Page 136 of Bad at Love
I’m tense, ready for what he’s going to do next.
He comes at me, but he goes low, tackling me at the waist.
He brings me down to the floor in a heap, the back of my head smacking the tiles.
Stars explode behind my eyes.
A fist fight ensues.
I throw punches up.
He throws them down.
We’re both fighting dirty. Both bloody.
I’m fueled by decades of rage and resentment over my father, I’m fueled by a protectiveness over Noah and my mother.
He’s fueled by nothing but fear and loss of pride. Fear that he will lose everything when this fight is over, because I will make sure he does. Loss of pride because it’s shameful to lose face in front of his stepson and wife.
I think I might just win.
With a loud roar, I flip over and start pounding him in the face. His hands go up to protect himself from the blows. I can’t feel anything anymore. I can only hear my heart in my ears, a constant heavy thud.
I am a monster.
Just like my father.
It’s enough to make me pause and during that pause, Daryl gets me with an uppercut, hard enough to make me fly back onto the floor again.
Then there is screaming.
My mother screaming for us to stop.
Noah yelling that the cops are on the way.
The light comes on and I can barely see through my swollen eyes. The room starts to spin.
Daryl is on the floor beside me, in bloodied pajamapants, ready to come at me and keep fighting. He’s picked up a shard of broken glass, wielding it like a knife, not caring that blood is pouring from his palm.
I need to get up but everything is working so slowly, my limbs like they’re stuck in quicksand.
Noah picks up a vase from the dresser and with a blood curdling scream, comes running across the bedroom, slams the vase down on Daryl’s head, shattering it.
My mother screams again.
Daryl staggers and then collapses, passing out cold.
Holy shit.
“I’m so sorry!” Noah cries out, hands to his mouth. “Oh my god, did I kill him? I killed him! I’m so sorry!”
“You didn’t kill him,” I manage to say, my mouth tasting like blood. I get on my knees and crawl over to Daryl just as my mother takes Noah back by the shoulders, pulling him away.
I feel for a pulse. He has one. It’s strong. His back rises and falls, breathing deeply.
I glance up at Noah and wince. “You didn’t kill him. He’s just knocked out. He’ll wake up with a wicked headache and probably need stitches for that hand, but that’s about it.”
“He’ll wake up in jail,” my mother says flatly and I can’t tell if she’s forlorn by that or not.
