Chapter Text
The Past
The life of my mother, my sister and myself was hardly idyllic growing up. Our father was a cruel, vindictive bully. I was only five years old when I first witnessed domestic violence. The first time I saw him hit my mother stirred something in me even at a young age. The urge to protect those I love. I went after my father, trying to push him. He backhanded me across the face, sending me sprawling. I'm sure he expected me to cry. All he got in reply was a little five-year-old looking up at him with hate in his eyes. Mum screamed, of course, and that made him shut her up. I still remember the thud she made against the wall...
But I'd earned his ire now, and I was routinely 'punished' for the most minor of indiscretions. His favourite method was the belt. Legs. Arms. Back. Arse. Didn't matter, long as he hit me. And the older I got, the more he hit me. The more he hit me, the angrier I got. By the age of ten, I almost taunted him. He no doubt wanted me to cower with fear, but even at that age, I knew if he hit me, he left my mother and sister alone. I still walked into the kitchen of a morning to see my mother in tears, new bruises on her thin body. I tried to step in every time. My father wasn't a broad or tall man. He was under six-foot and wasn't muscular. More of a wiry strength. It pissed him off that I never stopped, didn't cower in fear at the sight of him. The thing that kept me going was the hate, the anger, and also the pain. I endured it for my family.
He was drawing blood by twelve, ensuring the buckle hit me just right. I had the scars to prove it already. Mum would find me in my bedroom with blood on my sheets more than once. I asked Mum about leaving all the time, but she was afraid that he'd kill us all if we tried. He'd threatened constantly about her calling the police. I saw him holding a knife more than once. Her parents helped where they could, but it seemed my father held all the cards. The house was not his, as far as I knew at the time, but he ruled it like it was his kingdom. Mum and my sister lived in constant fear, and I did all I could to ensure he left them alone. When he was sober, he was just about tolerable. Three beers in and...
At twelve, my grandfather took me to the side. He knew what I'd done nearly my entire life. Now it was time to get ready. "Son, I'm going to prepare you for what it to come. I've got a friend, a good friend, who knows how to fight. Not just boxing, I mean the sort of fighting that will help you incapacitate a man, even one taller, stronger, fitter than yourself. You father is a cruel man. Family and friends have tried to step in, but your mother... She won’t leave him, insisting there is still good in him somewhere. Are you willing to learn to protect your family?"
"Yes, sir."
He ruffled my hair. “Good boy. His name is Steven. He knows all about you, about what's happening. He promised to help you finish this."
For two years until I was fourteen, I learned how to fight. Every afternoon, I'd go learn basic skills before moving on to more advanced techniques. I hadn't gone through my growth spurt yet, my father was still taller than me, but in addition to fighting, he helped me get stronger. As I was still developing, he made sure it wasn't too heavy, but I did bulk up slightly, just enough to make the difference.
I was fourteen when it got uglier than ever. I came home to find my mother cowering on the floor, my sister in tears on the couch, and my father ranting and raving. Seeing me enter the house, his eyes narrowed. Before he could move, I strode forward and put my fist into his gut. He doubled over. For a fourteen-year-old, I knew where to hit and I hit hard. "You little shit," he croaked. Then he swung, hitting my cheek. Sent me to the floor, feeling my vision blacken. I only came around when I felt my hair being pulled. Lifting me up, he slammed me against the dinner table and returned the hit. "How does it feel, you little cunt?" I couldn't answer him, but what did concern me was hearing the rattle of utensils, and the scream of my mother.
"Don't you dare, Robert!" she screamed.
"Shut the fuck up or you'll be next." I managed to lift myself in time to see my father approach me with a knife. To my surprise, I didn't feel afraid as he placed the tip of the knife under my eye. "You're a pathetic piece of shit," he murmured, smelling the alcohol on his breath, "Complete and utter disappointment. Best thing I could do is end your pathetic life now."
Soon as he removed the knife from my skin, I kicked him in the balls as hard as I could. His immediate reply was a slash across my chest. That did cause me to cry out as it really fucking hurt. I kicked again, definitely catching him in the crotch as I heard the slap of my shoe. He slashed again, this time lower down my body. Then he managed to stand upright enough to clock me straight across the jaw. I saw stars then nothing but darkness. Thankfully, I did hear sirens before I passed out completely.
I woke up later in hospital. My jaw was in agony. I looked down to see my shirt was gone and bandages on my chest. "Mum," I managed to whisper. She turned around, seeing tear-stained eyes as she walked over to take my hand, gently squeezing it, "Becca?"
"She's safe now, Mikey. She's safe thanks to you. We both are."
"Robert?" I hadn’t called him ‘Dad’ in years.
"On the run. Police are doing all they can to find him." She kissed my cheek. "Thank you, Mikey. Thank you."
I was in hospital for a few days. How my jaw wasn't broken was a miracle. Apparently didn't hit me hard enough, but hitting my head on the tiled floor did give me one hell of a concussion. I was the talk of the school for a few days, turning up battered and bruised. No surprise that very few students fucked with me after that. Not after hearing what I could do and also the pain I was willing to endure. With Robert having disappeared, Mum could finally relax for the first time in her life. She was already working as a nurse, and set about restoring relationships my father had destroyed due to his domineering behaviour. I had a growth spurt at sixteen, going from around five-six to just over six-foot in a year or so. It was almost like I woke up one morning with an extra six inches in height. I towered over Mum and my sister. Every time we went out, I kept watch. I didn't trust a soul but, more importantly, I had no idea if or when he’d be back. They both knew and loved me even more for it.
I still trained with Steven every day, and once I hit sixteen, we started with proper weight training. I confessed to concern that my father was still out there, and wanted to be prepared, just in case he came back. For eighteen months, we boxed, fought, brawled, wrestled. He was a jack of all trades, knew plenty of fighting styles. He was a broad man himself, pushing me every day to do that little bit more. It was almost like some sort of army training at time. Push ups. Sit ups. Pull ups. But when I looked in the mirror, I still saw all the scars. I wore them as badges of honour, I'd earned them protecting those who meant most to me. But I always kept them covered. No-one else needed to see. They didn't need to understand what I’d endured for my family.
Robert returned when I was seventeen. He banged on the door, demanding entrance. Mum had obviously changed the locks. She hid in her bedroom with my sister as I answered the door. I now stood taller than him. Definitely broader. I punched him straight in the face without saying a word. That sent him sprawling onto his arse as I stalked after him. Then he pulled a knife on me. "Come to finish the job, you little fucker," he warned.
It was some sort of switchblade though he could still stab me, still kill me. But Steven had spent years training me by then. I just watched his feet, watched the blade. Anticipated. Adrenaline surging. Waited for him to move. Disarming him was easy, and once the knife hit the ground, I hit him again. And again. And again. Put his head into the side of his car door and left him sitting against it. It was perhaps the first time in his life someone had stood up to him and done damage in return. Now it was his turn to cower in fear. This time, it was my turn to hold the knife to his eye. "I could kill you right now, Robert," I said softly, "And all I would do is spend half a year in juvenile before I was released. After the years of abuse, I reckon a court would probably find me innocent considering what you did to my family." I heard the approaching sirens. I flicked the blade closed and threw it on the ground some distance away. "But you're a piece of shit and not even worth that." I walked backwards and leaned against the tree in our front yard until the police cars arrived.
It was an open and shut case. He was smart enough to just plead guilty considering the years of evidence built up.
He's still in prison. He’ll be out one day. If he wants to come again, I’ll finish the job next time. No guilt. No remorse. Third strike.