Widow's Undoing (Ruthless Sinners MC #4) - L. Wilder Page 0,2
was on the verge of tears as he mumbled, “I’m sorry, buddy. You gotta know I didn’t mean it. I just lost my temper.”
“Um-hmm.” My head was pounding. My chest felt like a hundred-pound weight was pressing down on me. I just wanted to lay there and pretend I was somewhere else. I wanted to pretend that my father hadn’t almost killed me, but that wasn’t an option. Dad would keep coddling me until he felt like he’d made amends, just like he did with Mom every time he hit her. I despised him. I wished he was dead, but he wasn’t. He was right there, living and breathing, waiting on me to come to. I forced my eyes open, and as I laid there trying to come to my senses, I spotted them. My father’s keys were sitting right there on top of his cooler. I lay there staring at them with disbelief. I had to know if my mind was just playing tricks on me, so I asked, “Those your keys?”
“Yeah...I found them in the cooler. They must’ve fallen inside when I was getting a beer.”
“Oh,” was all I could muster as a reply. I was too dazed, too angry to say anything more. I sat up and took in a deep breath. That’s when I finally noticed Madden. He was white as ghost as he stood there staring back at me. “You okay?”
“Um-hmm. Are you?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Dad stood up as he asked, “You boys wanna go watch the fireworks?”
“I’d rather just go on home.”
“Alright. Whatever you want, bud.”
He grabbed our things, and as soon as he had everything loaded, we all got in his truck. On the way home, I thought about everything that had taken place. Up until that night, my father had never been like that with me. Sure, he’d yelled and made me feel like shit, and even belt whipped me whenever he thought I got out of line, but he’d never actually punched me or strangled me like he had today. He’d always saved all that kind of brutality for my mother.
That all changed after the cookout. I was no longer just a bystander. I had gotten older, bigger in my father’s eyes—big enough to face the wrath of his quick temper. Leaving a wet towel on the floor could result in a busted lip or a mild concussion, being late to dinner could leave me with a black eye or a broken rib or two, and no matter how trivial, backtalking in any way could leave me incapacitated for days. Hell, even looking at the guy the wrong way could cause him to release his madness. I’d hoped he would leave him be, but Madden got his own fair share of my father’s attention. After each attack, the guilt would get to him, and he’d ease up a bit. But it never lasted long. My father wasn’t a happy man, and he took it out on the people he was supposed to love the most.
This was my life. I walked a fine line. If I fucked up, I paid the price. Even when I didn’t fuck up, I paid the price. It was a vicious cycle that was only compounded by the fact that everyone knew what was going on. We lived in a small town. We all knew each other by name. They saw the bruises, the bandages, and broken limbs, but instead of feeling sorry for me or trying to help, they’d simply ignore it, pretending they hadn’t seen anything, or look at us with utter disgust, thinking we’d gotten what we’d deserved. Over time, people just quit looking altogether. It was like they saw right through us, treating us like some kind of reject or scab on their perfect little town. The bruises hurt, the busted lips stung, and the broken bones were almost crippling, but the pain they caused was nothing compared to the pain of feeling so utterly alone—so fucking helpless. I hated that fucking feeling. I hated it almost as much as I hated my ol’ man.
Madden and I had pleaded repeatedly with our mom to pack up and go. She always refused, saying we needed our father—that she simply didn’t have the means to raise us on her own. No matter how hard we tried to convince her, my mother wouldn’t leave. She didn’t leave when he knocked out two of my teeth, broke my femur, and shattered my wrist. She didn’t leave when he