Page 92 of Illicit

“Do you know what they were fighting about, Rocco?”

“No. But they always fought. No different than any other day.”

“Then what made this day different?”

I look down at my hands to see blood. Fuck. I cut myself with my own thumbnail and didn’t even feel it.

I wipe the blood away on my worn jeans and sit on my hands to make myself stop.

“Rocco, can you tell me why that day was different from any others?”

“He started pushing her around. But that always happened.”

“I see,” he says. “What happened then?”

My stomach turns at the thought of it. I can’t puke in here. I could care less who sees me or has to clean it up. But there’s no doubt Dad will laugh in my face if I do.

“I tried to stop it.”

Fuck.

Don’t puke.

Don’t puke.

I swallow hard.

“Have you ever tried to stop it before?”

I shake my head. “No. I was too small. He was too big.”

The guy nods and pauses like he’s in a damn movie or something. “Can you tell me what happened next?”

It’s all I can do not to squirm on my hands. “He came after me.”

“Is that the first time that happened?”

I shake my head. “Nah.”

“How old are you, Rocco?”

Something about the way he asks me that makes me want to stand up for myself. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. “Fourteen—fifteen next month.”

“Did your father hit you?”

“He tried.” I sit up a bit taller. “But I’m faster.” And there’s the bit that he was high, but I already said that.

“That’s good.” Fucking great. Another sad smile from the guy. If I throw up, I’ll just throw up on him. At least he won’t look like he feels sorry for me. I fucking hate it when people feel sorry for me. That seems to be a common theme since the big event. “What happened next?”

Well, damn. It’s my turn for the stupid pause. “It pissed him off. Like bad. Worse than normal. Like he had something to prove. He went at Mom worse than he ever has. I tried to push him off, but I guess I’m not that big.”

“It’s okay, Rocco. You’re fourteen.”

I say nothing, but the desire to wring my fucking hands again crawls over my skin like spiders.

“What happened next?” he pushes.

I do what I need to do to not go to a boys’ home. I tell the truth but do it in as few words as possible to get the hell out of here. “She fell. He grabbed her head. By the time he was done banging it on the floor, she wasn’t moving and there was blood everywhere. That’s when I ran out.”

---