Melissa had then stood to her feet and stalked away, leaving me staring after her. Stupid, fuckin’, prissy little self-righteous bitch! I stomp out of my work boots and bang my way into the house, cursing Melissa the whole way. Where does she get off acting like she even knew what it was like to have somebody swing on you? With her perfect family, her perfect little life, there was no way she’d ever even been close to being in a fight in her entire life. And she has the gall to act like she knows how to defend myself better than I do?

And now, she wants me to come to her stupid house to ‘work on the history project’. Right, I scoff as I grab a fresh set of clothes from my room and head down the hall to shower, like she doesn’t just want to show off how nice her house is, or how perfect her stupid family is, or force me to sit next to her for a few hours so she can drive me crazy with her stupid, incessant talking.

I throw my towel and clothes on the vanity and pull off my shirt. If the girl could just shut up for a minute, she’d probably enjoy the quiet… the quiet. Something clicks in my brain, and I watch my eyebrows raise in the mirror. The quiet! Shit!

Only then does it occur to me that it's dark outside, and I haven't heard Bruce come home. I can’t hear his snoring or the T.V, so he was probably eating dinner...oh FUCK. How long have I left the meatloaf in the oven? I sprint for the kitchen, praying that Bruce has gotten home in time to pull the food from the over. He'll be mad that he has to serve himself, but he'll eat and just scream at me later.

I skid to a halt as I round the corner into the kitchen, the sight of Bruce sitting calmly at the table, ruined meatloaf in front of him making me go numb. He’s staring down at the glass pan that holds a charred lump surrounded by little black things that had once been potatoes. Panic wraps icy fingers around my lungs as Bruce raises his eyes slowly to pin me in place. From across the kitchen, I can't tell if he's high or not.

I force my lungs to inflate, all too aware that it’s six-thirty; an hour past dinner time. How long has he been home, sitting there? How long was I in the yard? I'm still a little stoned, and I can't remember when I finished cleaning the house. I scramble for something to say.

“I-I’ll fix ya somethin’ else," I blurt out, sliding toward the refrigerator, "Jus’ gim-"

“How the FUCK am I supposed to eat this?!” Bruce yells, gesturing to the dish in front of him. I freeze, my back to the wall, losing my motor skills to a wash of fear.

“Bruce, I’m sorry. J-jus'...lemmie fix s-somethin' else-” I get some control of my legs back and edge toward the fridge- “T-there’s a couple pork cho-“

“I’m hungry NOW!” Bruce roars, scooping up the pan in one hand and hurling it at my head. I duck, and the glass pan shatters against the wall above me. FUCK is he high; it usually takes a at least a little talking back to get him to start throwing things. I scramble to get away as Bruce lunges from his seat.

“Jus’ let me fix it! I'm sorry, I'll fix it!” My voice reaches a nearly hysterical note as Bruce catches me by the arm mid-flight.

“You can’t fucking fix it, you worthless piece of shit! Fucking LOOK at it!” Bruce flings me toward the shattered remains of dinner, and I land heavily at the base of the wall, crying out as the broken glass cuts into my bare torso and arms.

“Please,” I whine, ignoring the pain and throwing myself at the sink as he grabs for me, “I-I’ll fix it, I swear. I didn’ mean to!”

Bruce catches hold of my shoulder before I get can get away, yanking me backward. He plants a solid left into the small of my back at the same time and I holler in pain.

“Shut the fuck up!” Bruce screams, throwing me to the floor, where I lay gasping for breath. “What the hell were you even doing?” he snarls, crouching down to better hear my response.

“Chores!” I manage to choke out, “In-inside, an'-” A few ragged breaths- “Ou-outside. J-jus' los’... time… Please, I-I’ll-“

Bruce reaches down and socks me neatly in the jaw, silencing me. “You were careless,” he hisses, grabbing me by my hair and hauling me to my knees, “Because you’re worthless!” He shakes me with the last word, and I whimper and grab at the hand digging into my scalp.

“You can’t even do something simple!” I open my mouth, and Bruce doesn't wait for my feeble protest before backhanding me with his free hand. “Ever since you got those detentions, I’m noticing a decline in the effort around here…You don’t think you gotta obey me anymore?”

When I stare at him stupidly, Bruce shakes me again. “Answer me! Why the FUCK is my dinner ruined?!”

“I-I jus’ los’ track a’ t-th’ time!” I whimper, quivering in his grip, “I didn’ mean t’ burn it; I was j's’ thinkin’ bou-“ I snap my mouth shut, and a sick smile spreads slowly over Bruce’s face.

“Thinking about what?” he asks, his words a growl, “That little girl you been getting into fights over?”

My heart stops and I feel my face go slack. “N-no! I ju-“

A closed fist bashes me across the face, and I cry out in pain as I feel my nose begin to bleed. If not for Bruce’s hand twisted into my hair, the force of the blow would have put me on the ground. As it is, I gasp and blink furiously, trying to bring the kitchen back into focus. "I di-"

“SHUT UP!”

