It was just getting light outside. I could see the uncolored early morning light starting to creep through the blinds. Jason was still sound asleep. I could hear his heavy breathing. Thank God it was summer vacation. At least when Dad came home drunk and kept us all awake fuming about something, we didn't have to be up so early for school.
I was 17 and the oldest of four boys. Jason was the youngest and we shared a room for several reasons. First of all, since Jason was born I had been his big brother and the only positive male influence in his young life. He was eight years old and dad was already well on his way to being an alcoholic when he came along. Dad was rough on all of us but especially Jason when he was little.
“Shut that damn kid up before I come in there and knock him out!” he'd yell to my mom.
It was then that my father and I became mortal enemies. I was about nine or ten and Jason was just a baby. When he started being abusive with Jason, I had to do something so I'd get in his face and scream at him to leave him alone. That usually got me the back of my dad's hand, knocking me to the floor but even at ten, I didn't cry. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He abused my mother almost every night. I could hear them arguing well into the early morning hours. Mostly it was him arguing and swearing and my mom defending what few things were right about our household.
I knew the tougher I was the better I would condition my older two brothers to deal with my father. Ron was seven and Dave was five. That made me “Jordan the big brother,” fearless and spicy, for all of my 78 pounds. Those had been tough years and it hadn't gotten any better.
Jason stirred a little and resumed his deep slumber. I heard the toilet flush so I knew one of the other boys was up. After living in a house for seventeen years, you could tell by the sound of their bare feet on the cold linoleum floor. Ron was now 14 and Dave just turned 12. It had been a crummy childhood for all of us.
Dad had started drinking even before I was born but it just got worse as the years went on. When Jason was born, it really took a nosedive. He'd come home and if Jason was crying for any reason it would start him screaming and yelling. It was never really about anything in particular. Maybe it rained that day or maybe the car wasn't running right. It didn't matter. He was always in a foul mood and smelled of liquor. He'd knock my mom around for a while and in the middle of it all she'd point a finger at me and tell me, “Get out of here!” She knew that if I interfered, I'd get knocked on my butt again.
Now at 17, it just made me livid that she would still put up with that. I felt bad about it later, but in a fit of anger I would tell her that if she was too stupid to leave him, I'd take the boys and at least get them out of this place. I had no real idea where I'd take them. I had just finished my junior year in high school and just had a part-time job at the local burger joint.
It was a Monday morning and Dad had just stumbled out the door looking like he didn't own any of us. I used to think, “If we are so bad, why are you still here?” But the answer became obvious as I got older. I had watched my mom go through three pregnancies, cook his meals, wash his clothes and even clean him up when he was to drunk to take care of himself. Now the question was more, why were we here?
The boys were busy spilling milk and cornflakes all over the table and floor and as usual, I was going behind them cleaning up. Mom didn't deserve to get up to a messy kitchen. Last night there was more of a ruckus than usual. Dad had come home at 11:30 yelling about his dinner being all dried out in the oven. As was the norm, Mom made him a whole new dinner from scratch just to get him to shut up. She didn't dare question why he wasn't home to eat with the rest of us.
