Page 172 of Before We Were

My little brother's safe at training camp, chasing his dreams far from this hellhole. The thought gives me some form of peace, even as bile burns the back of my throat and my pulse thunders in my ears.

Jake—the kid who still believes in heroes. Who sees Scott as some kind of mythical father figure, straight out of those movies where dads teach their sons to throw perfect spirals and give sage advice about life.

Jake never saw the bruises blooming across Mom’s skin, never noticed how her hands trembled while pouring his cereal, never caught the way her eyes would dart to the nearest exit whenever Scott’s voice rose above a whisper.

The memory of us—the last time we felt like brothers—hits me out of nowhere. Teaching Jake to skateboard when he was ten. His determined little face scrunched up after each fall, tears threatening but never falling because he wanted to be“tough like his big brother.”The scrapes on his knees were battle wounds, his persistence a shield against failure.

“One more time, Jake,”I’d said, steadying the board beneath his feet, my hands firm on his shoulders.“I’m right here. I won’t let you fall.”

When he finally got it, the triumph in his eyes could’ve lit up the whole damn world. He’d jumped off the board and thrown his arms around me, grinning so wide it made my chest ache.

“You’re the best big brother ever.”

That moment sealed a promise I’d been keeping since the day he was born: I’d always be there to catch him. I’d never let him see how ugly the world could really be. It’s why I pushed Mom so hard to send him away whenever possible—training camps, competitions, anything to keep him out of this house where monsters wear the mask of family, and love comes with a price tag of bruises and broken spirits.

A floorboard creaks outside my door, and my pulse spikes. The bruises from last week's "lesson" still burn beneath my skin, my wrist screaming with every slight movement. But I push through the pain and stand. Because this is what I do. This is who I am.

The shield. The protector. The punching bag.

It's been my role since I was eight years old, and I've played it perfectly. Back then, I thought I could be a hero too—naive enough to believe I could actually stop him. But I'm not that little kid anymore.

He made fucking sure of that.

I shove the door open, its hinges shrieking in protest. The kitchen light spills into the hallway like toxic waste, casting long shadows that feel like prison bars closing in. Scott's silhouette looms against the wall—massive and monstrous, a physical manifestation of every nightmare I've lived through.

For a heartbeat, I falter because of the sheer size of him. How the fuck am I supposed to face down a man twice my size? The rational part of my brain screams at me to retreat, to hide, to survive.

Then I hear it—the sickening thud of something hitting the wall, followed by Mom's strangled gasp.

The fear evaporates, burned away by something colder. Sharper. A rage so pure it crystallizes in my blood, turning every heartbeat into a war drum. There's no time to think, no time to plan. There's only the split-second choice I've made a thousand times before: step into the line of fire and pray I can take the hit.

My vision narrows to pinpoints of red and black, my pulse thundering in my ears. My hands clench so tight my knuckles scream, but I don't dare loosen my grip. If I give an inch, if I let go for even a second, I'll lose whatever control I have left.

"Stop!" The word rips from my throat, raw and sharp as broken glass.

He turns, bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. That glare used to freeze me solid when I was a kid, but I'm not that scared little boy anymore. I stopped being him the first time I watched Scott raise his hand to her and did nothing.

"Get your fucking hands off her." My voice comes out steady, despite what’s raging inside me.

His lips curl into a sneer, his words dripping venom. "What the fuck did you just say to me, son?"

Son.The word is acid on my tongue. This man has never been a father to me—just a nightmare wearing the mask of family.

"You fucking heard me."

A smirk twists his features. "Well, would you look at that? Did you finally decide to grow a pair?" He steps away from Mom, whose trembling form is pressed against the wall. Blood trickles from her split lip, and something inside me fractures at the sight.

His bloodshot eyes bore into mine. "Look me in the eyes and say what it is you need to say. Like a real man."

"Fuck. You.Dad."

The words barely leave my mouth before his fist connects with my jaw. Pain explodes across my face, the taste of blood flooding my mouth—metallic and bitter, a familiar flavor I've grown to hate.

"Scott! Stop! Please, I'm begging you!" Mom's cries echo in the background, but they're drowned out by the thundering in my skull.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Each impact of his fist sends shockwaves through my head.

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