Page 1 of The Sweetest Cruelty: Hudson (A Sawyer Brothers Story #1)

The Past

“You fucking piece of shit!” Callum spat with a poisonous snarl.

I ignored the strings of drool that flew out of his mouth and focused on the cruelty in those black, soulless eyes. The man was unhinged and desperate to cause as much pain as possible.

From his bloodshot eyes and empty expression, I guessed he was coked to his eyeballs on blow again.

I had been here many times before, but this was different.

Callum had also hit the bottle, which added fuel to the fire.

Everyone knew that drugs and booze didn’t mix and were an explosive combination.

Especially when taken by a narcissistic fuck like my father.

I needed to keep my mind off that severe pain I felt in my chest; it stung with every breath I took. If I gave into that feeling, I was screwed.

Air spewed from my lungs as my aggressor directed another kick into my stomach, yelling, “Come on, tough guy, get up and fight. You talk the talk but you’re nothing but a little bitch!”

The stench of body odour and liquor lingered in the haze of the smoky room.

I squinted up at my old man who was in the middle of beating the shit out of me. He looked like an apparition, a large shadow with no face.

I could hardly see a thing. The kitchen lights had always been dull; only the downlighters worked now. Callum Gage was a lazy cunt and never lifted a finger in our house. A fist, now that’s another story, he’d raised plenty of those at me and my mother.

Our house? That thought was laughable, as the shithole I was raised in was more like a slum.

I zoned out from what Callum was saying, feeling dazed.

Fuck, how I wished it was summer and I was with my grandparents; their place by the ocean was my escape, even if only for a few short weeks each year.

I hadn’t been able to visit lately as Nana hadn’t been too well, and Papa was moving into a nursing home.

“Stupid little prick!” Those words dragged me back to the kitchen .

The smell of sulphur stung my nostrils, and the congealed blood which had gathered above my busted lip had seeped into my mouth. The taste at the back of my throat was metallic and grim.

Dragging myself away from a pity party of my making, I lifted my gaze off the floor and looked up at Callum. He’d turned his back on me and was raving to himself like a frigging lunatic.

A jet of adrenaline burst through my pain as I saw my chance. Mom was still on the floor; I could see her body on the other side of the kitchen table.

Was she moving? I needed to get to her.

Fuck, I was hurting everywhere , but I needed to think about anything else.

If I gave in and processed exactly what was happening to me, the rage would set in, and then I would lose control, just like Daddy-not-so-dearest. Like father, like son, they say.

But I didn’t hit women or teenagers. I wasn’t that far gone.

Scanning my father’s beefy shoulders, I struggled with the best course of action. The asshole topped me by at least two feet and was more muscled; it sat hidden beneath layers of beer belly, but it was there.

“Get up,” my father seethed again, nudging me roughly with his booted foot. I rolled to my stomach and pushed onto all fours, discharging a wheezy breath.

The fury bubbling beneath the surface was so strong. It terrified me almost as much as Callum used to when he was in shape. In those days, he didn’t miss as much. Lately, the coke, booze and a bad diet had led to a shitty aim and unsteady feet, which, on occasion, had given me a fighting chance.

Shoving back onto my knees, I spat some blood onto the grease-streaked linoleum before lifting my chin and gazing up at the man who had sired me. I say, sire, not raised as the fucker had no understanding of what that meant.

Callum, or Cal as some of his friends called him, took another swig from the bottle of vodka he clutched, holding onto the kitchen counter with his free hand. And when I say friends , I mean a bunch of freeloading scumbags that were no better than him.

I dragged in a breath. Whilst he was distracted, I glanced back to where she lay, my mother.

I could faintly see her twisted frame on the floor through one eye; my other was swollen shut.

The smoke in the room also hindered my vision.

My mother had been cooking dinner just before Callum came in and started raging that we were out of beer .

As I leaned forward and stretched out my hand towards her foot, my father shifted beside me, and before I realized what he was doing, I was knocked to the side by his knee.

I lost my balance, throwing out a hand to catch myself, only for it to land on a pile of broken glass. The shards bit into my palm.

