One

For the first time in not nearly enough years, Braeden could see the house in which he grew up. Through the ice layered pine boughs as they reflected the light of an almost full moon, he spied its crumbling chimney and rusted weathervane. He was still some distance away but he could hear that weathervane creaking horribly in his head. The car rumbled beneath him and his palms began to feel slick against the faux blue leather wheel. That house with its chimney and weathervane, with its sparse lawn imprisoned by a stark chain-link fence were all of them in the settings of his darkest nightmares. Scenes full of black silhouettes haloed against the yellow glow of dying bulbs, running toward him with the speed that for some reason only the violent can attain. The subject of those nightmares was probably in the house right then. Braeden could picture him crushing Bud Heavies and swearing at the Sox in his stained white tank and dirt caked blue jeans. The man in his memory turned his head with beer still dribbling of his gluttonous lips and landed wicked eyes upon Braeden’s. His vision swam and his nose filled with the stench of blood, his mouth the taste of vomit. He pulled over with a squeal and a splash, spraying mud and sleet in equal measure.

Jesus what am I thinking? Braeden asked himself. The man who had tormented him for the entirety of his remembered childhood was so close. He was way too close. Braeden knew they were only memories. Constructs he tortured himself with, but powerful ones. They threatened to turn the wheel and mash the pedal to the floor, forcing him back the way he came. He had to be tough though. He had to stay. He had to fight that feeling. Heather asked him too. She didn’t prod or demand, but with her sweet words and breath taking smile she had brought him here to this crossroads in his life, and he would not let her down.

Braeden glared at his old house like a hostage at the gun. Its green paint, chipped and flaking in long streaks, revealed a much older shade of red beneath. The effect was that on nights like tonight it appeared as though the house was ravaged by some huge beast. Braeden knew the beast was indeed there, but not nearly so large.

Empowered by that last thought and Heather’s belief in him, Braeden put the car in drive and accelerated into the sludge once more. He swung the 96 white Chevy shitbox into the gravel driveway and killed the engine, felt the vibrations die around him. With almost painful deliberation he grabbed the latch and pushed open the door. Frigid December air slapped the tear stains on his face painfully. It was a good reminder. Gordon David would never let him get away with tear stains on his face. Braeden licked the bottom of his red flannel shirt and rubbed himself clean as he traversed semi-melted ice towards the front door.

Braeden checked the spare he threw on a few miles back. It was a cheap stalling tactic and he knew it but the fear he felt was real. After he made sure all was well he checked it again before moving on. Better to be safe than sorry, he lied to himself.

Everything was quiet but the howl of the wind. The neighborhood was secure in their locked and alarmed split levels, safe from the unknowable specters of the night and comforted by the suburban quiet. That was until Braeden clonked up the concrete steps leading to his father’s front door, a barbarian ravaging the civilized silence. Sorry, he thought. He wasn’t here to disturb anyone, though he feared it was a forgone conclusion.

He made a fist and hefted it up at the dented white aluminum door in preparation of knocking. It hovered there. Last chance. Braeden thought to himself. He knew it was the point of no return. From here on out he had to be committed. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and knocked, twice and hard. There was no response. Again he knocked. Again he was met with not but cold and silence as his breath fogged before him.

Braeden turned away, not sure what to make of the knot of emotions churning in his gut when he heard the scraping of metal against metal and a slow ominous creak. The tired exhale announced him but the squishing sound of someone spitting cemented it. He didn’t need to look down at the nasty little puddle of brown saliva or smell the mint and vomit stench to know it was wintergreen Skoal.

“The fuck are you?” Gordon David asked sounding like a punch-drunk boxer, his thick Boston accent slurred by years of hitting the bottle, hard.

Braeden turned, faced his life-long tormenter. This was the man who destroyed his childhood. This was the man whose mercy and empathy were amputated along with his parenting skills. The man who probably would have killed him four years ago had he not gotten away. Gordon was a little more stooped, a little grayer than the last time Braeden saw the man, but those eyes never changed. Eyes that had seen souls destroyed and had destroyed more than a few themselves. They never blinked. Not that Braeden could recall anyway. Those eyes, the color of tornadoes and hurricanes with as much regard for human life, had never held silly things like remorse inside them. Braeden forced himself to smile. It was incredibly difficult.

“Gordon.” He managed to get out, and was proud it sounded as strong as it did.

“No shit. Brady is that you boy? What you outta money? Need something from dear old Dad?” The old sociopath’s laughter cut straight through Brady like a razor wind. No, not Brady, never again Brady. Not even in his own head.

“Just had some things I thought I should tell you. Mind if I come inside?”

“I suppose, best make it quick though, I ain’t got all night ya see.” which suited Braeden just fine. He didn’t want to be there any longer than he had to be.

As he followed his father inside it was like walking back into the prison you were an incarcerated in. All Braeden could think were things like, He broke my arm over there, and I remember when I pissed him off so bad he threw me through that window there. It was a lurid trip down memory lane.

The pair of them made their way down yellow-green halls the color of bile, and into the living room. The floor was absolutely littered with liquor bottles and aluminum cans. All of them empty. Braeden saw something with too many legs to count click across the floor into one of them and didn’t even attempt to suppress a shudder. His father dropped heavily down onto one of the beat up sofas and grabbed a half empty bottle of vodka next to him. He tipped it back and took a deep swig before looking back up at Braeden, those death cold eyes swimming, gave a shit-eating grin and said, “So what can I do ya for boy?”

