Blow after blow

Kian

I hadn't expected the night to end like this.

After the run-in with my dad, I left the pub as quickly as I could, not wanting to stick around any longer than necessary. It wasn't just him—it was the whole mess of my life, the weight of it all pressing on me in a way that made it hard to breathe. I needed to escape, even if for a little while.

When I got home, the house was dark. No one was around, which was unusual. I figured my mam might be in bed, but as I walked through the front door, I noticed the soft light coming from the kitchen.

I didn't expect to see her sitting there, hunched over the table, her hands shaking as she wiped at her eyes. My heart sank at the sight. My mam didn't cry. Not like this.

"Mam?" I asked softly, stepping further into the kitchen. "What's going on?"

She didn't look up at first. Her shoulders were tense, her hands still trembling as she clutched a piece of paper in her hands. I could tell she was trying to hold it together, but the effort was failing.

"Mam?" I repeated, taking a few more steps toward her, my voice more urgent now.

She finally looked up, her face pale and blotchy from crying. Her eyes were red, and there was a heaviness to her gaze that I hadn't seen in years. "It's—It's Emi," she whispered, barely able to get the words out. "They... they've told us. We can have her back."

I froze.

"Mam, what do you mean?" I asked, trying to process what she was saying.

"They're giving her back to us," she choked out, clutching the paper tighter. "We've been fighting for so long, and now... now they're saying we can have her back. It's all I ever wanted, Kian."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I didn't know how to respond, how to feel about it. The thought of Emi coming back had been a distant dream, something I barely allowed myself to think about. But now it was real. And I didn't know if I was ready for it.

"Mam, I—" I started, but I couldn't finish. I didn't know what to say.

She started crying again, her face crumpling in relief and grief all at once. "I've missed her so much. We've been through so much, Kian. All the fighting, the court dates, the uncertainty... and now, finally, they're giving her back to us."

I stood there, unsure of what to do. My mam had always been the one to hold it together, the one who kept us going. Seeing her like this, so vulnerable, it hit me harder than I could have imagined.

I walked over to her, kneeling beside her chair. "It's okay, Mam," I said softly, my hand on her shoulder. "We're going to figure this out. We'll make it work."

She nodded, wiping at her eyes. "But I don't know how, Kian. It's been so long. Emi's been away, and we've changed. I've changed. I don't even know how to be her mother anymore."

"Mam, you're her mother," I said gently. "You don't need to have all the answers. You just need to be there for her. And we'll all be there with you."

She sniffled and let out a shaky laugh. "I just... I didn't expect this. I thought we were out of chances."

"We've got this, Mam. We've got each other."

She looked at me, her eyes softening with gratitude. "I don't deserve you, Kian. I don't deserve any of this, but I'm so grateful... I can't believe we're finally getting her back."

I felt the weight of the moment. My mam had been through so much, and now, after all these years, there was a chance for everything to be fixed. But the weight of what Emi's return would mean was heavier than I expected.

What would she be like now? Would she remember us? Would I even know how to be a brother to her after everything?

I wasn't sure. But what I did know, was that I couldn't walk away from my family—not now, not after everything we'd been through.

And whatever came next, I would be there to help them pick up the pieces.

Even if it scared the hell out of me.

I stayed by Mam for a while, letting her cry as I held her. She was fragile, the weight of the news about Emi almost too much to bear. I didn't know what to say to make her feel better—hell, I didn't even know how to process it myself.

I thought maybe this time, things would be different. Maybe my dad would stay out of it tonight. He hadn't been around for a while, not after he got so drunk last time and ended up in a hospital bed. He wasn't a man who liked to lose control, and that night had nearly broken him.

But, of course, the night had other plans.

I heard the door slam shut from down the hall before I saw him. I could feel the alcohol seeping out of his pores before he even said a word. The stale scent of whiskey filled the kitchen like a fog, choking the air. I knew what was coming the moment I heard his footsteps. He was already simmering, angry about something that wasn't even my fault, but he'd always found a reason to take it out on me.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dad's voice slurred, thick with booze, but the fury in it was crystal clear.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. His eyes were already narrowed, his fists balled up at his sides, and I could feel the anger radiating off of him like heat from an open flame.

"I asked you a question, boy!" He shouted, stepping closer, his breath heavy with whiskey and aggression.

I glanced over at Mam, sitting at the kitchen table, her hands trembling as she wiped her eyes. She was scared. I could see it in her face. She was trying to keep her composure, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he'd bring his violence down on her again.

"Da, just... stop," I muttered, my voice strained. "We don't need to do this tonight. Mam's had enough."

He didn't care about Mam's exhaustion. Or mine, for that matter. All he cared about was taking his anger out on someone. And tonight, that someone was me.

Before I could even react, his fist came flying toward me, a blur of movement. I barely had time to raise my arm in defense, but it didn't matter. His punch connected with the side of my face, the impact so hard it made my ears ring. The pain was instant—sharp and sickening, but it didn't stop him. He just kept coming.

I tried to back away, but he followed me, one punch after another, landing in quick succession, hitting my chest, my stomach, my face. Each blow felt like it was stripping away more of me, each hit leaving bruises, both physical and emotional. The pain was too much to fight against. His fists were relentless, too strong, too fast. I couldn't block them anymore. I couldn't move.

I hit the floor. My head slammed against the cold tiles, but I didn't have the strength to push myself up. I tried to make sense of it all, tried to find a way to stop it, but there was nothing. Nothing to do but let it happen, like always.

Da stood over me, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His eyes were wild with anger, but something else lingered there too. It wasn't just rage—it was the hollow emptiness of a man who had nothing left to give, a man who was drowning in his own brokenness.

"You think you can just walk around like you're better than me?" He spat, his voice full of disgust. "You think you can just ignore what's happening here? You're just like your mother. Worthless."

I tried to breathe, tried to focus on anything other than the pain that was overtaking my body. I couldn't even lift my head. His words stung more than the punches.

"I didn't... ask for this," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

But he didn't care. He never did.

His boot connected with my ribs, and I let out a grunt, pain bursting through me in waves. My vision blurred as I gasped for air, struggling to stay conscious. He stood there, waiting for me to fight back, but I couldn't. I was broken—physically, emotionally. I had nothing left to give. I couldn't fight back, not this time.

"Get up," Dad ordered, his voice dark and low. "Get up, and stop acting like a weak little bitch."

But I didn't move. I couldn't.

Mam's voice came from behind him, barely a whisper. "Shane, please. Please stop. He's your son."

But he wasn't listening to her anymore. He never did.

I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take over. The pain, the shame, the weight of it all—I couldn't carry it anymore. I just wanted it to stop. To stop before it tore me apart. But I knew better than to hope for that. Because with Shane, it never stopped. It would never stop.

He kicked me again, harder this time, and I couldn't fight the wave of nausea that hit me.

And still, it didn't stop.