That’s what he called it:
making a point
.
“If you’d do what I tell you,” he always said, sometimes during, sometimes after, “I wouldn’t have to make a point this way. You just don’t listen.”
And then the line he always saved for Gabe. Just for Gabe. “You’re so stupid. Why are you so stupid?”
Everything inside Gabe screamed at him to step inside the kitchen, to reach out and
do
something. To try and stop his father. But it wouldn’t make any difference. Nothing they did ever made a difference.
Just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Gabe’s father let go of his wife, and she sagged against the counter, hands firmly planted there. Gabe knew the effort it took her to keep standing, to keep from falling in a heap at his father’s feet. But such weakness would only bring more punishment.
Gabe held his breath as his father stood there, rending the air with verbal violence so heated and vile that it was almost as much an assault as the beatings. Almost. Gabe
shifted his gaze to Susan, caught her glance, urged her to keep silent.
Don’t move … don’t make a sound …
The whimper that escaped her was so faint, so feeble, that Gabe let himself hope his father wouldn’t hear.
Please … please, God …
Gabe should have known better than to pray. When had that ever done any good? Especially when his father seemed to have the hearing of a jackal. The man spun, launching himself across the room to grab Susan’s crossed arms and jerk her to her feet.
Don’t fight … don’t resist …
It was all Gabe could offer as he stood there, feeling the blows his sister took as though they landed on him instead. His hand gripped the wood of the doorway so hard that the ache traveled through his fingers, along his arms and shoulders, and pushed deep into the base of his skull.
He pushed away, walking back to the living room, sinking onto the floor. Bill watched him in silence, but Gabe saw the whiteness around his brother’s jaw, knew the ache of muscle and bone from teeth clenched against the fury screaming for release.
But even Bill wouldn’t be able to stop it. He’d tried. Once or twice. And things had been worse for all of them. They’d seen, over and over, that the only recourse was to stay out of the way. Be silent. Be invisible.
Be nothing.
Their father was bigger, stronger, and his rage was a living thing—a huge, ravenous monstrosity that fed on whatever scraps of fear or resistance they gave it. Fed and fed, until nothing was left.
Nothing. The only place of safety.
Gabe wasn’t sure when Bill moved, but he heard his brother and father meet at the kitchen doorway. He closed his eyes as words flew … words meant to humiliate, to shatter and destroy. Words of pure, unadulterated hatred.
Then the unbelievable sound. One Gabe had never heard before, never thought to hear. Bill wasn’t just trying to stop their dad—he was fighting back.
Astonishment. Dread. Confusion. Wild hope. These emotions chased countless others through Gabe’s veins, sending cold and then heat surging into his face. The sounds grew as the battle escalated. Gabe couldn’t believe Bill had lasted this long. Could it be …?
Was he winning?
A raw victory cry lodged in Gabe’s throat as he turned to look—and saw his father snatch a beer bottle from the dining room table and slam it into the side of Bill’s head.
Despair slid from Gabe on a soft moan as Bill’s eyes widened, then rolled back in his head. Bill went limp and sank to the floor.
He stared at his brother’s senseless form. He was so still … was he even breathing? Was he dead?
Gabe sensed his father standing beside him before he saw him. He started and, before he could stop himself, looked up. Blank terror muddled his mind when he met his father’s gaze, stared into those bloodshot, burning eyes.
The man stood there, dragging air in through clenched teeth, his hot, liquor-saturated breath blowing over Gabe, turning his stomach with the stench. He tensed, readied for the onslaught, but his father’s eyes flickered … and then slid past him.
Gabe’s stomach lurched, then plummeted. It was as if his father didn’t even see him. Couldn’t care less that he was there.
He should have been glad. Knew he should be filled with joy, gratitude, relief,
something
positive …
Anything other than what slammed into him with a pain so stark and raw that it nearly doubled him over.
Rejection.
It was crazy, but there it was. And it sliced through him,
sickening him, leaving his soul shredded, hanging in tatters of sorrow and hollow rage as the bleak truth ravaged his heart:
I’m not even worth beating.
