me get the kids!”
    He shakes his head, and I struggle against his grasp. Even inebriated, he’s at least twice as strong as I am. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get past him, not like this. But I can’t leave them here. I can’t leave them with him, because God knows what he’ll do if I bow out right