Maddox

His fist connects with my jawbone, sending me spiralling into the adjacent wall. I curse, stumbling and using the wall as support to regain my footing. The stench of whisky is potent from my father. It's almost as if he decided to soak his clothes in it before coming home from his drug buddy's house. It was their monthly celebration for how much money they've made by victimizing people with mental health illnesses; by taking advantage of their vulnerability and selling them drugs to curb the pain and suffering they deal with.

Tonight, my father is pissed off at me for refusing to pick him up from his buddy's house. He blames me for being a wimp, a loser, and several other derogatory names that are a million times worse. He believes I refused so he would have to take a cab and risk being exposed to the local police. And you know what's funny? That was exactly my plan. It worked once before, when he picked me up from school five years ago and was arrested on site. I had been hoping it would work again.

Scrambling to the left, I narrowly avoid being hit again by his vengeful fist. The loud thump of his fist crashing against the drywall is enough to cause shivers to cascade down my spine. Despite being five inches taller than my father, I'm terrified of him. He's ruthless when it comes to punishing me for not wanting to uphold the family name and finally make my contribution to the drug cartel he's deeply rooted in. But if I'm going to be entirely honest, this is when my father is easiest to deal with. While the alcohol numbs his ability to think straight, he's not nearly as cunning when he's drunk. I can take a few punches and handle the bruises and bumps the next morning. What I can't handle are the psychological games he plays when he's sober.

Even so, no matter what condition he's in, he absolutely fucking terrifies me.

Words do no justice in describing how I feel right now. I don't know what's sadder: the fact that I wish he would just give in to his hatred and deliver one final, end-all blow, or the fact that I'm too weak to move out and start the life I deserve. I've failed at everything. I can't keep a job to save my life; as soon as people find out who I'm affiliated with, whose blood runs in my veins, they let me go, preventing me from bringing in a steady income. My father's life is so solely focused on chasing the dragon and making big bucks that he has no use for me. Then again, why would he want me around when I testified against him in court during one of the biggest drug-busts? I'm part of the reason as to why he spent four months in jail last year, serving time for having a hand in the drug trade. Those four months were the best time of my life. I was free of all this shit – of his shit.

And now I'm right back where I started.

As per usual, my life is an endless collage of fuck-ups and unluckiness.

"Why can't you fucking cooperate?" my dad spits, shoving me against the wall. "I pay the bills, I put food on the table, and this is how you thank me? I taught you better, Maddox."

I cringe when he says my name, cringe as he tightens his grip on my biceps, digging his nails in so hard and deep I'm positive I can feel blood seeping through the fabric of my sweater. No matter how much I want to fight back, to defend myself, I refuse to do it. Throwing fists and injuring another person, whether or not they deserve it, will make me exactly like him, which is something I want to avoid. No matter what type of hell he puts me through, I will never follow in my father's footsteps.

He yanks me forward and then slams my back against the wall, knocking the wind from my lungs. My body arches forward as I gasp for oxygen, willing my lungs to work properly.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you!" he bellows. His face is so close to mine that I can feel the hotness of his breath, the remnants of his spit.

"I'm not some fucking slave!" I snap, keeping my fists by my side. "I have a life, too. I have several assignments due by Monday. I wanted to get them finished before the weekend so I could – "

"If you think, for one goddamned minute, that you're going to the Lower Pits again to waste your time on that fucking dirt bike, you're mistaken. It's time you realize that you don't need a college education in order to be successful. The family business will provide you with enough money – and more."

Cockily, which I know is a big mistake, I raise an eyebrow. "If you think I want to go around murdering people who suffer from mental illnesses, think again." No, after I finish the first half of the nursing program at Okanagan College, I'm heading out to UBC to become a full-fledged nurse. I have the grades. I have the money – years and years of money I've saved up from working hard and doing under-the-table things like mowing peoples' lawns or repairing broken tools. And there's nothing I want more than to help people, to go in and make amends for all the wrongs my father has done. For all the times I've failed to put a stop to this mess.

My tone, the look on my face, my very existence, earns me another punch to the face. I curse as pain radiates through my nerves, as the taste of blood explodes in my mouth. My eyes are beginning to water from the impact, and I can tell that my lip has been split. If I manage to make it out of here, someone's going to need to stitch it up. I'm also going to need to find an icepack to soothe the swelling.

When my father steps back, I prepare myself for another hit. He's already gotten a couple of hits in, but he needs to end the show with something impeccable; something that will make me keel over and gasp for breath.

