Young Writers Society

A/N: Just a test of a character back story to get in his head. This is Charlie McQuire, from NYC. He just received a four-day suspension. His stepfather just got home. Warning, violence and minor cursing.

“I wish she had just aborted you!”

Slap.

“No one loves you, you know that, you worthless piece of--”

Slap.

“Your grandma thought that some god did. I don’t see her or any god around here, do you?!”

My stepfather staggered to the side, blasting my aching face with beer breath. He regained his balance and drew back his arm to hit me again, eyes glittering with drunk rage. My right eye was already swelling, blood trickling from my nose from when he had stormed into my room and thrown his beer bottle at my face. It had bounced off of my cheekbone. I hoped my nose wasn’t broken.

As soon as he had thrown my bedroom door open and lurched in like the alcoholic he was, I knew I was in trouble. Apparently the school had called him to inform him that I had been sent home again. Where he had gotten the booze to throw him into such a state so quickly, I had no idea. Maybe he had excused himself from work to go to a bar or something, that jerk.

My head snapped to the side as his hand collided with my face for the third time. I knew from enough run-ins with Jerry that it was no good to try to dodge the attacks. Besides, there was no way out of my room anyway. He had cornered me against the wall and had closed the door. And Mom wouldn’t be home for another hour, at least.

I groaned and worked my jaw, carefully probing at my teeth. He had chipped a tooth once. Used a belt after I had accidentally set the neighbor’s cat on fire. The doctor had been suspicious of the welt on my cheek, but had let it slide. I was glad he had. The retaliation would have been worse if he had questioned me.

“What do you want me to say, old man?” I spat out, the familiar copper taste of blood filling my mouth. Crap. “I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t know they’d suspend me for this long.”

Jerry bared his teeth and grabbed the front of my school blazer, bunching it under my throat, pushing me hard against the wall. His dark eyes were unfocused and wild, his breathing heavy.

“Shoulda thought of that before you frickin’ sprayed your teacher with shaving cream. I’m gonna kill you, freak. Shoulda done it a longtimeagotoo...” His words slurred together, and he wrinkled his forehead in anger, blinking furiously.

This wasn’t the first time he had given me a death threat. But this time, he was so out of it, I was actually worried. He wasn’t thinking right. Not that he ever did, but this was scary even for Jerry.

“Woah, Jerry. Hold on,” I gasped through the pain. Raising my hands awkwardly in surrender, I tried to calm him down. Not my strong point. I was only good at riling people up.

“You really, really shouldn't kill someone. Not me. Right? That’s murder.” I spoke slowly, calmly. Murder wasn’t that odd of a topic in our household. Jerry had already gone to prison twice for fights in bars. Gave one guy a really bad concussion. I think he had needed therapy to learn how to brush his teeth again or something.

“You’ll be arrested. It wouldn’t be a short time like the others either. Mom’d be devastated.”

I couldn’t believe I was talking about my death like that. With such a factual tone. But he was so far gone. He had to see sense, and fast. My throat was closing shut as his fists stayed tangled in my shirt.

He snarled and jabbed harder into my neck.

“Maybe that's a risk I’m willing...to take, you little--”

“Jerry--”

“Stop talking, you sick bastard!”

He got a better grip around my collar and started to pull upwards. My breathing turned ragged, my breathing passages closing together the harder he pulled. Jerry was an ex-wrestler. He could hold me against the wall all day if he wanted. I was helpless.

“Your voice is the most obnoxious thing I’ve ever heard. Shut up, Charles, damn you! Just shut up for once!”

His scream was ragged with drink and anger from years of living with someone like me. His glittering eyes glared into mine, his dark skin looking black as pitch in the dim light. He looked like a demon.

I was going to die.

I gagged, arms thrashing. I pulled weakly on his iron grip.

“Stop...Jerry...”

He lifted me slightly to throw me back against the wall. My head bounced off with a sickening crack.

“Gonna kill you, kid. I’ve had enough of your games. You were never good to anyone! You were just a defective kid that got dumped on me!”

Defective. That was me, alright. Born with a congenital heart defect, ADHD, and a morbid talent for making people want to kill me. Yay, Charlie.

Jerry cracked my head against the wall again, sweat running into his crazed eyes.

“No one ever wanted you in the first place! Useless! Pathetic!”

That was it. My lungs were heaving, my bloodied nostrils flaring in desperation. I couldn't breathe. Jerry wasn’t going to come to his senses in time. The neighbors never called 911. We lived in Hell’s Kitchen, for crying out loud. This stuff happened far too often.

I’d have to save myself this time.

I gathered my strength and snapped my knee up into Jerry’s groin. He howled, doubled over, and I took my opportunity. I grabbed my phone off of my bedside table, dodged his unsteady grab for me, and dashed out of the bedroom. I rammed my hip into the kitchen table as I snagged my jacket and tugged on my boots at lightening speed. It was going to be freezing outside.

Jerry’s bellows grew alarmingly close as I grabbed my apartment key and put my hand on the doorknob.

“I hope your heart explodes, Charlie! I hope you die out there in the street!”

I turned to see my stepfather, still hunched over in my bedroom doorway. Through my swelling eyelids I could see his maniacal grin, his back starting to straighten through his pain. He took a step closer, fighting through the hurt to get at me. He was going to kill me. I had to get away.

The only problem was inside me. My heart was already pounding in my chest from the exertion in my own home. My weak, pathetic heart that failed its one purpose at life. To give me the oxygen needed to function properly. I had been so lucky to be born with a stupid, deformed life source, a stupid hyperactive disorder and a stupid abusive home. If I pushed myself too hard, my little chest organ could burst.

If I tried to run, I might die. The doctors told me so ever since my first open-heart surgery.

If I didn’t run, I would be murdered. They’d find me splattered around my own home. I could already see the headlines. I’d just be a homicide statistic.

I twisted the knob, time slowing to a crawl as I debated the choice that might change my life. Then Jerry’s heavy breathing ran like ice fingers down the back of my neck, and I knew I had no choice.

I flung open the apartment door, Jerry's drunken threats spewing out the doorway behind me.

And I ran.