“Fuck!” I screamed, unable to stop the words spewing from my mouth. They caused my mother to moan.

“Please, Cal. Let him be,” she sobbed. It was so faint I hardly heard it.

“Shut up! Fucking useless bitch,” Callum growled, the thudding noise that followed forced vomit up into my throat as his foot impacted her body. I could feel chunks of the bacon I had just eaten coming down my nose.

Roaring at the top of my lungs, puke ran down my chin, and I rolled on my back, dizzy and disoriented.

The blood was rushing in my ears so loud that I couldn’t hear what the fucker was saying.

Then the smoke alarm started. It was loud, like a war cry, echoing my mood.

I needed to get to my mother.

I wasn’t afraid of Callum. Not anymore. I had become emotionally numb to his beatings, that’s why he’d moved on to knocking the shit out of his wife.

But the fear I felt for her was real, more than fucking real, terrifying .

Melissa Gage was no wilting flower; she was tall for a woman and used to give as good as she got, until one day… she just gave up.

I felt just like the piece of shit my father had called me.

This was my doing, my fault. My mother was lying on the floor, barely moving, and all because I’d helped myself to Callum’s shit beer. It was the cheap stuff that tasted like warm piss.

You stupid fool!

Turning fourteen in our neighborhood was a big deal.

I had started high school and was officially classed as a man, hence the bender I’d had with my friends the previous night.

They wouldn’t serve us alcohol at the liquor store without ID, so I’d taken a twelve-pack of Hank’s Narragansett Lights.

My best friend Tommo had donated the vodka.

He’d swiped two bottles from Nicholas Creed’s locker at school earlier that month.

Nick was our age but as dodgy as fuck. His older brother Xander was a senior at St Andrew’s.

Nick had been transferred there last week, a consequence of getting busted for selling booze on school premises.

Good fucking riddance. Thankfully, Tommo and I remained freshmen at Harbor Heights High on the other side of the city.

Mom’s moan of pain dragged my attention back.

Her favorite gold necklace with the handmade M pendant glittered against her sallow skin.

It had been a gift from Nana for my mother’s thirtieth birthday last month.

She wore it less lately as she was worried about Callum pawning it to pay for one of his nasty habits.

Now look what you’ve done!

Shit; I had stolen from Callum, and I deserved a slap on the wrist. Cal’s version of that slap used to be a lit cigar against my forearm. Same fucking thing in my world. Now he used his fists.

“Hud, are you there?” my mother croaked.

I was dog shit, just like he’d always said I was.

“I’m here,” I whispered, attempting to sound calm.

Callum’s foot hit me in the stomach again, and this time I welcomed it. Anything was better than him hurting my mother.

Guilt and regret bled from me like a sliced artery. My mother had stood up for me that day, but it was the wrong decision. She got in the way and paid for it.

We were in the kitchen when Callum turned up early, off his face.

“He’s fourteen, Cal. Give the boy a break,” she had begged, turning away from the stove.

She had just made me a BLT. It was a remedy to cure my hangover.

I’d slept most of the day, surfacing early afternoon, still half fried.

And then Callum came home from work, via the local bar.

I had never sobered up so quickly.

How it all started flashed in front of my eyes.

From my position at the cheap-as-shit kitchen table, I’d watched as Callum hit my mother in the face, not a backhander, a specialty of his; a proper punch.

Seeing my mother's nose bust open would stay with me forever. I’d shoved to my feet and launched myself at him; anything to protect her as he’d then drawn back his booted foot.

The harsh reality of what had happened crawled over my skin like fire ants.

Now, she was barely conscious, and I silently begged her to play dead.

Why was no one coming to help us? Surely, Mr. and Mrs. Weinberg would call the cops again? The walls of the timber houses on our street were piss-takingly thin; they must have heard something . I could hear their dogs barking, maybe they weren’t home? Shit .

“Please,” I heard my mom whisper.

“You’re nothing but a worthless whore,” Callum snarled. The aggression in his voice gave me strength, and I managed to get to my feet. As I staggered forward, my father gripped my mother’s hair and dragged her up from the floor.

