The Redemption of Callie & Kayden

invisible.
    “Do you want to tell me what the hell happened?” His voice slammed against my back.
    I knew I should turn around and talk to him, but I panicked and only sped up. This was always a mistake. His footsteps rushed after me and by the time I reached the top of the stairway, he had taken ahold of my collar.
    He jerked me back as he ran down the stairs and I struggled to keep my feet on the ground as the bat and glove slipped from my hand. “Do you realize how lucky you are?” He swung me around in front of him and I tripped over my shoes and slammed into the wall.
    “Lucky?” I asked, getting my footing. “How?”
    I usually didn’t talk back to him, but my head was in a weird place. Someone at school had asked me what the bruise on my arm was from and I almost told them the truth. That my father had shoved me into the side of one of the shelves in the living room because I’d spilled soda on the floor. But I’d chickened out and through the silence a realization had occurred to me. My life was always going to be this way.
    “What did you say?” My father stormed toward me, the vein in his neck bulging and his knuckles were white as he balled his fists.
    “I said I’m sick of this,” I muttered, with my chin tipped down. “I didn’t do anything but lose a game.”
    The silence that followed my small voice’s utterance was fucking terrifying and when I finally dared to raise my head I was shocked to find that his fingers had slackened and the vein had resided.
    There was a brief instant where he almost looked human and I thought I’d finally gotten to him. But then his eyes reddened and he stepped forward. “Do you know what my father would have done if I’d lost the game and then talked back to him like you just did?” He stopped and waited for me to answer.
    “No, sir,” I said. “I don’t.”
    He stepped forward and towered over me. “He’d have yelled at me right in front of all those people and told me the truth because the truth is what we need to become better.”
    Sometimes when he got angry, he’d mention his father and what he did to him, like he needed to explain his violence. I wondered if that’s how I’d grow up, reliving his beliefs with my own kids. The idea terrified me, that I could become that. I didn’t want to become that and make anyone suffer.
    I held my breath, waiting for him to hit me, but his arm stayed at his side.
    “I don’t get you,” he said. “You’re such a fuckup. No matter how many times I try to teach you how to behave, you always mess up. And then you lose that game in front of everyone and make me look like a loser father who has a fucking pussy for a son. You don’t deserve to be out there.” The muscles in his arms protruded and the vein in his forehead pulsed. I wrapped my arms around myself, waiting for the impact. “You don’t deserve anything. You’re a piece of shit. And a fucking loser. You don’t even deserve to be standing here.”
    He kept going on and on, ripping into me, but not touching me. Each word was a cut—a scar. On and on. Cut. Slash. Scar. Scar. Scar. I felt small and invisible just like I’d been wishing for earlier. When he was done, he turned away and left me alone in the foyer.
    I remember thinking how much worse it felt that he hadn’t hit me. In fact, I remember wishing he’d said nothing and had beaten the shit out me. Then I could have curled up in a ball and slept the pain off. Instead, the pain was inside my head, my blood, my heart. I wanted it out so fucking bad and I did the only thing I could think of.
    I ran up the stairs to the bathroom and found the first razor I came across. It was a replacement blade for one of my mother’s razors. The edge was pretty dull and it had this strip of some kind of lotion shit at the top.
    It didn’t matter. It was enough. I put the blade up the back of my arm and made a slice. It took several times before it split the skin open, but each graze was gratifying. By the time blood seeped out, I felt better. I moved my arm over the sink and let the pain drip out.
    I blink the memory away and rise to my feet. I need to get the hell out of here. Now. I need to bail on this fucking road trip and go home before I get too attached. I wipe the blood off my arm and rearrange the rubber bands and bracelets to cover the cut up. I hurry out of the bathroom and turn sideways to fit through the people, heading for the door.
    I’ll go back to the house, grab my stuff,