“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Barely a whisper.
Mr. Stahl grunted. In a flash, he lunged for Jeremy, who was too slow to make it to the safety of the bedroom. The men collapsed on the hallway floor; Jeremy’s dad had the advantage on top of him.
“Get off!” Jeremy bellowed.
Large, meaty fist to his left side. He groaned and twisted.
“Where are my guns, you little shit?” his father spit in his face. “My guns!”
Jeremy grabbed his father’s face with both hands—pushing and squeezing—trying to position his fingers right under his dad’s eyeballs. He could press hard. He could pop them out.
“After all I’ve done for you!” his father roared, the words muffled behind his son’s palms. He slapped them away and grabbed Jeremy’s throat.
“No, Dad!” Jeremy wheezed, pulling on his father’s fingers.
“Give me my goddamn guns!”
His chokehold tightened, and then his hands left his son altogether. For a split second. Brief reprieve before frenzied fists came down hard, pounding over and over and over again. Punch to the face. Punch to the ribs. Punch to the gut, and to the face again. On and on his father’s fists flew about his body in a pattern of destruction. Blood oozed. Blood sprayed. Blood seeped into the carpet.
I’m dying, Jeremy thought, reeling from the punches, feeling his life force ebb slowly away.
His father would not relent. His fists lay claim to every part of Jeremy’s body until he closed his eyes, submitting to his fate. But her face flashed before him, staring in confusion.
Get up and fight, she said.
I can’t.
What’s the point of all that weight lifting if you’re not gonna do anything with it?
I’m tired.
Hey, guess what? We’re all tired. We all wanna go to sleep. But if you go to sleep now, you’ll never wake up.
I just can’t anymore.
You can! You have to! Now get the fuck up and fight!
With what?
Your fists, Jer. That bat in the corner. Don’t you remember putting it there?
He glanced to his right. His baseball bat, tucked inconspicuously in the shadows. His only hope, salvation. He drew in a deep breath. His ribs sparked and screamed, but he held the breath and counted: One, two, three, four. He paused. Five.
He grunted and heaved, pushing against his father’s shoulders with all the strength he had left. His father lost his balance and fell over. Jeremy dove for the bat, securing it in his bloody fists. He brandished it above his head, used all his momentum to swing it down and around in front of his chest, like he was going for a homerun world record. The bat smacked his father’s head, thrusting his body forward—chest flattened on the floor. His father gurgled and moaned, attempted to push himself up. Jeremy swung again—a second and final time—and his dad hit the floor once more. This time he lay perfectly still.
Jeremy watched a tiny trail of blood slither out from among the strands of his father’s greasy hair. He dropped the bat and fell to his knees.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” he cried, unable to stopper the tears. They gushed down his cheeks, mixing with blood—an Impressionism painting of swirling terror and grief.
His father said nothing.
“I need you to please leave me alone,” Jeremy went on, reaching out to touch his father’s shoulder.
No movement.
“I’ll . . . I’ll give you the guns. Just please don’t come here anymore,” Jeremy said.
Nothing.
“Dad?” He shook his shoulder gently.
The hallway was quiet and still.
“Dad? Get up and leave,” Jeremy demanded.
His fingers automatically moved to his father’s throat. No pulse.
“Jesus,” Jeremy breathed, grunting and straining as he worked to roll his father over.
He gasped and reared back, unprepared for his father’s blank eyes staring back at him.
“Dad?”
He didn’t know how to perform CPR. He wasn’t sure it mattered now. What mattered was hiding those guns before he called the police. He’d have to call the police. He’d have to admit to killing his father.
“It was self-defense,” he said, panicked. “Self-defense!”
He rushed to the bedroom and retrieved the guns, ignoring his body’s angry protests. He knew his ribs were cracked. He knew he had gaping wounds that required medical treatment. Wasn’t important now.
He quietly stole down the stairs to Roy’s garage and carefully unlocked the back door. No movement. No one around. He walked to the cabinet that housed his precious paraphernalia and tucked the guns in the back, wrapped securely and out of sight. He locked the cabinet, locked the garage door, and ascended the stairs once more to the crime scene.
“Self-defense,” he said again, when he looked down at his father.
“You gotta work harder to defend your army, Jer,” Mr. Stahl said, lounging on the couch with his son, game controller in hand.
“I’m trying! But your army keeps getting bigger,” Jeremy replied. “How are you doing that?”
“You’ve gotta conquer lands, son,” his dad replied. “They’ll fight for you over dying.”
“You keep beating me to it,” Jeremy argued.
“’Cause I’m faster and stronger,” his dad said. “You will be, too, as long as you keep practicing. Hell, you’ll beat me one day.”
“I stink at this game,” Jeremy huffed, tossing his controller.
“Hey, with that attitude, you’ll never get better. Don’t give up. Never give up on anything,” his dad said.
“It’s just a stupid game,” Jeremy muttered.
“Listen, you master this, and then you move on to something else. And then you master that, and you move on to something else. All these things help you get better,” Mr. Stahl said, tousling his son’s hair.
Jeremy grunted.
“Come on, let me see you defend the front gate. Where are you gonna put your men?” Mr. Stahl said, handing Jeremy his controller.
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Stahl sighed patiently. “All right, son. Lemme teach you how to fight.”
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
Jeremy swallowed the sob. “I . . . I killed my dad . . .”