I’m hit again in the face, and I shriek as I feel my cheek split open. The third blow knocks me from Bruce's grasp and onto the floor, and I grunt in pain. Another whimper sounds before I can stop it, and I hunker down and wrap my arms around my head.

“You’ve been slacking off,” Bruce snarls at me, “I’m finding shit half done, dinner is lacking in quality and you’re walkin’ around like you got some kind of secret.” He drops to one knee and wrenches my arms away from my face, pinning me to the floor with a hand clamped over my mouth. Tears now streaming from my eyes, I try to move my face so his thumb won't be digging into my split cheek, and he just smirks and grips me harder. “You’re a stupid fuck-up, boy. No girl is ever gonna’ want you."

He punches me once, twice, in the ribs, my howls muffled by his hand. As he lifts his fist again, he watches me closely, and I force my arms to my sides and fight to stop my sobbing. His eyes narrow, and I desperately attempt to get my breathing under control. If I can be quiet, show him that I've learned my lesson; if I can prove to him that I'm cooperating...

Bruce continues to eye me for a second, then lowers his fist slightly. I lay as still as I can, praying he'll be done. Finally, shoving my face to one side, he pushes himself to his feet and stands over me, breathing heavily. I gasp for air, trying to do so quietly, and wait.

“Clean this shit up and make me somethin' edible. You got a half hour, you little faggot. Don't fuck up again."

As Bruce stalks from the room, I roll onto my side and wrap my arms around my chest, trying to keep my sobs quiet so he won't hear me. Stupid, fucking, shitty-ass, cock-sucking asshole! I sniff and swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, wincing as it brushes my bleeding cheek. I'm furious at Bruce, and disgusted by myself. Why can't I just stand up to him?

Because he's stronger and faster than you are, I answer myself as I carefully get up and drag the trashcan closer, bile rising in my throat with each heartbeat. Because you're a weak little puss that can't do anything right. How hard is it to put that stupid little timer in your pocket? It's been years of this and you still haven't learned, you dumbass.

But even if I don't make him mad, even if I do everything right, I argue back as I finish picking up the big chunks of glass and food, he still fucking beats me! I shake my head angrily as fresh tears spring to my eyes, making the towel I'm reaching for blurry. It just isn't fair. It isn't my fault; I try, I do, I have... I've tried so fuckin hard, for so fuckin long... it's never been good enough: Bruce was never satisfied with anything I did...

I rock back on my heels, this new revelation coursing through my brain, writhing like a living thing. He was never gonna stop. Never. And I could never stop him. It's gonna go on and on and on… until one of us was dead.

I shove the thought from my head as I finish mopping up and toss the towel into the trash. Struggling to my feet and using another towel to dab at my ruined face, I concentrate on just staying upright long enough to cook those stupid pork chops.

The pork chops are almost done cooking when Bruce sticks his head into the kitchen. I almost drop the mashed potatoes I'm carrying to the table, and Bruce's face creases in a frown. Trembling, I set it down firmly and hurry back to the stove.

"What did you make?" Bruce asks as he moves to sit at the table, "It better be good."

My trembling worsens as his chair creaks under his weight and I pile the last pork chop on a plate. I force myself to steady my hands and set the plate on the table. I can feel Bruce's gaze boring into me as I move to grab the tea and a couple beers. I manage to get the drinks to the table without dropping anything, but Bruce still glares at me. What did I forget?

Desperately, I scan the table: Food, plates, silverware, cups, drinks...

"What's missing here?" Bruce growls, and I feel panic trying to break me down into a cowering mess. I fight to push it back and bully my brain into action at the same time; Bruce is staring at me, waiting.

"N-napkins?" I ask shakily, already moving toward the counter. Bruce doesn't say anything, but lets me grab two from the counter and return to the table. As I slide into my own chair and hold a napkin out to him, I can't keep my arm from shaking. He smirks and snatches the cloth from me with an abruptness that makes me cringe backward, which in turn makes him bark out a laugh.

My face heats as shame rises in my cheeks. Lowing my head as fresh tears form, I sit with my hands in my lap as Bruce piles three pork chops and a mountain of potatoes on his plate and begins to eat. After a little while, he asks me if I'm going to eat. I shake my head and tell him quietly that I'm not hungry.

"Then get the fuck out of here. Your face is makin' me lose my apatite." Bruce gives me a cruel smile as I stand, swaying slightly. I swallow the insult, moving to the doorway. Before I take more than three steps, Bruce calls after me, "Take a shower before you go to bed, I don't want the sheets stained."

I didn't think I had the energy in me to be angry, but my fists clench of their own accord as my blood boils at Bruce's words. A fresh wave of pain sweeps over me, and I remember my fear, which is so much bigger than my anger. I force my hands to relax and mutter, "Fine," as I leave the kitchen.