Her scream cut into me like a million knives as I lunged forward and snagged Callum’s arm to stop him from striking her again. He had my mother pressed against the fridge, her face a bloodied mess. The sight caused me physical pain.

You did this; this is on you.

“Get the fuck off,” my father cried out, spittle shooting from his mouth.

At that moment, he was evil personified, and after jerking his arm away, he shoved me backwards towards the table.

I fell, bouncing off a chair and jarring my ribs, several of which were already broken. From the only eye that worked, I watched as Callum seized my mother's shoulders and threw her to the other side of the room.

The cracking sound of her skull, as it hit the counter, dragged a roar from the pit of my stomach.

Crawling towards her, I retched again, the smell of puke, bacon, and smoke abused my senses; as did the fact that my mother was now so still.

“ You did this,” Callum rumbled, echoing my thoughts from minutes ago. Bending towards me, he pointed the rim of the vodka bottle at my face.

My entire frame was shaking. I closed my eyes; the terror of the thought of him slicing me made me weak.

Moving my head away from the rankness of his breath, I jerked as Callum spat in my face.

“You’ll never be anything but a failure, kid, just like me.”

Bracing myself for a hit, I inhaled as much air as possible, waiting for it to end. A perverse sense of satisfaction thrummed through me. If this were it, surely the pain would stop?

And. Nothing. Fucking. Happened.

Slowly opening my good eye, I watched as my father walked over to the kitchen table and took a seat.

His face twisted, but no remorse was visible at that point.

He placed the bottle of spirits on the table, followed by his elbows and dropped his head into his hands.

And then his entire body started to shake.

Was the fucker crying? After everything he’d done. The noise he omitted sounded like a wounded animal, but I didn’t care. Mom said Callum had found out he was sick; yeah, sick in the head. I hadn’t asked for details as I didn’t care.

I couldn’t stand, my legs were shaking, and weakness had infected my entire body. The ringing of the smoke alarm was suddenly met with the sound of sirens.

Cops? I fucking hated them. They were useless, but they were better than nothing.

“Mom,” I whispered, rubbing my face, trying to open both eyes wider as I positioned myself over her.

That background noise became louder, and then there was banging and rattling. It sounded in time with the hammer thudding against my skull, like the drum of death.

Shouts and voices and then more hammering.

As I braced my aching body over my mother's still, lifeless one, I noticed her eyes were wide open. If they were open, she had to be OK. Didn’t she?

Hope swept through my chest like one of those tsunamis you saw on the news, and I pushed a clump of sticky black hair away from her face.

“It’s over now, Mom, help is here,” I whispered into her face as I leaned over her, unsure whether that was the case.

My tears were like acid as they poured down my cheeks, their saltiness stinging every wound they touched.

A scuffle was happening behind me, but all I saw were my mom’s eyes, like pools of nothingness.

“Did you hear me? Mom?”

Nothing prepared me for what happened when the light from a torch hit her face. Every mark my father had put there was highlighted in all its gruesome glory. And then I noticed her pupils. They remained wide, allowing the light in.

And then I knew.

That knowledge that my mother was dead was like a fist punching in through my chest and ripping my fucking heart out.

“No, please, fuck no!” I yelled, the vibration causing more pain to shoot through my battered torso.

And then I was helpless as I felt myself being dragged backwards, hard hands on my shoulders, and I waited for Callum to finish me for real this time .

And I wanted him to, begged for it to end.

My arms were yanked roughly behind my back, but no blow came. The only thing I felt after that realisation that my father had murdered my mother was the cold, hard steel snapping around my wrists.

It was a familiar feeling. It wasn’t my first rodeo as I’d been cuffed before. Under usual circumstances, they made me feel safe; and gave me some reprieve from Callum and his mad shit. But right then, they made me feel anything but.

As I was led away in those heavy, cold metal restraints, safe was the furthest thing from my mind. Being marched out of my house like a fucking criminal in front of all our neighbors didn’t bother me. The haunting awareness that I would never see my mother’s face again is what broke me that day.