Sorrow Swallows My Screams

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Three:

Zacky’s POV:

It was a rather uneventful walk home. I could have asked Mr Haner for a ride - I probably should have, considering what had happened the last time I’d decided to walk home alone - but I was so pumped full of adrenaline pulsing through my veins alongside the sudden burst of extreme courage that I walked, and I was at peace with that. To be honest, the possibility of anyone - AKA Gerard - finding me and beating the crap out of me didn’t even cross my mind until I was swinging open the ever so creaky garden gate.

A few loose specks of the concrete path scattered as the gate increased the depth of the hole shape in the concrete in the shape of the berth of the gate. As I went to carelessly shut it behind me after walking through, it jammed. Not totally uncommon - it all originates from the lowness of the gate forming the alleged hole in the ground. I forced it shut, and it let out a long, loud, crunching, unhappy groan.

And that’s when the front door flung open, a figure standing in the frame. My father. Of course. Because waking up to murdered cats on the foot of your bed just isn’t good enough for him.

“Hello, son.”

I stood my ground, waiting for him to continue. I knew he would, whether it be verbally or physically. One thing I was sure of was that the former would eventually lead to the latter.

“So, son, where have you been?”

He took a step towards me, eagerly awaiting my answer. He cocked his head forward, his ears clear of all other sounds but my voice.

“I went for a walk,” I lied, as casually as I could.

“Is that right?” he said, softly, but with stern authority. “I got you a present, son. Did you like it?”

He was smirking, evidently proud of what he’d done. That was sick.

I felt my adrenaline and courage merge together into an undeniable force of anger, and the will to cause pain to the man who I hated the most.

“You son of a bitch, you fucking-!” My sentence was left hanging as I launched myself at my father. I withdrew my fist and brought it forward into his face. I went to do it again a second time, but felt the wind knocked out of my stomach. My father’d gotten an arm free to elbow me in the stomach. Hard. Oh yes, hard. It damn hurt.

And then I was on the ground. My father had a foot on top of my stomach and chest, pinning me helplessly to the ground. I was no match for him. Damn. I should have been taller, and one of those real muscly dudes, like a wrestler. Then I could have kicked his ass half way to hell by now. Damn.

“You filthy piece of shit,” my father said, a disgusted look on his face, as if he were seeing something he hated. He was. Me. “You’re no fucking son of mine.”

He spat in my face. Gross. He brushed his hands off on his pants and walked back into the house. I heard the lock of the door click. Wiping furiously at my spat-on face with my arms, I got up and began to stumble along. I realised, taking my hand away, that I had some blood trickling from my nose. Nose bleeds, I was used to them. I’d had enough beatings in my life to get used to them. I was well adjusted.

I started climbing the tree in the yard in order to get into my room. Despite the way that my father had just treated me, I knew that if I went running off he’d be furious when I eventually returned. Of course, I could just not come back, but he’d most likely just get the cops involved again. That’s right, blame it on Zacky. Zacky ran away, Zacky doesn’t like me, Zacky needs to come home… fucker.

I climbed through my window and the putrid smell filled my nostrils once again. I had to get this cat out of here. For now, I couldn’t be bothered to do a good job of it. I grabbed my blankets up off my bed, making sure to keep the cat wrapped firmly inside. And then I threw them out the window, cat inside. I knew it was disgusting, I knew it was wrong. I felt sick with myself. Utterly, utterly sick. I almost threw up again while I did this. I’d deal with it better later, of course. But for now I wanted to keep my location as a bit of a secret. While my father was still drunk as and in a raging, son-beating mood.

I grabbed my guitar out of the corner of my room and began to play, not plugging it into the amp, so that it was quiet. I played and played, for hours and hours, letting it watch my pain and sorrow away.