Outnumbered

It wasn’t an accident.

I throw the towel into the sink and step back. My hands are still shaking, and I cross my arms and pull them tightly against my chest in a vain attempt to still them.

Why did I even say anything to her at all? Because she asked me to open up? Because she told me about her sister, and I felt the need to return the favor? If I had just kept my fucking mouth shut, I could have gone back to reading a book. Now that I’ve said it, there is no taking it back, and there is no way Seri will just let that bit of information go.

As if to prove my point, she asks again.

“Bishop? Was it an accident?”

I stare at her with my jaw clenched. The color is back in her face, and her expression is one of curiosity, not contempt, but that’s only because she doesn’t know the whole truth about what I did. Maybe I should just come out and tell her. Maybe then she would keep her distance and stop asking me a bunch of questions I don’t want to answer.

“No,” I finally say as I drop my hands to my sides. “It wasn’t an accident.”

“Was he abusive?” Again, her voice is barely loud enough to hear over the crackling of the fire.

Abusive.

The word doesn’t begin to describe it. “Abusive” makes me think of someone who yells a lot or occasionally smacks a kid. The word conjures up images of someone locking a child in their room, sending them to bed without supper, or telling them they are useless and generally bad. It’s a word that doesn’t even begin to describe the things my father did.

Terrorism—that might be more accurate.

“My father was an asshole.”

I grind my teeth together, trying to understand why I don’t just shut the fuck up. This isn’t camaraderie or a good way to get to know one another. She lost someone, and I took someone. No amount of explaining myself is going to change that. We have nothing in common here.

Seri stands and comes toward me slowly.

“It’s okay, Bishop.” Seri reaches out and takes my hands, pulling them toward her. “You can tell me.”

“I don’t think you really want to know.”

“I do.” She squeezes my hands.

I stare at where our hands are joined and realize I’m not shaking anymore. I’m not even sure when it stopped. Slowly, I turn my hands over and lace my fingers with hers, and my shoulders slump. Seri pulls me over to sit back down by the fire, retrieves my whiskey, and lowers herself beside me. She hands me the glass, and I take a big swig.

“Please tell me, Bishop.” She reaches over and takes one of my hands in hers again.

“Are you sure?” I ask softly.

“Yes.” There is no hesitation in her voice.

I close my eyes for a long moment and try to focus on nothing but the sensation of her hand pressed against mine. I swallow another mouthful of whiskey before I begin.

“When I was young, I thought getting smacked around was just what happened when you screwed up. When I spilled something or left my toys out, I got punched. Not smacked. Not spanked. Punched—closed fist and with all his weight thrown into it. When Mom didn’t have dinner ready in time or if she got caught talking to the neighbor Dad didn’t like, she got smacked around, too. That was just life. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized other kids’ fathers didn’t act like he did.”

“Did he drink a lot, too?” Seri asks.

“Honestly, no. He had a few beers now and again, but he wasn’t a drunk. He didn’t have that excuse. He was just a garden-variety dickhead. I think he just liked hurting people.”

With one final gulp, I finish my whiskey and stop talking. Releasing her hand, I head to the kitchen to grab the bottle. I hold it up in offering, but Seri shakes her head, so I just pour myself another glass before sitting back down next to her.

“When I got bigger, he started beating Mom a lot more. Also as I got bigger, I learned how to take a punch. I wouldn’t fall with the first one, and it took more effort to knock me off my feet. It just wasn’t as much fun for him to hit me anymore, so he spent more time fucking Mom up. He started accusing her of hanging out with other men though I’m sure she never did. She was a stay-at-home mom and rarely left the house except to do the shopping, go to church, or pick me up from school.

“One Friday night, I came home after hanging out at the park with some friends. I called out for Mom, but I didn’t get any answer. When I went into the kitchen, there was a frying pan on the floor and bits of fried chicken all over the place. I turned off the stove and called out again. When I didn’t get an answer, I went upstairs, and that’s where I found them.”

I stop and take a huge swig of whiskey. The alcohol is going to my head, and the feeling isn’t one I’m accustomed to. On the rare occasions I drink, I usually have only one glass.

“I might need to lie down,” I say as a wave of drunken dizziness hits me.