"Quit doing that, Brandon."
He should have known by the tone of voice, that there was a threat to it. For a boy of four, however, boundaries weren't exactly easy to follow. So he glanced sideways at his father as he sat on the couch, a childlike curiosity filling his head. Standing up from the pots and pans his mother had given him as "drums", he took the wooden spoon and started to beat it to a haphazard rhythm against the couch.
The impish grin on his face widened as he saw his father shift on the couch, his beat growing more frantic, excitable. He was beating his own drum against cushioned fabric, which had to be a great soundtrack to the football game on TV, right? Jason shifted again into the couch, never once glancing at his son. The puppy-like "PLAY WITH ME!!!!" mentality took hold of the four year old, who walked over to his father and tested him by poking his leg with the stick.
"I said knock it off."
A gleeful giggle came from the boy, who didn't realize, for whatever reason, that they weren't playing. So the natural progression for a little boy just learning to know how to play: His hand came down with a whack of the wooden spoon against his father's leg.
The next few moments would be a blur to him, even at such a young age. He wouldn't remember the way his father's hands dug into his tiny arms or how much it hurt when the back of his head and spine hit the wall. He wouldn't remember this time, the rage in his father's voice, his face so close as he yelled. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
What he would remember was the fear. He would remember the panic that filled his body that seemed to scare out even the discomfort of being slammed against the wall. He'd remember the terror that seized his body and filled his eyes with tears. He might have cried, but he wouldn't remember that, either. There was something that locked into even the small child's mind -- that crying somehow, would make things worse.
His mother walked out with a basket full of laundry, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. In a little boy's mind, here was his savior, come to tell his father never to touch him again, beat him away like the heroine from a story book. "What did you do??" The question wasn't directed at Jason, but at Brandon. "Baby, I'll get you another beer. Brandon. Pick up your mess."
There was stunned silence as he felt tears welling in his eyes, rubbing at his nose as he went over to pick up the pots and pans she had left out for him. Four years old was a very young age to realize: nobody was coming to save him.
He isn't asleep, but he pretends that he is for a good five minutes. It's only the pouting whimpers of his three year old brother in the crib next to him that actually gets a five-year-old Brandon out of bed. "C'mon." He says, reaching down to help Luke out of the crib. The two brothers go back to Brandon's bed just a few feet away.
The screaming in the other room has gotten louder, and it's clear something has been thrown and smashed against the wall. Luke started crying again and Brandon got up. "You wanna build a fort?" Distraction was the name of the game that he knew too well. The smaller Rucco nodded as he sucked on his thumb, worrying his baby blanket in his other hand. He was the picture of Linus from the Peanuts.
Brandon had always been good at putting things together: legos, lincoln logs, you name it. It was a gift born out of boredom and the need to entertain himself. So he got to work. The blanket was pulled off the bed and he was attaching one end of it to the side of the crib, trying to tie it closed as well as a five year old could. After getting frustrated with that, he dragged over a chair to steeple the blanket in a makeshift, poorly constructed fort. "There." He said triumphantly, only a second before he jumped in reaction to the slamming of a door and a loud shrieking curse following it.
"Bring me those pillows." He said, trying to distract him better than just letting him watch. The two year old scrambled clumsily down from Brandon's kid bed, pulling down the pillows to the floor. Bran arranged them inside the 'fort', and grabbed another blanket to pull over them.
"Here, see?"
Out in the other room, he could hear his mother screaming obscenities and in another second pleading for something he couldn't hear or didn't care to. Luke nestled in close and Bran closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though he could will the world outside his room to just go away. The two fall asleep in a pile, unaware that this wasn't just another fight.
When morning comes, he'll find his mother in a mess of tears, cursing about something he doesn't yet understand. The only thing that will remain true for the rest of his life will be, "Daddy's gone. He's not coming back."
"Choke up your hands, sport."
Brandon's fingers wrung tightly around the bat in his hands.
"I don't know what that means."
The condescending smile Steve gave him mad him want to chuck the bat right at his face.
"It means slide your grip up a little. Y'know, choke up. Get a better grip on the bat."
It made no sense to eleven year old Brandon, but he did as he was told — even if begrudgingly.
"See? Isn't that better? You'll do great at try-outs."
Brandon stood in his front yard, holding a damn baseball bat and hating every minute of it. His mother had suggested that Steve wanted to bond with Brandon, but apparently that meant one thing: Sports. The guy reeked of hot dogs and had three-day old stubble … but it wasn't like he was trying to make that part of his look. Just lazy. He'd been at the house too many times this week for Brandon's liking anyway, but that was nothing new.
Sports had never been Brandon's thing, and why this guy was so intent on forcing him into it, he had no idea. So he tossed a ball, and Brandon swung at it. Miss. Steve clapped his hand and told him it was alright. Once more, same result.
"Just try a little harder, buddy. I know it'll sure make your mom happy to see you trying at something."
The comment likely wasn't meant to be a dig or anything, but it struck a nerve in Brandon. He didn't like being told what to do, and even less did he like anyone telling him something like he owed his mom anything. She'd brought him and Luke into the world, sure, but that's where her responsibility as a parent ended. Not trying at anything? Even an eleven year old Brandon felt a deep resentment for that flippant remark. Trying at something like making sure his little brother got to and from school alright. Trying something like working down at the hardware store after school, just sweeping the floor so the owner would give him a few bucks so he could buy lunch for Luke and himself. They weren't even that poor, he was pretty sure — it was just not something his mother thought about.
"Now, watch it this time."
He'd seen guys like Steve before. Breezing in and shagging his mom for a good week or two, maybe longer if she doted on him hard enough. They'd try and impress her by playing a "fatherly" role, but had absolutely zero interest in either of the Rucco boys in the end. They'd bring a baseball cap or a toy truck like they were babies, and he'd get increasingly angry. This guy was exactly the same, and for whatever reason, the overzealous trying made that anger rise in him already.
The crack of the ball hitting the bat was satisfying, but not quite as satisfying at the almost immediate thud sound afterwards — the ball hitting Steve with force in his gut. Steve doubled over in pain, a kind of shocked anger spreading through him. It was an accident, probably, but Steve started cursing at Brandon like he'd meant to do it.
Bran just shrugged his shoulders and tossed the bat on the ground. "Sports aren't really my thing."
