Free Breaker by Richard Thomas

her kindness and recognition such a fleeting and rare occurrence. She is not afraid of me, never has been. She is growing up so fast, and yet is still so naïve. She has to toughen up, or the boys down the street will get to her—them, or somebody else. She wears her heart on her sleeve. She has so much potential—but for what? The longer I live next door, the more I hear her parents fighting—about money, sex, failure,
fuck you, asshole
and
don’t be such a bitch
and
get out
sprinkled between the broken glasses, the slammed doors, and the tears—sometimes she leaves, sometimes he storms out, now and then, the kid.
    I fear for Natalie’s safety.
    Her future is bleak.
    And for some reason, I care.
    I see myself in her, I suppose.
    There is potential for the child to withdraw, to hate, to become like me. There is potential for angry fists and spiteful hands, her existence an insult, her presence a reminder of all that has failed, and all that will continue to fail. There is never enough money, never enough time, and never enough done right—by him or her or both. She might one day become visible, something that simply needs to be erased, the only way to start over—a husband tired of the nagging, a father tired of the job, a man eager to run free and wild, out into the world unadorned, on the lam, broken. I see in the father’s eyes, under the greasy brown hair, buried deep, a violence I recognize as my own. He will take it, and work hard, disappearing for hours, days, returning because he has nowhere else to go, resentful of everything he sees—but only for so long. The mother oozes entitlement, with no desire to nurture, long dark hair in a ponytail, her makeup always perfect, except when there are tears running down her rosy cheeks. She is what Natalie could become, and in that I see a monster—vengeful, cunning, and eager to lash out with her sharp tongue, quick to cut open her family and friends.
    They were happy once, those two. I remember the laughter, the music, the banging on the walls not from fists, but from the headboard. And in all that time, in all of these years, never have they said a word to me. I am a ghost to them, a presence that haunts our shared space, but nothing real—something to be avoided.
    I can’t just disappear. So what then?
    I must fight.
    I must negotiate the terms of my freedom.
    Perhaps there is something I can teach Natalie before I go, things I can show her, or tell her, to prepare her for what will inevitably come. She is smart, without a doubt. And she is not so bitter, so withered, that she is beyond repair.
    I can at least do that.
    Outside I hear cars accelerating past, a honk of a horn, a low mumble of voices mixed together,
Daddy, come here,
a siren from far away, getting louder and then fading again, a dog barking, then two, then three, a man yelling
shut up
and then one dog, and then a yelp, then no dogs, a car door slamming shut, a bottle breaking, a garbage can tipping over, a cat meowing, the low rumble of a bus lumbering past, the hissing of doors opening and then closing, a
see you later
and a trunk shutting, a voice asking
can you
help me with this please,
overhead a plane flying low, to or from O’Hare, a radio playing, bass and then drumbeats, the wind picking up, droplets of rain against the window, a horn honking,
screw you,
brakes squealing, more honking, the rain picking up, battering the window as my eyes close, and I drift off to sleep. There is so much life around me.
    And yet, I feel empty inside.

Chapter 18
    I stand outside the door to my mother’s bedroom, pushing it open just a crack, a sick feeling in my stomach. The faint scent of her perfume drifts out from inside—jasmine and rose, lily and vanilla, sandalwood with a hint of pine. That last note would be the glass of gin I leave on her bedside table, a generous pour every now and then, evaporating over time, as I pretend that she’s drinking it from beyond the grave. The lamp is still on, a