Momma asked us boys to be the legacy of good in a world full of bad. Without a second thought to the consequences of my actions, I take off.
The apartment complex isn’t upscale by any means. No, it’s a dive. What the hell do I need to live in some nice-ass place for? I’m only here to shit, shower, and sleep occasionally. I storm to my neighbor’s door and halt in front of it as I realize whose it is.
My landlord.
Mr. Rand, the Russian motherfucker who pretends not to speak English when anyone tries to complain, but can certainly understand the language enough to have you sign on the dotted line and take your money. He’s a dark-haired beer-bellied asshole with one giant chip on his shoulder.
I feel the vibration of a body hitting the door on the other side. I hear the whimper of a female and I see red.
Nothing matters except saving her. Once upon a time I couldn’t save Momma, but I damn sure won’t be in that position again.
I feel the door give as the weight is removed on the other side, allowing me to open it safely. As the door swings, I am not prepared for the rage inside me to build so rapidly. The apartment is tidy, which is more than I can say for my own place. Though small, someone has put effort into keeping it clean and clutter-free.
I watch as this frail young woman is tossed across the living room, where she immediately runs down the hall, halting when she finds the end and falling into the corner, planting herself against the wall. She curls into herself, her dark hair stringy and matted in blood, and tears roll down her swollen face. Blood trickles down her nose and off both her lips. Her right eye is swollen shut and multiple shades of red and purple. Her arms are skin and bones as she holds her knees to her chest. She lifts her head and I see the welts across her neck.
She looks up at me with the one eye that she can open, it’s so glassed over in her tears I’m not sure she can actually see me. There is a slight shake of her head, I assume what is an effort to stop me. Her mouth opens and closes slowly, but no words come out.
I sense movement beside me and that’s when I see the bear of a man who is my landlord lunging at her, the belt in his arm swinging wildly over his head. Without hesitation, I storm him. He crashes into the wall, pictures fall as the place rattles from the impact.
I grab him by his shirt collar and shake him. “Wanna pick on little ones, huh? Why don’t you try out a real man for size?” I mock him as the anger consumes me. I can smell the alcohol on him. Cheap bourbon is his poison. I draw back and slam my fist down into his face as he paws at me. I kick out at his knees, bringing him to the ground. Straddling him, I pound away at his head, face, and torso. He lies under me swinging at air, grasping for anything while I continue my onslaught.
I feel the burn in my knuckles at I bust them open on his jaw. Lights out, motherfucker. He goes limp and I can’t stop the last few hits from being thrown.
Standing, I step back and look at my victim. His face is immediately swelling and I’m pretty sure I broke his nose. Blood runs out of the corner of one eye, his nose, and down his ear. Maybe next time he will think of this before he puts his hands on her.
Her.
I look over to his victim. My eyes meet hers and I get lost in the depth of emotion coming from the overly large dark circle of the eye I can see. Going over to her, I extend my hand. She takes it, her small fingers are cold sliding into the warmth of mine. Instinctively as she stands, I pull her into me and hold her close for a moment. She tenses in my embrace. I run my large hand over her mess of dark tangles before I kiss the top of her head and release her.
She looks like him. A younger version of him, but still the resemblance is uncanny. I just beat the hell out of her father, who beats the hell out of her on a regular basis, from the looks of her frail body and the scar on her cheek. Fucking bastard.
Reaching in my back pocket, I pull out my wallet and a business card. Putting my wallet back in place, I look to her. She stares at me wide-eyed and wild. The blood is drying on her face, so I take her by the hand and walk her to the kitchen sink. Leaving the card on her countertop, I wash my hands and cringe as the soap stings on my open knuckles. Letting my own blood wash down the drain, I wet a paper towel. Tenderly, I wipe around her swollen eye and then her tear-filled one. Her skeleton-like fingers come up and wrap around my wrist as I clean up under her nose and ever so gently wipe her lips.
I hear the grunt of her father waking. My exit cue, time to go before we have round two.