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Crickets chirped loudly in the night air, the temperature having cooled from the overbearing heat of the summer day. Derry was nearly dead at such a late hour, most of the residents either sleeping or up to unmentionable acts that those during the day must never know about. Stars dotted the sky, lighting the streets in the moon’s absence. Bike wheels whirred on pavement, riding down a decline before a hill curved upwards. A truck drove by, nearly hitting them, only swerving when their headlights reflected off the reflectors on the front of the bike and forcing the bike to crash into the brush on the side of the road. A slew of curses spilled from Henry’s mouth as he pushed the bike off him and stood up, flipping off the truck that had already turned the corner. Grabbing his bike, he pulled out a branch that had gotten stuck in the spokes and tossed it off the to side. Another curse left his lips when he realized the front tire was now flat.
He was not too far from home, but a five-minute bike ride was still a fifteen-minute walk. The walk was met with a verbal tirade over the person who ran him off the road, and he found himself hoping their truck caught fire.
The night had ended well enough. By the time Vic’s parents had gotten home, the two were upstairs playing games on Vic’s Nintendo. The couch had been cleaned from their endeavors, the cushion flipped while the fabric dried, and no one would be any the wiser as to what had occurred. It was well past midnight when they realized how late it had gotten. There was a jolt of panic at realizing Henry would be in trouble if Butch caught him coming home so late, but it would be worse if his dad found out his son had never come home at all. Vic had offered to drive him back, but it was foregone when Henry brought up the engine noises might wake Butch from where he was most likely passed out in the recliner in the living room.
Walking his bike up the driveway, Henry noticed the flickering light from the television through the living room curtains. His heart thudded heavy in his chest. He walked around the side of the house, stashing his bike against it as he made his way to the back kitchen door. It creaked slightly when it opened; Henry held his breath. There was a pause and he listened for the sound of movement, but only heard low noise from the television. Entering the kitchen, all of the lights were off, except the light above the stove. Slowly, he shut the door, making sure to keep it from squeaking on the hinges as it latched.
He took of his shoes to keep from making noise on the linoleum, stashing them by the door next to his dad’s farm boots. His footsteps were light as he crossed the kitchen, not missing the empty case of beer that sat on the counter, nor the bottle of whiskey sitting next to it. He was half-tempted to take it upstairs to his room, his dad clearly beyond the point of remembering if he drank it all or not. The idea was left when the sudden change to a commercial brought his attention back to the living room.
The air stood still.
He waited to hear the sound of the recliner springs, his breath releasing in one long string when it never came. Taking advantage of the loud commercial, he made his way from the kitchen to the living room in an attempt to make it to the stairs. Footsteps were near silent as he crossed the hardwood floor, his focus on the railing to the staircase. It was so close, he could almost reach out and touch the banister. Reaching out, he touched the rail and the tightness in his chest began to subside.
“Where have you been?” Butch’s voice cut through the air like a knife.
Needles like ice filtered through Henry’s veins and he held his breath without realizing. He turned his head to face where his dad was still sitting. Butch had not moved, his head still facing the television. There was a short glass in his hand sitting on the armrest, ice and liquid in the bottom. The chair squeaked when he put the leg rest down and leaned forward to set the glass on the coffee table. He staggered when he stood; Henry’s shoulders involuntarily went up in defense. Heavy steps moved around the room to stand in front of him. His fists were clenched and he was staring down at his dad’s shoes. The scent of liquor was thick, causing his heartrate to spike.
“Answer me when I’m talkin’ to you,” Butch demanded as he grabbed the side of Henry’s hair.
“We were hanging out, lost track of time,” Henry spoke low, barely above a whisper.
Butch shoved his head, but said nothing. He motioned to the stairs, and Henry did not hesitate to move back towards them, ready to escape upstairs. However, his relief was short-lived when his dad suddenly grabbed him by the arm to pull him back. His head snapped towards him, but it was pushed down by Butch’s free hand to expose the left side of his neck.
Eyes landed on the bruises on his neck behind his ear.
