At eight, he wasn’t nearly as strong as his father, not even when the man was drunk.
“Get the fuck off me, boy!”
“L-leave us a-alone!” he screamed as he pounded his father on the back.
A hand clamped painfully around his arm and suddenly he was flying through the air. He hit the ground hard enough to lose his breath and see stars.
“Tyler!” His mom’s panicked scream filled his ringing ears.
Whip shook it off, pushed to his feet, growled and rushed his father again. When he got there, his father backhanded him so hard across the face, he fell backwards and landed on his ass.
He sat with one hand on his throbbing cheek, waiting for the darkness closing in to pass.
“You said he stopped s-s-s-tuttering!”
Whip tried to blink away the pain in his head.
“He did. Now he only does it when you’re around, Bobby.”
“You’re blaming me for the kid being s-s-stupid?”
“It’s all your fault,” she screamed, getting in his face. “And stop making fun of him!”
She shouldn’t be that close to him. He would hurt her next. “M-mom!”
His father grabbed his mother by the neck and flung her sideways. As soon as she landed on the concrete sidewalk with a cry, he grabbed her hair, yanked her up and backhanded her, too.
“Don’t blame me for your fuck-up!” Whip’s father shouted.
“M-mom!” Whip cried out, unable to pull his eyes from his parents to see where his grandfather was or if he was hurt.
“You’re his damn mother, you caused this.” He slapped her again. It was so loud, even Whip could feel the sting.
When she fell to the ground crying, Whip was able to get to his feet again and rush him. “G-get off of her!”
It was like hitting a wall. Two large hands shoved him and he fell backwards, landing next to his mother, scraping his palms on the concrete when he tried to break his fall this time.
“Goddamn defective kid. Starting to doubt whether you came from my loins.”
“You want to talk about defective? Have you looked in the damn mirror, jackass?” his pap yelled.
Whip glanced in the direction of where the voice came from and saw his grandfather now standing and wiping away the blood trickling from his mouth. He also saw his grandfather had the shotgun in his hand again. But it was pointed to the ground since Whip and his mother were too close to Bobby Byrne.
They might end up full of buckshot if his grandfather pulled the trigger now.
“He stutters for attention. He does it on purpose. Haven’t figured that out yet, old man? He needs it beaten out of him, not babied.”
“I know more than you about your own damn son. I take care of them, not you, you useless piece of shit. Wish we never had you.”
Whip’s father snarled, “Too late, old man.”
“I brought you into this damn world and I can take you out, Bobby.”
“Do it, old man. Fucking do it. It’s nothing but an empty threat.”
Pap raised the shotgun.
Whip curled into a ball on the ground, making himself as small of a target as possible.
As soon as he heard his father begin to move, Whip peeked from between his fingers.
Pap had his finger on the trigger. Whip had been taught never to put his finger on the trigger until he was ready to pull it. He ducked his head again, covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.
Then his chest exploded as the shotgun went off.
Warm drops splattered his face, his hands, his arms…
None of what his mother was screaming made any sense to Whip. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to understand it or maybe it was because his ears were ringing and he could only hear his own thumping heartbeat.
He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. None of that mattered right now.
Whip forced his eyes open. His father was somehow still on his feet, still moving toward Pap, but now with an arm held across his stomach where the buckshot had hit him and where he was bleeding. His eyes were wide but still held determination. Still remained focused on Pap.
How was he alive or even upright? His shirt was shredded, and so was the now exposed flesh underneath.
He glanced at his pap, who looked like he was in shock himself.
“P-pap!” he screamed in warning as his father closed in on his grandfather.
Did Pap hear him? Or were his ears ringing, too?
Why wasn’t he moving? Why was he staring at the shotgun instead of his approaching son?
“P-pap!”
When his grandfather finally lifted his head, his face was so pale and drawn, his eyes empty, but by then, it was too late.
Whip’s father yanked the shotgun out of Pap’s hand.
“Pap!” Whip screamed as his father lifted the long gun high into the air and slammed the butt right into Pap’s forehead.
It was almost like one of those action movies when things moved in slow motion. Whip watched his grandfather crumble where he stood and land into a motionless heap.