EMMA DAMIAN 16

D A M I A N

It took everything in me not to bang on that door again. My hands were trembling with wrath, and my jaw was clinched tight enough to crack a molar. I wasn't some Tinder date she had one night and then regretted the next morning. No, she and I were unique; we had a history.

I stood on her porch for a while, frozen by frustration and unsure what to do next. I wasn't used to feeling that way, not knowing what to do.

I wanted to tell her how wrong she was, how unjust it was of her to cut me out without giving me a chance to speak. But what had I to say? What would I say to make things right with her? Were they ever correct? Perhaps I was really out of line in thinking she and I might have anything casual.

Through the door, I heard a soft whimper. I was initially perplexed, as if I was hearing things. But then I leaned against the steel door, my ear resting on its chilly surface. Emma was in tears.

In an instant, my feelings flipped. I went from angry to protective, wanting to kick down the door not to yell at her, but to encourage her and be there for her. After all, it was my fault that she was crying.

Then the frustration returned, along with the need to finally act. I turned and departed without more word, without another fist on the door. I was hot and bothered by the time I climbed into the driver's seat of my BMW. Hell, I was enraged.

I sat there, hands on the steering wheel, battling with myself. We'd fucked just because we wanted to. She was just as anxious to screw as I was. And she'd gone, sending me a text instructing me not to talk to her again, without giving me a chance to explain myself.

Obviously, she'd never gotten over, and probably never would, what happened in high school. She didn't know the complete story because I'd never told her, but the question was whether I wanted to explain myself to her at all.

There was a lot more going on than just the events of the previous weekend. She'd dragged out Marian, that ghost from the past, and shoved her in my face.

But there was a reason I did what I did. It wasn't as simple as me being bored with Emma and wanting to meet someone new. And it wasn't as easy as just falling in love with Marian.

The sun had set by the time I ended my internal debate. But I wasn't done ruminating on the subject. I revved up the engine and drove out of the parking lot, desperate to get away from Emma.

As I drove, I thought to myself, This is good. In any case, I don't need someone like her in my life. She's far too intricate, and far too close to my past. What in the world had I been thinking? Had I truly convinced myself that I could screw her again without making a complete mess of things?

I scowled as I drove, frustrated with the entire thing. I remembered telling myself that I only wanted to get her into bed so I could have some fun with someone I knew I was sexually compatible with, someone I was insanely drawn to. But was that actually the case? Or was there another reason for what I'd done? Perhaps motivations related to my own feelings?

I shoved everything out of my mind as fast as I could.

No, it was simply a case of Emma allowing her emotions to get the best of her. She'd ruined what should've been a nice weekend in Boracay, topped off with some retro sex.

Did she really think she'd need to thwap me over the head with that bat, the way she'd held it in her palm when she realized it was me?

Maybe if she knew the entire tale…

No way, I determined. That was my concern. I felt awful that I'd wounded her, that I'd been forced to harm her, but I didn't want to bring all that up for what I believed would be a fling. It was a letdown. She and I had a history, and I had imagined a situation in which we could re-enter each other's lives, hook up once or twice, and be friends. We'd been through a lot together, and folks like her were hard to come by.

But perhaps it was for the best that someone from my distant past was no longer in my life. I knew all there was to know about her, and she knew everything there was to know about me. Consider our fathers. I was aware of her father's predicament, the type of guy he was, and the reason he was in prison. And she was well-versed in the same subject as I was. She was aware of my relationship with my grandfather and how it had influenced my youth.

As I drove, the subject lingered in my thoughts, and I found myself wanting to keep driving, tossing it about in my head some more.

My father.

It was a trigger that brought him to mind. When I thought about him, memories and feelings poured back, ranging from rage to sympathy to sorrow.

My father.

I was ten years old, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, holding a Super Nintendo controller and looking up at the late-model TV in our living room. I recall seeing Mario on the screen and pressing "jump" and landing on one of those mushrooms that gave your guy the ability to unleash fireballs.

Mom was in the kitchen, which was visible from where I sat in our little ranch-style home's living room. A glass of wine was on the table, and she sat with her head in her palm, her brilliant blonde hair draped over her fingers and a distant expression on her face.