“Fucking whore!” Butch’s voice bounced off the walls and he pulled hard on Henry’s arm, forcing him to catch himself before he hit the floor. “You go and fuck around and think you can come back anytime you damn well please?!” A closed fist made contact with the side of Henry’s temple when he turned his head, making his vision flash white. “You want to be a whore like your fucking mother?!”
A hard kick to his abdomen knocked the air from his lungs and he collapsed. His vision blurred around the edges as he sucked in a harsh breath. It came out in a wheeze as he climbed to all fours and he started coughing. The fit blocked out the sound of Butch removing his studded belt from his jeans. Henry reached out to grab one of the stair rail balusters to try to pull himself up.
It was immediately halted when the belt came down across his shoulder blades.
The scream did nothing but anger his dad further, and the second lash came harder. Henry fell back to the floor and curled inwards just as another hit wrapped itself around his ribcage. Before he was able to get his arms to cover his face, a loud cry escaped him when the belt slapped across his cheek to the back of his head, forming a deep welt almost immediately. It stung; his eyes welled; he could not even cut the sob off if he tried. His knees came to his chest to protect his stomach just as the belt lashed across his side to his spine.
Butch reared his arm back, bringing it down again and again and again until his arm grew tired. His son’s sobs grated on his ears, so he hit him again for good measure. Standing straight, sweat dripped down his face and he wiped his forehead. Henry was wound in a tight ball, his knees protecting his abdomen and arms protecting his head. His breathing was stifled. Another scream left his throat when Butch slammed his foot down on the side of his ribcage. His foot came down again, this time hitting him so hard, he swore he heard and felt something break.
He sucked in a harsh breath of air as the wind was knocked out of him. When his dad’s boot came down again, he saw a blinding light, which could only be described as stars. A searing pain radiated throughout his abdomen and his limbs went numb. Another kick, which made contact with his head as his arms faltered, turned the light to darkness. He could hear his heart pounding as his vision failed.
The next kick did not even register, his brain blocking out the contact.
Suddenly, the pain felt miles away and, instead, there was a comforting blackness. Despite feeling his body move, the darkness was so peaceful as it called his name. He found himself giving up fighting against the assault, allowing his eyes to close as a strange calmness overcame him.
“Don’t fucking ignore me!” Butch screamed as he reached down to pick his son up by his neck. He shoved Henry against the wall, spittle landing on his son’s face as he yelled at him. When Henry failed to react, his grip around Henry’s neck increased, his son’s face flushing a dark purple. “You want to be a fucking whore, be treated like one!” His grip continued to tighten, Henry’s body having gone limp. He slammed Henry against the wall before throwing him to the floor, delivering one more harsh kick to his abdomen, even as his son lie immobile.
“Worthless piece of shit,” Butch spat as his spit on his son. “Pull a stunt like that again and see what happens!” He stared down at Henry for a moment before scoffing and turning away. He picked his glass up from where it still sat on the coffee table and left the living room to go to the kitchen.
Cabinet doors slammed open and shut as he yelled towards Henry, blaming him for the lack of prepared food. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey that sat on the counter to refill his glass. When he reentered the living room to still see his son on the floor, he scoffed. “Your ass better be in bed in the next thirty minutes,” he said as he made his way back towards his recliner. Sitting back down, he pulled the lever to lift the leg rest, taking well more than a sip from his glass as he resumed watching a rerun of a late-night television show.
Light from the television filled the living room. A snore dragged the man passed out on the recliner from sleep. Butch’s head turned to the side as he clamped his eyes shut, a headache making itself apparent. When he cracked his eyes open, the television was on color bars, giving way to the late hour. With a groan, he sat up, pushing his legs down to collapse the leg rest. His whiskey glass, now empty, sat in his hand and he set it on the coffee table. Taking to his feet, he stretched his spine cracking in several locations. He picked up the remote to turn the television off, leaving only the lamp near the front door to illuminate the living room.