Even though I'm expecting it, the next blow is enough to catch me off guard – as they always are. His fist connects with my gut, causing me to clutch my stomach and gasp for air. I want to succumb to the pain and fall to my knees, but my defiant pride says otherwise. I refuse to let my father see the damage he's done to me and feel any satisfaction because of it. My living circumstances are shitty, but I still have a life. There's food on the table every night, I have clothes and a bed, and I have friends who care about me. Over the past few years, I've learned to focus on the good things – even if they don't outweigh the bad. Optimism is the only way to make it without your life turning in on itself.

"Get out of my sight," he spits, wiping his hands on his muscle shirt. It's white, stained with grease and ink from his denim jeans. "I don't want to see your face again tonight."

I pick myself up, broken bones and weighted soul, and trudge up the stairs, daring to shoot one last glare over my shoulder. He's too zoned out to notice the look, probably wondering when he can shoot up and achieve his next high. As I'm heading up the stairs, I pull my phone from my back pocket and send off a message to my cousin, Vance Cameron. I don't relay too much information – who's to say my father isn't snooping around in my phone records? I just tell Vance that I'm on my way over to study. Ever since I can remember, my cousin has been one of the few people who supported me through everything. He's a friend, a brother.

When I'm in my bedroom, door closed and locked behind me, I grab my backpack from the top shelf in the closet and stuff it with enough stuff for an overnight stay. As much as I enjoy spending time with my cousin, I'm already dreading showing up at his house because that means I have to deal with my Aunt Stella. She always says I'm welcome to stay with them whenever, but each time I take up that offer, she corners me and tells me I can't stay long because they simply have no room in their house or because her husband has to get up early every morning for work, meaning he has to get to bed early. It's a constant cycle of lies she tries to spin. Lies that are used to try and hide the fact that she doesn't want me there because she's scared her brother, my father, will impose consequences upon her and her family, putting them all in danger. I can't blame her, though. My father is volatile.

I can't blame anyone who doesn't want to associate themselves with me, to be honest. If I were any of them, I wouldn't want to be around me, either. Hell, sometimes I want to escape myself. But I can't. Otherwise, I'd be on a mental vacation. Perhaps a permanent one.

Slinging the backpack over my shoulders, I make sure I have my phone and then collect a different sweater for the cool summer air. My face is numb from the throbbing pain. I should be used to this type of pain by now, but the fresh bruises always manage to strike a tender nerve in me. At this rate, I'm going to need to stock up on some concealer before I head up to the Lower Pits tomorrow; I finally heard back from the camp host about becoming an instructor for the summer and they want to interview me. I'll have to ask Vance if they contacted him, too. My fingers are crossed that he's got the interview, too.

Taking one last glance around my childhood bedroom, I turn to the window and open it, carefully climbing out onto the roof so I can access the large, intricate trellis. It's covered in roses, but the pain of the thorns is nothing compared to my split lip or the bruises on my body. As I scale the trellis, I try to not think too much about the roses. Before my mom left, she used to tend to these very roses, making sure they were pruned and picked at the perfect time. She was an expert with plants and had always had that green thumb people strive for. Sometimes, I wish she would fulfil her promise and come back and get me; take me far, far away from the Okanagan and my father. But aside from the few phone calls and text messages she sends me, I rarely hear from my mom. My situation is inexplicably cursed. On one hand, I resent her for leaving me behind. On the other hand, I miss her, and, if she ever came back to get me, I would leave the Okanagan in a heartbeat.

I shake my head, letting go and jumping the final foot. I land softly on the grass, the dew dampening my sandals. Judging by the light coming from the TV room on the main floor, I'm guessing I probably could have walked through the front door as opposed to sneaking out. But descending and ascending the trellis has become part of my normal routine and it makes me feel safer; there's no chance of me crossing paths with my father and unintentionally becoming his punching bag.

Lucky for me, my truck – a dated piece of shit – is parked alongside the road, dirt bike already in the back and ready to go. My plan, if I manage to get the job tomorrow, is to leave my dirt bike up at the Lower Pits, drive home and pack the necessary equipment without my father knowing, and then head back up and tent it out for as long as I can. Personal hygiene won't be an issue – Bear Creek Provincial Park, about ten minutes away from the Lower and Upper Pits, has public washrooms, complete with showers. Nor will food be an issue – I don't have to go home to get that.

If everything works out, this could be the best summer of my life in a long, long time.

