Damaged Goods

The door slammed shut behind Howie with a massive bang that resounded throughout the house. He heard something - perhaps a book from his father's bookshelf - fall to the ground as a result, but it didn't matter to him. All that mattered at that very moment was the rage that was coursing through his veins.

Slowly making his way to the living room, he saw his four older brothers rough-housing and joking around. None of them noticed his foul mood - but his dad did, the moment he entered the room a few minutes later.

This didn't comfort Howie one bit, however. He looked up at his father - the one who had looked out for him and protected him his whole life. The one person in this world he trusted the most.

The one person who had betrayed and hurt him far worse than anyone had ever hurt him before.

His dad looked sympathetic, like he knew what Howie was thinking. His eyes were trying to apologise - but it was too late for that now. It had already been done. Howie's world had already been destroyed - though maybe not directly - and it was this man's fault.

At this point, Howie saw his father's face change from an apologetic look of concern, to one of bewilderment. There was almost a tiny, tiny hint of fright in his eyes. He did know what his son was thinking - and it wasn't good.

Howie looked away. It became apparent to him that his entire band of brothers had paused their shenanigans and were now watching him expectantly.

His father moved forward, a hand reaching out for Howie's shoulder.

All of Howie's anger suddenly reached breaking point. He lunged at his father, getting a few good scratches down his arm at the first hit and tackling the man to the ground. He was intent on inflicting pain and causing injury; but his father obviously was only trying to escape his grasp. The rage welled-up again - was his father so insolent as to believe that fighting back would hurt him? Did he truly believe he was that weak? He didn't need protecting anymore! It was his own time for protecting others.

Howie gave his father one final kick in the gut, just to make sure he had learnt his lesson.
He stood up and glanced down at the pitiful man on the floor - the one who had, up until today, been his hero. His father was bleeding, from his arm and from his nose. His face was red from the pounding it had just received, and he was clutching his stomach.

"I have to forgive you, Dad. You're family. But I will never forget what you did."