There was nothing to say to that, so I kept quiet.
The way he always called me girl, like it was some sort of insult to be a female, didn’t even irk me tonight.
I was in full self-preservation mode, knowing what I had to do to get out of this room unscathed: take his shit, keep my mouth shut, and pray he left me alone.
"Do you know where your mother is, girl?" he snarled.
Again, I didn’t respond.
It wasn’t a real question.
He was pumping me with information before the onslaught.
"Breaking her back over you!" Dad roared. "Working herself to the bone because you're a spoiled, little cunt who thinks she's better than everyone."
"I don’t think I'm better than anyone," I mumbled, and then immediately regretted throwing verbal petrol on his already burning temper.
"Look at you," Dad sneered, waving a hand at me. "In your fancy fucking private school uniform. Coming home late. Thinking you are god's fucking gift. Were you whoring yourself around?" He demanded, taking a few staggering steps towards me. "Is that why you're late again? Got yourself a little boyfriend?"
I immediately recoiled but didn’t dare open my mouth to defend myself.
He wouldn’t believe me either way.
Nine times out of ten, it made it worse.
And ten times out of ten, answering him back resulted in a stinging cheek.
"That's it, isn’t it? You've been messing around with one of those posh, rugby pricks with daddies' money at your precious Tommen," he sneered. "Spreading your legs like the dirty, little tramp you are!"
"I don’t have a boyfriend, Dad," I strangled out.
Swinging his arm back, he wacked me across the face with the rolled-up paper. "Don’t fucking lie to me, girl!"
"I'm not lying," I sobbed, clutching my burning cheek.
Being slapped across the face with a rolled-up newspaper might not sound like a painful thing, but when the man yielding the weapon weighed three times what you did, it hurt.
"Explain this, then," my father demanded. Tearing open the newspaper, he roughly flicked through the pages until stopping on the sports section. "Explain him!"
Blinking away tears, I looked down at the page Dad was pointing at and immediately felt my blood run cold.
There I was, in full technicolor, smiling for the stupid photographer, with Johnny's arm wrapped around my waist, all smiles and blushed cheeks.
I couldn’t think about the picture or question why it was printed on the biggest newspaper in Ireland because I was terrified.
I was so frightened that I could taste it.
You're going to die, Shannon.
This is the night he's going to kill you…
"He's the captain of the rugby team," I hurried to say, trying to think up a lie to get myself out of the beating I knew full well I was about to receive. "They won some big match," I rambled, desperately clutching at straws. "Mr. Twomey, the principal, had us all stand in for a picture with him...I don’t even know him, Dad, I swear!"
I knew I should have expected my father's next move, he'd perfected it to a fine art down through the years, but when he clutched my throat and slammed me against the fridge, I was still caught off-guard.
Squeezing tightly, he hissed, "You are lying to me –"
"I'm...not," I strangled out, clawing at his hands. "Dad…please…I can't…breathe –"
The sound of the front door opening and then quickly closing filled the air.
Dad released my throat and I physically sagged in relief.
Gasping for air, I scrambled away from him.
Seconds later, Joey appeared in the doorway, looking like a gift sent from god with a grease stained face and oil-covered overalls.
Joey patted Dad's shoulder and then pushed him aside with ease before strolling into the kitchen, swinging a set of keys around his fingers. "How's it going, family?"
He looked relaxed and sounded cheerful, but the tightness around his eyes assured me that he was anything but.
Acting like he didn’t have a care in the world was Joey's coping mechanism.
Mine was turning mute.
"Joey," Dad acknowledged, looking slightly more alert now at the presence of the more dominant alpha in the family.
Our father may be big and bitter, but Joey was bigger and faster.
"Boys up in bed?" Joey asked, grabbing a can of coke from the fridge.
Dad nodded but didn’t take his eyes off me.
"Where's Mam?" Joey asked, obviously trying to ease the tension. Cracking open the cap, he took a deep swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still at work?"
"Your mother's at work and this one here is late home again," our father barked. He pointed a finger at me and slurred, "Missed her fucking bus apparently."
"I know," Joey replied breezily, before turning his attention to me. "How's it going, Shan?"
"Hey, Joe," I croaked out, clenching then unclenching my fists to stop my hands from moving to my throat, as I desperately tried to get my heartbeat under control. "Nothing. Just hungry. I was getting a snack."
Joey walked over to where I was standing, feet frozen to the floor, and playfully nudged my cheek with his knuckles.
It was a tender display of affection and a silent show of solidarity.
"Did Aoife stay long when she drove you home?"
My eyes widened in confusion.
The look my brother gave me said go with it.
Realization dawned on me.
My brother was giving me an out.
"Uh, no," I choked out, eyes locked on Joey. "She just dropped me off and went straight home."
Joey winked his approval and then reached around me, shoving his hand into the back of the cupboard –the one I couldn’t reach without the help of a chair. "Here." Pulling out a packet of chocolate biscuits, he handed them to me. "No doubt, these are what you're looking for?"
"It's not a halfway house," Dad slurred.
"This is my food, old man," Joey shot back coolly, turning to face our father. "Bought with my money. From my job."
"This is my house!"
"A house given to you by the government," Joey countered coolly. "Because of us."
"Don’t get smart with me, boy," Dad shot back, but his tone lacked its usual punch.
Drunk as he was, our father was quite aware that the shit he pulled with me wouldn’t float with my brother.
They'd had several belting matches down through the years, but the fight that burned brightest in my memory was the one that had occurred this past November.
The fight had been about the usual; infidelity.
Dad had been caught with another woman, no surprises there, and had decided to up and leave us for the other woman – again, no surprises there.
Mam had just found out she was pregnant the day he left and had taken to the bed.
Joey and I had spent almost two weeks taking care of the younger boys and cleaning up the mess our parents had made.
When our father finally rolled through the door, ten days later, stinking of whiskey and throwing shit at Mam, my brother had lost it.
He and Dad ended up brawling in the living room, smashing through furniture and ornaments as they went for each other.
That wasn’t why it stood out, though.
It stood out because the fight had ended with my father curled up on the living room floor in the fetal position while my brother delivered blow after merciless blow to his face.
It was absolute carnage, and while Dad had managed to break Joey's nose, it was my brother who'd come out on top.
Dad was in a bad way after the beating he'd taken, and in a screwed-up way it had worked to his advantage because Mam had felt sorry for him and taken him back.
However depressing that day was for us, as the children of toxic parents, it also signified a shift in power.
That day's events showed our father that he was not the top dog anymore.
There was a new dog in town – one who'd taken one too many beatings from him and was prepared to shut his shit down at any moment.
"Shannon," Joey said, tone level, eyes locked on our father. "It's getting late. Why don’t you head on up to bed?"
Joey didn’t need to tell me twice.