I recognized that expression. It was the expression she always gave when Dad hadn't returned home from work and hadn't called to let her know when he'd be back. And when this happened, I knew what it meant. It indicated that Dad had gone directly from his job at the moving firm to the pub with his friends. He'd appear at different moments during the evening, always inebriated.

Dinner was on the stove – one of those pre-made oven lasagnas. It was on the floor next to me, on a plate, with a few bites eaten out. Mom had long since abandoned the notion of us all eating dinner together as a family. But, prepared or not, Mom always cooked me something.

Bright lights pierced the house, flooding it with harsh, white light. The rumble of an engine followed, and I knew it all as a sign that Dad was on his way back. My stomach tightened, and I concentrated all of my attention on the game. Not because I was very interested in it, but because Dad arriving late meant Dad arriving drunk. And the further you were from it, the better.

I noticed Mom's body stiffen in the same way she always did when Dad arrived home. Her wine had barely been touched, and I realized that what little she did drink was not for fun, but to deal with Dad when he was drunk.

The headlights went off, and the engine shut down. Then a door opened and closed, and heavy feet thumped on the walkway heading to the home.

Mom shouted out, clearing her throat and speaking up. "Please take your food and proceed to your room."

"But Mom, I'm almost done with the level," I'd said as an excuse for staying in the living room. I'd seen enough of Dad drunk to know what he did to Mom when he was drunk, and the older I got, the less comfortable I was with merely waiting in my room for it to be over.

"All right, Damian."

I knew it was serious when she used my complete first name. I wasn't hungry, but I got up and picked up my small plate of congealed lasagna. I didn't have time to take a single step before the door swung open.

I turned around, and there he was.

A boy's father had a habit of appearing larger-than-life. But my grandfather, who was six-foot-six and broad-shouldered, was even bigger. He wore tough work boots, faded trousers, and a flannel shirt that was always wrapped up around his large, strong arms.

It seemed unusual to me as a child. He looked like a guy should look – at least, that's what my still-developing brain felt a man should look like. But when it came to his actions, that was a very other story.

He stumbled into the house, tossing the keys into the dish - a green, ceramic bowl shaped like lettuce leaves. I'd never had so much as a sip of booze, but I recognized the acrid stink that trailed him like a cloud as whiskey.

"Dinner," he announced. Even though it was only one phrase, he managed to slur it almost beyond recognition as he kicked off his boots. He stepped past me, sloppily reaching over and rubbing my hair so hard that I thought he was about to yank my scalp off.

“Ow!

" I grumbled, jerking my head away.

Dad gave me a sidelong glance. "Stop being such a wuss," he said as he slid into the dining room chair across from Mom.

She looked at him with a frightened expression; she had to be careful with whatever she said. Mom and I were both aware that when Dad was this drunk, it didn't take much to set him off.

"What happened to dinner?" " He grabbed for Mom's glass of wine, scooped it up, and brought it to his lips. With the simplicity of taking a brief sip of water, Dad downed the full glass.

"Dinner's on the stove," Mom replied flatly.

I remained silent as I observed the two of them converse.

"Then deliver it to me."

This irritated me. I despised it so badly. If I, as a child, knew what was coming, Mom certainly did. But she played along anyhow, as if she could make the moves that would allow her to avoid Dad's fury this time. She never followed through.

Mom reached for the spatula next to the pan of lasagna on the stove. She placed a large slice on a dish in front of Dad, complete with a fork and napkin.

"How about a drink?"

When Dad got like this, Mom used to tell him he'd had too much. But it was never successful. As I grew older and met more people like Dad, I understood that one thing addicts like him shared was an inability to tell the truth — to others or to themselves.

So Mom went to the fridge and got him a beer. He broke it open and sipped it slowly, his enormous, stubble-covered Adam's Apple bobbing up and down. He dropped it and took up his fork. Mom and I stood there silently watching him. Instead of biting into the food, he prodded it.

"What in the world is this?"

“Lasagna.”

"Don't try to be smart with me. Why is it so damn cold? ”

"You weren't meant to get home from work two hours ago."

He gestured with his finger. "You know, after my shift, I go out to Padi's with the boys." You should've had it ready at that point."

