Fourteen Years Ago…

Snowflakes swirl outside in a violent uprising. Wind rattles and shakes the house. The wind chimes on the front porch sound in a frightening harmony. It’s a bad one out there. The snow has already accumulated to seven inches, going on eight. A typical New England winter, just another nor’easter for the books. Bill’s mother always said snowstorms are like sex: you don’t know how long they’re going to last or how many inches they’ll be. It wasn’t until recently, at fifteen, that Bill understood the joke.

She’s a fuckin’ whore, Billie,” Frank shouts while pacing the living room, a can of beer clenched in one hand.

Bill narrows his eyes but keeps his mouth shut. When it came to Frank arguing, or even speaking for that matter, is pointless. Instead, Bill stares straight ahead at the muted television. His stepfather crosses in front of the screen periodically as he completes his anxious laps around the couch. Hopefully the storm won’t knock the power out. The last thing he needs is to be trapped with Frank with no television, no electricity and no running water because the well pump shuts off.

“Did you hear me? Frank asks, his pacing coming to a sudden halt. His eyes land on the blue blast emitting from the television. “And what did I tell you about the T.V.? It’ll rot your brain and you don’t have much of one to begin with.” He hits the power button. The muted T.V. falls dark.

Frank won’t let him have anything. He took his cellphone, threw his homework around the room and nearly smashed the television when Bill asked to watch a show. Living in the same house as Frank is like cohabitating with a lion, never knowing when they could snap and go for your throat. But worst of all, Frank had sucked the life from his mother. Now she was just a shell of herself. The bags under her eyes had grown darker and she stood up for herself less and less. It hurt Bill’s heart to see her that way.

“She’s up to no good. I just know it,” Frank stammers.

Bill suppresses a groan. “No, she’s not. She’s just snowed in at the bar. She called an hour ago. You heard me talking to her. Ed said he’d take her home in the truck when it lets up a bit.” Bill is worried too. But he trusts Ed to get her home. Plus, she had ended their conversation with rose petals, so he knew she’d be all right.

Frank scoffs. “Yeah, I’m sure she loves being snowed in with Ed, that fucking clown. I swear that woman will be the death of me. First, she ropes me into this marriage. Then, she leaves me with her snot nose kid, so she can go out and do God knows what with any Tom, Dick Harry… or Ed.”

Bill rolls his eyes. His mother is at the bar working another ten-hour shift contrary to what his stepfather imagines she is doing. Bill is positive his mother had never been unfaithful to Frank in the ten years they’d been married. Not that Bill would care. If anything, he would encourage it. Maybe an affair would bring her to her senses and she’d finally leave the balding beer belly loser. Drinking seems to make Frank paranoid. If his mother isn’t home, he can only obsess over the fact that he isn’t controlling her.

Frank crushes the beer can he’d been holding and chucks it at the wall. The remnants of brown liquid tarnish the flowered wallpaper Bill had helped his mother put up the previous winter. A snap followed by a hiss of carbonation indicates Frank has already opened another can. “I’m telling you, boy… she’s a whore.” he says in between angry sips.

The words fill Bill with rage. He is sick of hearing those same damn words every time Frank feels his ego deflate. “Just… just… shut up,” Bill says.

Frank is behind the couch, but Bill feels the swoosh of air as he whips around. “What did you just say to me, boy?”

Bill’s heart pounds against his ribs. He jumps to his feet, turning to face his stepfather. “I said, shut up!” This time he yells it. Screams it at the top of his lungs.

Frank’s skirts the couch and stands directly in front of Bill. “You don’t talk to me like that,” he says while boring his beer glazed eyes into Billie’s.

Bill had a growth spurt this past summer. Next year he’d surely surpass his stepfather in height. He felt stronger too. He stands his ground.

“Did you hear me you little shit?” Frank asks, shoving Bill’s chest.

Bill stumbles back but manages to regain his balance. A rush of heat spreads to his face so fast, he can almost feel it turning red. His fists clench by his sides. “Don’t talk about my mother like that.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t want you calling her names anymore.”

Frank chuckles. “Really? Well, what are you gonna do about it?”

Bill says nothing.

“That’s what I thought. You’re a pussy, Billie. You and your brother. It’s not really your fault though. It’s your mother’s. Because she is a ball grabbing, dick sucking, worthless who—”

Bill cocks his arm back and swings. His fist connects with his stepfather’s cheekbone, right below his glaring brown eye. The skin punctures. Blood spurts from the fresh wound.

Shocked. Billie doesn’t have time to register the return swing. He isn’t even sure it happened until he hears the snap. The awful crunch of his nose breaking. His head rocks back as if his neck has been replaced with a slinky.

“You little bastard. I should kill you,” Frank spits, bringing a hand to his face. “Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the night.” Frank had told him to leave but it is his step-father who walks away. He retreats into the kitchen probably to nurse his injury with a cold beer can.

Billie collapses onto the sofa, his head spinning with adrenaline. He should be crying. He should have pissed himself like a little baby. Yet his heart is pounding from raw excitement. Interlacing his fingers behind the base of his skull, he reclines as the blood from his nose pools into his throat. It tastes of heavy metals, iron and cooper, but for Billie, it also it also tastes of victory.

Joy.

Elation.

And for the first time in his life, he is living.