Page 4 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Shout

Chance

He’s louder tonight. Every insult booms through the house, vibrating the floor as I crouch in the corner of my bedroom.

My knees are tucked against my chest, my arms wrapped tightly around them.

The old quilt Mom made me last Christmas is draped over my shoulders, but it won’t stop the shaking.

It never does. Maybe because the way I shake is not from fear, but from rage. From pain.

“I told you, Mary! I fucking told you to have it fixed before I got home!” Dad’s voice roars through the house, sharp and cutting.

“I… I’m sorry John. I couldn’t—” Mom’s voice cracks. I hate how scared and small he makes her sound.

Something crashes and I flinch. I press my hands over my ears, trying to block it out, but his voice tears through anyway.

“What the fuck do you even do all day?” The floor creaks under his heavy boots as he stomps through the house. “You’re useless, you know that? Just a useless whore.”

I can’t take any more. My legs feel heavy as I force myself to move.

I push open my door and step into the hallway.

Dad’s towering figure stands in the kitchen, his fists clenched, his face twisted with anger.

Mom is cowering half on the floor, half against a cabinet, her hands trembling in front of her face as she tries to shield herself.

“Stop it!” I shout, my voice weak but loud enough to make them both turn. Dad’s glare fixes on me, and for a second, I think he might come for me instead. Good. And I won’t back down. I run to Mom, planting myself between them, my arms outstretched as if I could stop him from getting to her.

“Leave her alone!” I manage in my loudest voice. My body is trembling, but I won’t move. I won’t get out of his way, even though Mom is pleading with me to go back to my room and lock the door.

Dad’s face twists into a sneer, but he relents and lowers his hands. He works his jaw like he’s chewing on the venomous words he wants to spit out. Finally, shouting “fuck,” he turns and storms out of the house, rattling the walls with the force he uses to slam the door.

The silence that follows is bittersweet relief. Mom slumps further down on the floor, her hand covering her face as she sobs quietly. I kneel, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. She pulls me close, her tears dampening my shirt as she whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.”

When I’m sure he’s gone, I help Mom off the floor. Her hands are still shaking, and she leans against me more than I expect.

“Let’s clean this up,” she says softly, her voice hoarse from crying.

“I can do it—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts me off, forcing a weak smile. “It’ll make me feel better. Let’s just tidy up, okay?”

I nod, even though I don’t believe her.

The kitchen is a mess. In his rage, dad swept the dinner mom had made and all the dishes off the table.

Shards of glass litter the floor, sparkling in the dim overhead light.

A broken plate lies in pieces near the sink, and one of the chairs is tipped over.

I grab the broom from the corner, and Mom picks up the larger pieces of glass, her movements slow and deliberate.

We don’t talk. The only sound is the soft sweep of the broom and the occasional clink of broken glass being dropped into the trash.

When the floor is clear, she straightens the chair and wipes down the counter, her hands trembling as she works.

“Do you want to sit down, momma?” I ask, watching her carefully.

She shakes her head. “No, I’m okay.”

I know she’s not.

When the kitchen is back to its usual order, she glances at the clock on the wall. It’s almost my bedtime, but she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs.

“You must be hungry,” she says, her voice still shaky. “Let me make you something.”

“Ma, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, Chance,” she interrupts, her tone firmer this time.

I don’t argue. I sit at the table, watching as she pulls a small bowl from the cabinet and sets it on the counter.

She cracks the eggs against its edge one by one, her hands shaking slightly, but her movements are careful and precise.

With a fork, she whisks the eggs together, adding a splash of cream, a splash of water, and a pinch of salt before setting the bowl aside.

Reaching into the pantry, she grabs the bag of fire hot cheese doodles—the kind I insisted she buy last week—and crushes a handful in her palm, sprinkling the bright red pieces into a second small bowl.

Next, she chops a couple of green onions with quick, rhythmic slices, the soft sound of the knife against the cutting board filling the quiet kitchen.

The green onions join the cheese doodle crumbles, creating the “kid fancy” topping she knows I love.

She makes me a cheese omelet, slides it onto a plate, and sprinkles the crumbled cheese doodles and green onions over the top. Setting it in front of me, she manages a small smile. “Your favorite,” she says.

The smell of buttery eggs and melted cheese fills the kitchen, mingling with the spicy tang of the cheese doodles. The moment almost feels normal.

“Eat,” she says softly, sitting down across from me.

I pick up the fork and take a bite, even though my stomach is still knotted with nerves. The food is comforting in a way I can’t explain, though. I think it’s a mom thing.

When the plate is empty, she takes it to the sink and rinses it off. The kitchen is clean, all evidence of the fight erased, but the weight of it still lingers in the air.

“Come on,” she says, holding out her hand. “Let’s get you to bed.”

I take her hand, and she leads me back to my room. The quilt is still on the floor where I dropped it earlier, and she picks it up, shaking out the wrinkles before tucking it around my shoulders.

She sits on the edge of my bed, smoothing my hair back.

“You’re so brave,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “My protector.”

Her words make me sad. I want to protect her. I want to keep her safe. But I’m just a kid, and he’s so much bigger, so much stronger.

“Ma,” I say quietly. “Why do you stay with him?”

She freezes, her hand stilling on my head.

“Because” she says softly, “sometimes love makes you want to try to fix things. And other times… leaving isn’t as easy as it seems.”

Her words don’t make sense to me. But I nod anyway, closing my eyes as she leans down to kiss my forehead.

“Go to sleep, baby,” she whispers. “It’s all over now. This is for me to deal with.”

But it’s not.

Even as I drift off, the weight of his anger and her sadness hangs over me like a storm cloud, dark and heavy.

I know deep down this won’t be the last time I have to stand between them.