The words echoed through him, mocking him, tearing at the core of him, tormenting him until he could bear it no longer. He pushed up from the floor, straightening his legs and spine as he stood in front of his father, forcing the man’s gaze to lock with his own.
I’m here. I’m here! Don’t you look through me like I’m not!
But his father barely seemed to notice. He just shoved him aside, like some kind of pest, like a gnat that didn’t even deserve a thought or a glance—
“Watch out, you crazy kid!”
The angry words—and an accompanying honk of a car horn—wrenched Gabe from his thoughts, and he jumped back to the curb just in time to avoid the vehicle as it sped by He shook his head. Leave it to him to step out in front of what was probably the only car on the road this time of night.
Stupid is as stupid does.
The familiar taunt rang in his mind, but tonight the weight of it seemed unbearable. He looked at the snow-covered ground, wishing he could just lie down …let the cold seep in and coax him into a forever sleep.
A haze of white around his head caught his attention, and he realized his breath was coming in quick gasps, each exhalation making crystalline clouds in the icy air—tiny puffs that appeared and then drifted, dissipated, disappeared. He stared at the misty evidence of his existence and started when a harsh laugh escaped him, echoing around him.
He wasn’t invisible. Not really. His father just treated him that way. Always had. But tonight … tonight had been the worst ever.
Gabe glanced at the houses near him. It wasn’t much farther. He’d be at his haven soon.
He started walking again, trudging, trying to focus on his
steps, on the snow, on anything but the images haunting his mind. But they would not be denied, so Gabe gave in and let them return.
Thinking back on it now, he wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. The clearest image he had was of something white-hot piercing his mind, his very soul, incinerating everything within him, filling him like life-giving air pouring into lungs that had lain deflated and useless. His vision had narrowed until all he saw was his father’s back as he moved toward the baby. Reached down. Grabbed her by the wrist. Jerked her to her feet, his fist raised …
Gabe had been on him then, in a blaze of blinding rage, hitting, kicking, biting, slapping—using every weapon available against the beast that inhabited his father’s form.
He wished he could say he’d only done it for Lisa and Mikey. To stand between them and the monster. But concern for the others hadn’t been the only thing propelling him into action. Something quite different had pushed him. Something more powerful than he’d ever imagined.
Rage. It filled him. No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t so much that it filled him as it took him over. Possessed him.
Became
him … or he’d become it.
Yes. That was it. He’d become rage. A living, breathing rage. It had been the most terrifying—and exhilarating—sensation he’d ever known. And it had done what he’d never been able to do on his own.
It made his father see him. Really see him.
Gabe replayed the moment in his mind, reliving the spark of astonishment in his father’s eyes as he spun to take Gabe’s assault. His father had turned from Lisa to look at him—and for one suspended moment they’d stood there, face-to-face, gazes locked.
Gabe looked from Lisa to his father. “No.”
One word. It was all Gabe said, but it resonated with this new power flowing in his veins. The word was a declaration,
a pronouncement to let his father know it was over. Gabe was free.
His father hesitated, took a step back, then, as though catching himself, he sneered. “So the boy wants to be a man?”
Gabe didn’t even acknowledge the slurred mockery. He simply stood there, hands fisted at his sides, as the power surged through him with such force he trembled. But not out of fear. He hadn’t been afraid at all. Not even when his father lunged at him. Not even when the man’s greater strength and weight overpowered him, or when the blows became so many that Gabe welcomed the darkness.
None of that mattered. Gabe had won.
It didn’t even matter that his father had beaten him physically. That would never matter again. Gabe had found freedom in this new place where all that mattered was the rage within. Let his father think he’d defeated him. It only made Gabe that much stronger. That much more determined.
His father would never hurt him again. Not where it mattered most. Gabe had found an ally, something to take his heart and protect it. And one day … one day he’d be big enough and strong enough that he and his friend would win the physical battle as well.
He could hardly wait. Hardly wait for the sight of his father at his feet, crumpled and bleeding …
The ache in Gabe’s hands made him aware that they were clenched into fists, and he forced his fingers open, flexing them, willing blood back into them. He turned a corner and halted.
