Page 124 of This Side of Beautiful

My father loomed over her, his hand raised.

No.

Not this time.

Something inside me snapped.

Without thinking, I lifted my guitar and swung.

The impact shook my arms. My father staggered forward, roaring. He turned, bloodshot eyes wild with confusion.

Then he saw me.

Recognition flickered.

Then rage.

He lunged.

I met him halfway.

We hit the ground, fists flying.

I did not stop. Every punch was years of rage.

For my mother.

For me.

For every time he looked at me like I was nothing.

For every time he made her cry.

For all the years he left us alone.

I kept hitting him, my knuckles splitting, my chest heaving, my body shaking with something wild and primal.

“Landon, stop!”

My mother’s scream tore through the haze.

I froze, breath coming in jagged bursts. The world tilted.

My father groaned beneath me, his lip split, his eye swelling.

My hands trembled. Bloody.

I stumbled backward, stomach twisting. The room swayed.

“Mama,” I whispered, but my voice was wrong. Thin. Distant.

Her sobs sounded far away. Everything did.

The walls closed in.

The air thickened.

My throat sealed shut.

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