Page 8 of Meant to Be

HARLEY

The bullet slices through the metal with a distinct clang. The sound echoes around the valley. Inching the gun to the right, I squeeze the trigger again.

Bang, bang, bang.

This sound has become somewhat therapeutic for me. I prefer to come out here alone. I like the quietness and the stark contrast of the explosion from the gun.

I lower the gun and turn, yanking down my earmuffs so that they rest around my neck as Brennon lets out a low whistle.

“Have you ever once missed your target?” he asks.

I tilt my head, thinking. “Not for a while.”

Brennon wears an impressed expression as he lines up his row of cans. I step back and rotate my shoulder; the kickback of the gun always leaves a slight jolt in my arm when I hit that many in a row.

His aim is sloppy,and he doesn’t take the time to focus. He never does. Patience and concentration are something Brennon has never gotten the hang of. Brennon has high-range ADHD. It’s never been addressed. There are many things that Brennon does that I don’t agree with, but he is family. More loyal to me than my own blood. When things got hard, he took me in. Always. And for that, I will always stand by him…

My father’s foot slams into my ribs. Coughing, I half-roll, throwing my arms around my head. His heavy foot collides against my side over and over until I’m wheezing and spitting blood.

“Jamie!” my mother sobs. She stumbles towards him, her thin fingers wrapping around his bicep, attempting to pull him away.

He shoves her back effortlessly, causing her to crash to the floor.

“You’re a piece of shit,” my father growls, dropping down low. His fingers twist around my shirt as he drags me from the floor so that I’m sitting up. My eyes are heavy and swollen as I peer up at him. “Nothing but a waste of fucking space.” His face lowers, so close that I can smell the stench of his stale, bourbon-laced breath. “You ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll kill you.”

My breath is raspy as he drops me onto the hard floor. The sound of Mum wailing fills the room. He stomps from the room, slamming the door shut behind him so hard that it rattles the walls.

“Baby!” she sobs, falling to her knees, her hands flitting over me. “Talk to me. Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” I choke out.

Tears stream down her cheeks as she gathers me in her arms, holding me to her. The door is kicked open, and she’s pulled away from me. She cries out as he yanks her to her feet and pulls her from the room.

“Leave him,” he demands, swivelling his narrowed eyes to me. “He deserves to be alone.”

They leave the room and the sound of my mum screaming for me rings in my ears. After a long moment, I slowly push to my feet, barely able to support myself as I lean against the wall.

Sucking in as much air as I can through my teeth, I push off the wall and slip out through the side door. I limp slowly and quietly out through the gate. The trek to Brennon’s seems twice as long and unbearable. The hot sun burns through my clothing, making sweat drip into all my cuts. They sting like a motherfucker.

I shove through the tall gate of Brennon’s backyard, stumbling to my knees. With extreme effort, I scramble to my feet and keep walking until I’m in the back area that was once a garage, but Brennon has transformed into his room.

Gun-shots from the TV blast through the window, and I push through the door. Brennon is seated on the lounge, his legs propped up on the coffee table in front of him, his headset on. His eyes almost pop out of his skull when he sees me.

He’s on his feet, rushing towards me. His arms take on most of my weight as I stumble, hardly able to see anymore. The swelling is the worst it’s been in a while.

“Jesus Christ,” Brennon mutters, stepping back, his hands on my shoulders as he quickly assesses my injuries.

He guides me towards the lounge, and I collapse heavily onto it, leaning my head back. Brennon moves on autopilot. He gathers the first-aid kit, which may as well be the Harley Repair Kit.

“You know the drill,” he says. “It’s going to hurt.”

The stinging and burning is something I’m used to. I barely flinch anymore. I grit my molars and stay still as Brennon wipes and dabs, cleaning my cuts.

“Stay here,” he says. “For as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” I hiss through the pain, screwing my eyes tightly shut.

“Anything for you, brother,” he says, squeezing my arm. “You’re family.”