There it was.
Excitement skittered through him as he made his way toward the simple white house before him. It was a small house compared to the others on the block, but Gabe didn’t care. What mattered was what was inside.
Just like with you … just like the power… it’s what’s inside that makes the difference.
Warm light glowed from the curtained windows of the home, and gladness sang inside Gabe. A quick glance told him the street was deserted, and he made his way to the bushes in front of a large plateglass window. He’d discovered some time ago that the bushes were the perfect location—standing behind them he was hidden from anyone walking by, but he had a perfect view inside.
He slid into place, hugging himself to dispel the chill that was working its way along his arms and shoulders, and peered inside. They were there. The family. He didn’t know their names. The children were too young to be in his class at school. But he knew them all the same. Knew well the tenderness as they looked at each other, the warmth of their smiles, the frequency of their laughter. He couldn’t hear the actual words they spoke, but he didn’t need to. It wasn’t the words that brought him such joy.
It was the people themselves. And the love.
There was always such love.
He let his hungry gaze roam the living room. Though no one was there, he knew without a doubt what he was seeing.
This
was Christmas. A tree laden with decorations—many of which looked homemade—stood proud and tall in the corner of the room. Twinkling lights peeked out from among the branches, and Gabe was captivated. It was as if they were winking at him, welcoming him.
He leaned forward, studying the presents gathered beneath the tree. There weren’t a lot of them, but each one was wrapped with colorful paper and topped with a bright bow and colorful, curled ribbons. Gabe could picture the hands that had held these packages, had wrapped them with such care, creating small bits of beauty just to make others happy, to tell them you loved them …
Christmas decorations gave the normally warm room an added glow, a feeling of celebration and fun. Stars, Santas, reindeer, snowmen—they adorned walls and tables and
danced from the ceiling. Christmas stockings, brimming with promise, hung from the fireplace mantel. Just above them sat a carved nativity scene, complete with a tiny wooden stable and figurines of angels, shepherds, animals. And the baby Jesus.
The soft strains of Christmas music whispered through the glass, and Gabe drank in the sound.
“O holy night …”
Holy night. Gabe had never understood what that meant, but he was pretty sure that was what they were having here. In this little house. A holy night.
Together.
Gabe started at the sound of voices and ducked back for a moment, then, drawing a deep breath, he inched his way forward to see what was happening. The mom and dad came into the room, laughing, their two boys trailing behind them. The kids were in their pajamas, and Gabe wiggled his cold toes at the sight of the warm, snuggly slippers on their small feet.
The parents sat on the couch as the boys danced over to the tree. Each one pulled a package from the pile, then carried it to the couch. Gabe felt an odd choking in his throat when the boys clambered with careless abandon onto the couch, nestling between their parents, their gifts clutched against their chests.
He watched as the mom and dad leaned in, stroking first one child’s hair, and then the other’s, as the boys tore open their gifts. But the pleasure the kids took in their new toys was nothing compared to what shone on the adults’ faces when they watched their sons—and when they looked at each other.
Hands clasped on the back of the couch, the man and woman leaned over their children to exchange a kiss—then broke off with laughter when the boys jumped up and crawled into their laps, throwing their little arms around the mother and father.
Gabe leaned his head against the side of the house, swallowing hard against a lump that had suddenly lodged somewhere between his throat and his heart. An odd ache was growing within him, and he pressed his lips together, caught off guard by the sudden awareness that his cheeks were wet.
He was crying. He never cried.
He pushed his fists against his eyes, rubbing at the tears that showed him just how wrong he was. Drawing in a deep gulp of subzero air, he let it burn his lungs, wanting the physical pain. Welcoming it. Anything to distract him.
It didn’t help. He wanted to close his eyes, to hide in darkness from this bitter, cold despair that seemed to live in the cave of his soul. He’d always known it was there, been vaguely aware of it, but it had never felt like this before. It was tearing at him, clawing its way from deep inside, making him tremble with such longing that he could only stare at the night in mute wretchedness.