The drive to Vance's house takes twenty minutes from my house. His family lives in a modern home that overlooks the lake and half of Kelowna and West Kelowna. It's a phenomenal view, but they have no backyard whatsoever, save for a small strip of grass that's only good for playing boring games like bocce ball. I pull into their driveway, trying not to marvel at their modern prairie-style home. The exterior is a combination of wood and stone with large windows, giving the house tons of curb appeal. And, as usual, it's eerily clean. There isn't a single leaf on the driveway, the large planters on either side of the door that are overflowing with flowers have been freshly deadheaded, a pop of colour against the dark stone.

I park beside Vance's truck, on one of the dirt patches to the right of the house. Mainly because I know how much Aunt Stella hates it when people park on the driveway, but also because Vance's little sister, Allison is playing basketball with one of her friends.

Smiling as the two of them play a little two-on-two basketball, I pocket my keys and phone and jump out of the truck, grabbing my backpack from the back seat. The sound of the truck door being slammed echoes, eliminating the sound of a basketball smacking against the cement.

"Maddox!" Allison exclaims. She rushes over to me and throws her arms around my waist.

My smile broadens as I drop to my knees, forgetting everything that just happened at home, and hug my cousin. "Allie," I say.

She pulls back, a bounce in her step, as she pushes back locks of brown hair and flashes me a toothless smile. It's a breath of fresh air to see someone so happy and positive after a day like mine. "I didn't know you were coming over," she frowns, crossing her arms. "Vance didn't tell me."

I poke her in the stomach. "Maybe he wanted to keep me all to himself."

She juts out her bottom lip, pushing my hands away. "That's not fair. I wanted to play basketball with you." She cocks her head to the side. "What happened to your face?"

Ignoring her voiced concern, I chuckle and get to my feet. The last thing Allison needs is to know about the relationship between me and my father. She's a free-spirited six-year-old – kids aren't supposed to lose their innocence that early. "I'll play basketball with you later, Allie. I need to talk to Vance. Is he inside?"

She nods. "I think he's playing video games again."

Reaching out, I playfully ruffle her hair, which earns me a shriek mixed with a laugh and her slapping my hands away again before she runs back to her friend. I stare after her for a moment, a ghost of a smile on my lips. I like how, despite the sixteen-year age gap between Allison and I, we're still best friends.

Adjusting the straps of my backpack, I head for the front door, preparing myself for Aunt Stella's usual excuses. I hate being beholden to anyone, and for some reason being beholden to Aunt Stella is worse. I don't want my family to see me as a victim or needy or a burden. But at the same time, I think fuck it. This back and forth has gone on for years, including the four months I stayed with them before my father was released for "good behaviour," and each time I would say thank you or try to show my appreciation, she'd disregard it. I gave up on showing my appreciation years ago. It's a waste of time if people aren't going to acknowledge it.

Without knocking, I step through the front door and kick my shoes off, placing them in an empty space by the doormat. It's a light brown doormat that has some sappy family love saying on it. I don't bother reading it.

I'm hoping I'll be able to sneak through the house and make it up to Vance's room without anyone seeing me, but as soon as I come around the corner, I run right into Aunt Stella. She's carrying a wicker basket filled with clean, neatly folded laundry.

"Maddox," she says, her eyes slightly widened.

I suppress the need to roll my eyes. "Aunt Stella," I reply, shifting my weight. The dark hardwood surface is cold and sticking to my feet.

She sets the wicker basket down and crosses her arms. Uncrosses them. I note every movement her eyes make, searching for more damage than the split lip I did my best to take care of. In the truck, halfway down the road, I pulled over and disinfected it with rubbing alcohol before applying antibiotic cream. After looking at it, I don't think it's split enough to need stitches. Oh, the wonders of being a med student and the knowledge that comes with it. "What happened?" she asks.

Whether or not the concern is genuine, I can't tell. Her question also irritates me. The physical abuse has been going on for years and she has the audacity to ask what happened. "The usual," I shrug, pressing my fingers gently against my bruised jawbone. I'm hoping the makeup I applied is enough to hide the damage.

Aunt Stella doesn't reply. Instead, she casts her gaze down to the basket of laundry. The air is uncomfortable between us, barely giving me enough room to speak, let alone breathe.

"You can't stay here," Aunt Stella says, wringing her hands, twisting the half-dozen bracelets around and around. The noise they make is like nails on a chalkboard: irritating. "You know I would let you if I could, if we had more space, but..."

