Page 25 of Ruled Out

I couldn’t remember the last time my dad had paid for the heating. Not that he had a good job to afford it. Not that any of his wages went toward the family. He either drank, smoked, or gambled it away.

I couldn’t wait for the second I could get a job and have my own money. I’d make sure Mom and I had food every day, and I’d hide every last cent from Dad. Maybe even my dream of making it to the NHL would come true. Mr. Jenkins was pushing me hard in his hockey academy. I needed to stay strong to have a chance as a hockey player and have a shot at escaping this nightmare.

Quietly, I took the stairs one at a time, desperate not to wake them both up. If Dad didn’t notice how late I was, maybe I’d get away with no beating.

Nothing was worse than the end of my dad’s fist.

But I immediately wanted to take that thought back when I opened my bedroom door and saw the bare space.

It was all gone. My bed, my nightstand, even my fucking clothes were gone from the rail they’d hung on in the corner of my room.

Both windows were open, and the icy air clung to my clothes, seeping deep into my bones.

I didn’t understand. Other than Mom, everything else was the same as when I’d left earlier.

“Looking for something, boy?”

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to.

The first hit was to the back of my head, knocking me straight off my feet, and I crashed into the bedroom wall.

The second hit was to my ribs, but this time with his foot instead of his fist. I didn’t know how he had done it, but he’d managed to catch me right in the place he’d hit me before. The hit to my stomach caused me to puke, throwing up most of what I’d eaten.

I couldn’t get my breath as I clawed at the floor, trying to get away.

Another hit was coming—I could feel it.

I could tell by the evil way he laughed.

“Fight back, boy. What kind of man are you?”

Tears streamed from my eyes. But not from the fact that my dad was beating down on me. I’d stopped crying about that years ago.

I’d have to love him to care about what he thought of me. What he did to me. Now, the pain was only in the physical torture he handed out.

“Where’s my stuff?” I choked out.

A dark laugh rumbled from his chest. “For every hour you were late, I got rid of a piece of furniture. Last to go was your bed.”

“Where am I going to sleep?” I forced out the words, past the lump forming in my throat. I could taste blood, and I knew I’d bitten my tongue when I hit the wall.

He bent down, close enough so I could smell the booze and nicotine on his breath. “On the floor. Like a fucking rat.” He spit into my hair.

I curled in on myself, willing my body to disappear, for me to vanish into nothing.

I’d be happy if I stayed that way too. Nonexistent.

A sob left my chest. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t let him think he’d won or that I cared.

“Where’s Mom?”

He didn’t reply, turning to walk toward my door. But before he slammed it shut, he faced me, his hand on the door handle. “She’s in the hospital. Consider yourself lucky. I’m tired of having to keep her in line.”

Panic raced through me. “You hurt Mom?”

He spit on the floor in front of him. “She’s fine, but those stairs can really fuck a person up. She needs to be more careful. Don’t even think of trying to sleep on the couch because that’s where I’ll be tonight, listening for you.”

“Why?” I asked, just before the door slammed shut.