“He had a vicious temper.” My teeth gnash together, jaw working from side to side. “My mom made all sorts of excuses for him. He’d been abused as a kid. He’d been traumatized in the military. Nothing was ever his fault.”
“Did he…did he hurt you?”
“Not until I was older.”
She frowns but waits for me to continue.
“You never knew what would set him off. If the neighbor spoke to my mom for too long, he’d fly into a rage. Accuse her of stupid shit. If she took me to the movies or to the beach for the day and we were a second late getting home, he’d flip out and destroy all her stuff.”
A soft gasp passes Shelby’s lips.
“Anything she loved, he’d ruin. She stopped wearing makeup because he’d accuse her of trying to attract other men, then bust it up on her. Another time he emptied her closet. Dragged all her clothes, shoes, purses, jewelry, everything of hers into the yard, lit it all on fire, and left the charred mess there for her to find when we came home.”
“Jesus,” Shelby breathes out.
“Bless her soul, she defended him every time. Say he couldn’t ‘control’ himself. But even as a kid I knew that was bull. If he really had PTSD or whatever excuse she gave, he would’ve destroyed everything in his path. Not specifically target her things, you know? He wanted to take out his rage on her for whatever fucked-up reasons he had.”
“You were a smart kid.”
“Not that smart. One time, he rampaged through her little studio. Broke all the brushes, canvases, emptied her paints. Destroyed her paintings and shredded her sketchbooks. Everything. She was crushed. Years of work, just gone.”
“Good grief.” Shelby presses her hand against her chest.
“My brilliant solution was to shoplift art supplies from a store downtown. Replace what I could for her.” I snort at the memory. A childish solution to all the grown-up chaos swirling around me.
“That’s awfully sweet,” she flashes a sad smile, “in a criminal sort of way.”
“First time I ever got arrested.” My hands open and close. “I just wanted to do something to make her happy again.”
“Did it…did he escalate?” she asks.
Good question. Even with the bare details I’ve given her, Shelby can sense where the story’s headed. Why couldn’t my mother?
“They fought a lot but I never saw him hit her or anything. Then…” My fists clench again. “The night of the arrest…I heard this sickening noise and I knew he was hurting her.”
Shelby’s so still, staring at me with wide eyes. “Was he?”
I nod, anger choking off my words. “I lost it when I saw what he’d done to her and went after him.”
“Oh my God.”
“It worked. He turned all that rage my way. Beat the fucking snot out of me. But better me than her.”
She strokes her hand over my chest as if she wants to chase bad memories away. If she only understood they’re etched in my soul. “Logan.”
That’s not even close to the worst of it. And now that we’re almost there, I want to get it out. Purge every awful memory and pray like fuck none of it makes her doubt me or scares her away.
“Didn’t anyone at school or your neighbors notice?” Shelby’s expression remains calm, alert, and attentive. Waiting patiently for me to open up.
“If they did, no one intervened. Didn’t matter much later.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing the images from that horrible day out of my head.
But memories that brutal are stubborn. The more you try to push them away, the deeper they twist their way into your brain.
Chapter Six
Rooster
Logan, 12 years old…
Tight with rage, my father stormed into the police station, my mother scurrying behind him.
I took one look at my father’s face and wanted to plead with the officer to just lock me up and throw away the keys.
But when I settled my desperate eyes on the officer, he looked away.
“Where is he?” my father bellowed.
One of the officers in the station patted his nightstick and ambled over to my father. Half of me hoped Dad would take a swing at him so he’d get locked up for the night.
“Logan, are you okay?” My mother knelt in front of me, taking my hands in hers. She scowled at the cuff circling my right wrist, keeping me shackled to the bench. “Is this necessary? He’s only twelve years old,” she asked the officer over her shoulder.
“He looks older,” he grunted.
“Well, he’s not. He’s a twelve-year-old boy.”
The cop pointed to the cache of art supplies laid out on the desk in front of him. “Certainly has expensive taste for a boy.”
My mother’s cheeks turned red. She stood and dropped her gaze to the floor. “Logan, what did you do?” she whispered.
Defiant and angry, I glared at her. She knew what and why. Shame followed behind my other emotions. So stupid for getting caught the way I did. Greedy. Tired of returning to the store every afternoon to collect what I needed to replace what she’d lost.