"I get it," I reply through gritted teeth. "You don't want to be associated with your brother and his offspring. Vance said I could stay the night; I'll be gone in the morning."

Stella walks over to me and puts her arm around me, as if her half-assed embrace is supposed to make me feel any better – when what I could really use are an icepack and some painkillers. "Maddox," she says, her voice timid. "That's not what...I just..."

I pull away from her, shaking my head. "Save it, Aunt Stella. I'm not in the fucking mood. Besides, I don't want to get in the way of you grooming your cashmere sweaters."

Before she can say anything else to me, I head upstairs to Vance's room, the weight of the world heavy on my shoulders. I always try to find something to be happy about – I refuse to allow my father to ruin my life completely; I want a bit of happiness because I know I deserve it. But it's getting harder and harder these days. The more I resist joining the "family business," the more aggressive he becomes. And the more aggressive he becomes, the more I think about joining in just to get him off my back. But if I did that, I would taint my reputation even more than it already is and lose my shot at becoming a nurse.

Just like Allison said, Vance is in his bedroom playing Call of Duty. I stare at the screen in disgust. I've never understood the fascination with video games like these. What good ever comes out of shooting people? What kind of influence does this have on younger kids?

"Hold on one second, cousin," he says, eyes glued to the screen. "I'm almost done."

"Take your time," I shrug, tossing my bag on the bed and making myself at home. Aside from spending time with Allison, spending time with Vance is the only other time I feel like I can truly let my guard down and be myself. It's mainly because he wants to know how I'm doing, if I'm okay. Vance is the older brother I never had, and I can't count the times he's threatened to come over and beat the shit out of my father. Every time that's happened, I've had to calm him down. The last thing I want to happen is my father putting a price on Vance's head. "I'm definitely not heading back home."

Several seconds tick by before Vance hits the pause button on his game, saves the contents, and then shuts down the TV and game console. He turns to me in his swivel chair and rests his elbows on his knees. "That bad, huh?" he asks.

Grabbing the plastic bottle of water from his nightstand, I pour some into my hand and scrub my face with it. I watch with both shame and curiosity as Vance's eyes widen, his jaw set in a firm line. As usual, he gets to his feet and begins pacing the width of his large bedroom. Aggressively, he runs a hand through his hair. "I hate that fucking guy," he spits. "God, if things weren't so expensive, I'd rent a condo for the two of us to share. Fucking insurance."

The corner of my mouth quirks up because I know he's serious. It costs almost four thousand dollars a year for him to insure his vehicle, and if you add that to simple things such as gym passes and monthly phone bills, as well as paying for post-secondary classes, it feels like you're throwing money out the window. I know because I'm also in the same boat. If Vance didn't have to deal with any of that, I know he'd be looking for a place for us to share.

"It is what it is," I reply, leaning against the plethora of pillows on his bed.

"Maddox..." he says. "I'm sorry I can't do more to help. If I could..."

"I know," I reply, shooting him a small smile. "Man, I know. And I hope you know how much I appreciate you letting me stay here."

Vance runs a hand over his buzz cut and sighs, dropping his hand to his tattooed neck. "Wanna get pizza tonight?"

I suppress a laugh. While Vance is caring and always makes me wish I had an older brother to take care of me, he's cagey when it comes to emotional moments. But that's okay with me. "Sure, man, pizza it is."

Vance flops against the chair and pulls out his phone, typing in the website for our favourite pizza place. "So, did you get anything from the Lower Pits camp host?" he asks as he types away.

"I have an interview tomorrow," I smile, already knowing where this conversation is going. I can tell, just by the note of excitement in his voice, that he's gotten an interview, too.

"Funny," he says, glancing up at me. "So do I."

The two of us laugh and give each other a fist-pump. "This summer's gonna be fucking sick," he continues. "Training little kids is gonna be a blast, but I'm looking forward to the weekends. And the fact that we'll get free passes? Hell yeah. That saves me seventy dollars."

I smile, trying not to let my excitement and cockiness overwhelm me. Despite not having completed the interview yet, I know I'm going to get the job. I'm one hell of a dirt biker and I know the trail system almost as well as the camp host. I know how to properly stitch up a wound and perform CPR should anyone get injured. I'm qualified for this job, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.

While Vance begins to read out the different types of pizzas we could order, I let my mind flitter elsewhere, imagining what it would be like to spend the whole summer in the bush, away from the busy, tourist-infested Okanagan region. To fall asleep beneath a black sea, dotted with white stars.

To be away from my father and not have bruises and cuts decorating my body.