WITH THE DEVIL.
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The trailer park. That damn trailer park. The smell of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. The edge of town; rusted playground, torn American flags, sirens that came but didn’t stay, neighbors minding their own business, streetlights flickering like they were thinking about giving up. Everyone knew everyone, but no one interfered.
Mother left in the middle of the night — he thought she might be back when the bar closed. But she didn’t.
Money that was supposed to buy groceries was spent on bar taps. Quickly learning how to measure hunger — how long you could ignore it before your hands started shaking, how much water you could drink to make it stop hurting. Being nothing but sharp elbows and hollow cheeks.
At a young age, learning how to cook boxed macaroni without milk. Learning which gas stations had blind spots in their cameras. Learning how to stand between his father and his sister without flinching. When the yelling started, he’d guide her to the bathroom, lock the door, and sit with his back pressed against it. He told her stories over the shouting. There were nights the power got shut off. They’d sit on the floor with a flashlight between them, sharing a single can of soup, pretending it was camping. Always claiming he wasn’t that hungry. She always believed him, even when his stomach growled louder than hers. Bruises were explained away with clumsiness. Teachers nodded. Neighbors looked past them. The trailer park had its own code: what happened behind thin walls stayed there.
16. Old enough to be bigger. Not old enough to win cleanly. For the first time, attacking back. There was blood— maybe from a split lip, maybe from the back of his head hitting something sharp. The details are blurred. What matters is that his father looked at him differently after that; not like a son, but a threat.
The police were called. And because he was the bigger one. Because he was the one standing over a bleeding man. Because his father could still talk and knew how to spin a story — he was the one who left in handcuffs. Didn’t cry, didn’t fight the cuffs. Just kept looking at his sister, telling her ‘’It’s okay, it’s done now’’.
Being charged with assault, a short stay in juvie. Giving a probation that he immediately struggled to follow because anger didn’t evaporate just because someone stamped paperwork. But something shifted in him permanently; he learned he could hit back, that there were consequences — and that sometimes those consequences were worth it. After his probation, getting sent into foster care. His sister being sent to another home. Not allowed to speak to or see her. For years he didn’t know how or where in the world she was.
Adult — such a funny word for someone who never even had a chance to be a child. Today being 27 years old. Living with his 24-year old sister, working with his hands. Construction, auto shop, warehouse shifts — whatever pays steady and under the table when necessary. Strong in the kind of way that isn’t gym-built but earned: ropey muscle, scarred knuckles, shoulders that carry more than they should. He’s reliable until he isn’t. A good worker, but one bad comment, one shove, one flash of disrespect, and he’s swinging before he’s thinking.
Most nights are being spent in a cell. Being on first name with the police. Not because he’s some mastermind criminal. Because he reacts. Because he doesn’t back down. Because he laughs when he shouldn’t and mouths off when he should stay quiet. There’s always a bruise somewhere — blooming purple along his ribs, yellowing at his jaw, a cut taped clumsily over one brow. He wears them like weather reports. Proof he was there. Proof he didn’t fold.
Drinking, but he tells himself he’s not like his father.
Never selfish. Doesn’t expect a thing in return. Sassy in his mouth, maybe that's why he always has a scar or 5. Speaks before he thinks; if people can't handle the truth, don't ask him for it.
Flirting easily. Smiling like trouble. Knowing how to be charming when he wants to be. There’s something boyish about him that survived everything. People either find him magnetic or exhausting. Sometimes both.
A part of him doesn’t know who he is without something to fight. And part of him is terrified that if he ever stops swinging, everything he built to protect will disappear. Twenty-seven years old, still braced for impact — even in a world that isn’t hitting him anymore.
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