"You want Damian to wait until this late to eat dinner just so you can have hot food when you get home drunk?" Mom asked. Like a regular person, put it in the microwave! ”

My stomach dropped. Mom's face sank as she spoke. I could tell she realized she'd made a huge mistake. Dad slowly lowered his fork and drank a drink from his beer.

He didn't say anything.

"I...I'm sorry," Mom murmured, her voice shaking with terror. "It's just that timing everything is difficult, you know?" Damian becomes hungry when he finishes his homework." Her eyes brightened, as if she'd discovered a method to soften his rage. "And he did really well on a math test today, didn't he, Damian?" His teacher claimed he could do algebra in twelfth grade—"

"Shut up," Dad said, instantly quiet her. "Damian, please go to your room."

I didn't want to do it. I knew what was going to happen, and my kid brain told me that if I just stayed put, I could prevent it from happening.

"I'm not going to."

He looked at me with hatred in his eyes. "I told you to go! ”

The older I got, the more I realized Dad was only a man – and that one day, I'd outgrow him. Not on that particular day. His voice filled me with dread, and I dashed into my room and shut the door.

It didn't take long for the screams to begin, or for the crack of Dad's hand on Mom's face to cut through the air, followed by her desperate pleadings for him to stop.

But there was something odd about that night. Something unusual about me. Maybe I'd grown just enough that day to feel like a tough little shit who wasn't going to stand there and watch his old guy slap around his mum.

Instead of being terrified, I was enraged. And, more significantly, I was prepared to take action.

I opened my bedroom door after taking a deep, stealing breath. I took a slow stride into the living room. Mom was sobbing as she leaned over the counter. Dad leaned against the fridge, beer in hand.

"Have you learned your lesson yet?"

Mom didn't say anything, her chest rising and falling as she gently turned her head to face me. A red handprint was on her cheek, and tears streamed down her cheek.

All I needed to see was that.

A rage I'd never felt before surged through me, setting my blood on fire. I yelled and dashed for the kitchen table, snatching the fork my father had used for dinner. Before anyone could figure out what was going on, I pushed the pointy end of the item into Dad's upper leg, breaking through the denim.

There was quiet in the air because no one said anything. My gaze remained fixed on the fork, three little puddles of red forming in the denim surrounding the three fork tongs.

"Get the hell out of here! " I yelled. "No one wants to be near you. Go drink somewhere else! For all I care, go die! ”

Dad locked his gaze on me, and I feared the worst. Will he finally cross the line and hit me the same way he hit Mom? Her fearful expression suggested she was thinking the same thing.

He, however, did not. Instead, he went around me and toward the front door, fork still lodged in his calf. He then took his keys, opened the door, and walked out.

As he walked out, his car door opened and closed, the lights from his truck filled the living room, Mom and I said nothing.

Then he drew away.

That was my last encounter with the old man.

I was at recess the next day, telling my best friend Emma about it all. She and I were unusual companions, both of us struggling with daddy issues and connecting over it. My father was a drunken jerk, and her mother was imprisoned for murder.

We were sitting in our normal position outdoors at school, under the large sycamore tree, while the rest of our class ate lunch or got an early start on recess.

"Did you stab him?

" she inquired. Her eyes were wide with surprise and delight.

"I did."

"Didn't you feel scared? ”

"I was. But I wasn't going to let him touch Mom any longer."

"How did you feel after you done it?" What exactly did he say? ”

"Nothing," I replied. "He just...walked away."

"Did he pull out the fork?" ”

“Nope. That was all he brought with him. Aside from his car keys. What if he never returns? ”

"You'll be alright," she assured her without a hint of reservation. "You'll be glad you did. "I was worried when my father was arrested, but things are better now."

"I hope he doesn't return. I...I despise him."

She looked at me with gentle eyes, that kind expression I'd grown accustomed to from her. Then she did something unusual for her. Emma clasped my hand in hers and squeezed it. The sensation of her skin on mine sent a rush of...something through me that I couldn't quite put my finger on. I'd never cared much about girls before, but something awoke in me at that moment.

"If you're bold enough to stab someone with a fork, you're brave enough to do anything," she said as we both chuckled. "I have faith in you, Damian."

Then I was back in my car, travelling down the highway in complete darkness.

I felt like I'd ruined everything with the one woman who got me.

Worse, I feared there was no turning back.