The man was so casual Braeden almost ran out right then. It always started like this, the calm before the storm. Gordon would try to lull him with disarming smiles and understanding nods. Then, with all of the sudden ferocity and venom of a pissed-off cobra, Braeden’s father would lash out, violently. He was walking very thin ice here. His right hand began to shake with fear, the one that Gordon had broken when Braeden wet the bed for the second time that month. With all of the grace of a bag full of drowning cats, Braeden swept that hand behind his back and clamped down on it with the other. His breath became shallow as his throat constricted and sweat began to bead on his brow. Oh God this was a mistake. He never should have come down here. He was losing it. He had to do something before it was too late.

Braeden inhaled then. He sucked in oxygen as long and as deeply as he could. When finally he felt like his lungs would burst from the pressure, he released the air from his chest in one heavy exhale. When next he inhaled a sweet fire bloomed in his chest with every breath. It was a trick Heather taught him, she being an asthmatic herself. Using it, he never had another attack. Something to do with mind over matter she used to say. It also made him think of her, and that was always a good thing in his book. The only problem now was that Gordon was staring at him like a shark smelling blood in the water. His father licked his lips. The tension built. Braeden knew he had to do something and fast. Gordon cracked behemoth knuckles, his satanic smile growing only wider and Braeden realized he was out of time and options. He decided there was only one way out of this, so he charged ahead with his intended speech.

“I came down here to let you know that tomorrow night I am going to propose to Heather.” At the mere mention of her name, Braeden felt fresh adrenaline rush into his veins and the beginnings of a smile to spread on his face. “You haven’t met her yet but believe me she is great. The thing is, she’s been asking me for a long time to come down here and patch things up between us, seeing as were both adults now. I just figured what better time than now I guess. Anyway if you want I would like you to come. To the wedding I mean.” Braeden finished in a rush and though he knew he sounded weaker than he intended, maybe it was going to be okay. He was glad he had gotten it out at all.

Gordon just sat there staring, his eyes slightly glazed as though he was either confused by what he saw or drunk off his ass already. It was anybody’s guess. Perhaps he felt like he was being left out. Braeden had a difficult time caring if that were the case. Beating your kid within an inch of his life wasn’t a great way to adhere yourself to his life going forward. In fact that was exactly what Braeden had done, left the bastard out. Gordon hadn’t seen Braeden in four years and was now being told his only son was getting engaged to a girl he never met. He could see why the man would be upset but those lesser emotions would look wrong on him, like putting a ballet dress on a Bengal tiger. Gordon just wasn’t capable of normal human feelings. Braeden didn’t like the momentary pause in the conversation and wasn’t sure what his next move should be. When his father squinted his eyes, cocked his head to the side like a bemused puppy and smirked. Braeden did his best not to bolt for the nearest door. He knew what that meant. This was going to be bad.

Long ago Braeden had learned to interpret that particular tick to pain and lots of it. The smirk was actually an arrogant and sarcastic half smile that said, Go ahead, do your best to get out of this one because no matter what, I’m going to eviscerate you and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Wow, that’s a lot to take in Brady. Let me just take a second to uh, digest.” Gordon began almost introspectively. Braeden took an involuntary step back. His mouth went dry. “So four years ago you run out on me and shack up with some whore. Am I on the right track? Not to mention the fact that your mother died five years, six months, and thirteen days before that mind you. Now you come crawling back here because your bitch got you by the balls and tells you to fix things with daddy, after four years and nothing so much as a fucking PHONE CALL!” His father was up off the couch now, red faced and screaming. Braeden could see the veins in his neck and forehead protruding against scarlet, sweaty flesh. He saw spittle fly as Gordon roared and watched his father’s face become something crumpled and terrible, but it was the eyes that really got to him. There was simply nothing there, nothing of the rage he was showing, just emptiness. It chilled Braeden to his core. The transformation from curious to furious was so sudden that Braeden was ten again and terrified.

“Well GUESS WHAT!” The former All-State pitcher for the Chelmsford Lions cocked his arm back and through a perfect fast bottle at Braeden’s head. The only thing that saved him was the fact that he had expected it. He ducked at the last instant and was rewarded with a piercing smash and a sticky shower of glass shards and clear liquor. Before he could right himself again, Gordon was standing over him, holding the broken vodka bottle in his hand like a dagger, dripping sweat and spit and violence.

For what seemed like an eternity Gordon just stood like that. He loomed over Braeden physically and emotionally and it was easy to tell that he enjoyed the moment. Finally he said. “If I ever see you again Brady, I promise on your mother’s grave I’ll kill you.” It was whispered. Gordon had never whispered anything in his life. He was always the loudest person in any room. To hear him drop volume that far was one of the more terrifying experiences of Brady’s young life. In short, he believed his father’s every word. He had to get out of there.

Gordon turned away from his son and buried the remaining end of the vodka bottle in the heavy kitchen table with a bang. Brady jumped. Only after he heard his father stalk off down the too dark hallway did he manage to gather together the pieces of his no longer-existent pride and run out of the door.