His vision was still fuzzy and he shook his head to get it to focus. Blinking, it slowly slid into focus. A groan left his throat as he walked around the recliner, heading towards the lamp. However, right as he was about to turn it off, he caught a shape on the floor near the staircase. He turned to see Henry still crumpled in a heap against the wall. Anger welled up in his chest at the realization his son did not go to bed like he had ordered him to however many hours ago.
He approached him and nudged him with his boot.
“Boy, get up,” he ordered.
Henry did not respond, his body laying still.
“I said get up!” he shouted, pushing Henry’s shoulder with the toe of his boot.
Again, Henry did not react.
Getting aggravated, Butch lifted his son’s chin with his foot to turn his head. However, just as he was about to scream at him, he noticed Henry’s pale face and blue lips. His heart dropped to his stomach and he felt as though his heart was in a vice.
“Stop fucking off! Get up!” he shouted as he nudged him again, only watching as Henry’s mouth fell slack. “HENRY!” his voice echoed off the surrounding walls.
He dropped to a crouch and he grabbed Henry’s shoulders, shaking him. He became acutely aware of the darkened bruise of a handprints around his son’s throat. It was then that a rancid smell met his senses. He rolled Henry forward to see his backside, where he had soiled himself.
“Shit…shit!” Butch’s voice was nothing but panic as laid Henry down onto his back. He started running his hand through his son’s knotted hair over and over before lightly smacking his face. “Boy! Boy! Wake up!” His face was red as he failed to gain a response.
Getting in position next to Henry, he set a fist over his son’s breastbone and covered it with his opposite hand. He began performing compressions, exhaling to the tune of Stayin’ Alive. After thirty seconds, he pinched Henry’s nose shut to conduct two rescue breaths before returning to compressions. However, instead of garnering some form of response, all he could feel was his son’s congealed blood moving through his veins. Refusing to believe what in front of him was real, he continued compressions and rescue breaths, not stopping until the entirety of his son’s cage had collapsed.
When his fists sunk into Henry’s body, he yelled his son’s name as loud as he could. He wrapped his arms around his son’s upper body, pulling him close as he released an estranged cry. White foam leaked from Henry’s mouth as Butch buried his face into his son’s chest. For the next while, he knelt on the floor, cradling Henry’s body as he yelled out his son’s name over and over until his voice grew horse.
After what felt like an eternity, Butch sat back on his heels, still holding Henry as he stared forward. Body numb, he looked down at his son, white foam having dried around the edges of Henry’s mouth. Positioning his arms, one under Henry’s back and other underneath his thighs, he stood, bringing Henry with him.
His entire mind had gone blank and he made he way towards the stairs. He carried his son up the stairwell, moving as though in a haze. He entered his own bedroom and carried Henry to the bed, setting his son down on the mattress that had clearly been made by his son earlier that day. He set his hand on Henry’s forehead, feeling the cold and clammy skin. He pushed Henry’s hair back, exposing his son’s forehead and leaning down to press his lips against it.
Pulling back, he stared down at Henry’s face, appearing calm and relaxed.
“He’s beautiful,” Henrietta’s voice flooded through his memory as she held their son after giving birth. “Oscar – Oscar, he’s so perfect,” she said as she allowed the nurse to take their bare newborn, umbilical just freshly cut.
The nurse handed the baby to Butch, who cradled him against his chest.
“Have you all decided on a name?” the nurse asked as the infant’s hand latched onto Butch’s finger.
“Henry,” Butch said, smiling at the small face bundled in his arms. “After his mother.” As Henrietta smiled, Butch touched his son’s nose with the same finger his son was holding. “I’m gonna protect you, Henry. Forever.”
The drawer to Butch’s bedside table was opened, the six-shot revolver now absent.
Butch held the gun in his hand, staring down at it. He looked to Henry, his son’s face white with blue extremities. He fell to his knees at the edge of his bed, his only focus on his son’s corpse. Taking his revolver, he pressed the barrel to his temple, finger tracing the trigger. His eyes burned, his nasal passages became inflamed.
“I’m sorry,” he gave his final apology as he put pressure on the trigger.
A loud bang echoed throughout the room as Butch’s body collapsed on top of his son’s, his final goodbye.