James wished he could return from work to a good home. But that wasn't his luck. Bright light shone through his house as he pulled into the driveway, giving off the effect of a cheerful, happy family. In fact, it was anything but. Cold, bitter air swept away the warmth of his car as he cut off the engine, gathering his things and headed for the front door. He didn't bother knocking, instead, settling for his keys, he entered the house.
Like other homes, there might be the smell of a dinner cooking, or the sound of the television playing, but in his, there were no TV sounds or kitchen aromas.
James drug his feet as he wandered into the living room, dropping his computer and notes on the couch. His father, James Senior, sat in the recliner a few feet away, marveling the wine in his glass. Looking past him, he saw his mother, standing in the kitchen. James went to her first.
Roslyn smiled at him, but it wasn't a happy one. “You'll have to make your own dinner tonight. Your father—” She shook her head, sighing.
James nodded and gave her a quick hug. She didn't need to say another word. After a moment, they released and she went upstairs, probably to her separated room, no doubt. He stared after her until she disappeared from sight and then meandered to the fridge, pulling out a bottled water and a leftover sandwich from a previous night. Once satisfied with what he got, he went and plopped on an opposite couch from his father, who had drained his wine glass and was opening another bottle to fill it. Glancing over at him, James saw his father in his rumpled casual attire, a dress shirt and pants. James hated to admit it, but his father and he shared the same features: same hair, face, eyes... James pulled out of his daze, realizing his father was watching him from the couch as he took a sip from the newly filled wine glass, and James noticed his father’s pupils were dilated. Oh no, he’s drunk.
The father spoke between sips, “What’s gone on… at work today?”
James sighed, bowing his head and hearing the slurred speech come from his father’s lips. “I’ve accepted a new case.” When he pulled his head up, he saw that his father had gone from drinking from the glass to the bottle, already half empty. “Father, your drinking habits are atrocious.”
James Senior snorted and took a deep gulp of his wine. “What’s the new case over?”
The teen took a bite of his sandwich before answering the question. “Congress asked us to capture the terrorist of 2039. Alive.” James finished his meal quickly and tossed his bottled water into the trashcan his father kept beside the coffee table with the wine bottles.
His father tightened his jaw and immediately set down his glass. “Give the case to another team.”
“Why?” James asked. He heard his father’s voice become harder, more demanding through the drunken state. His heartbeat quickened. He had to tread lightly now, one wrong word could set his father off.
His father stood up quickly, almost knocking off one of the opened wine bottles. His eyes hardened on James and his voice grew loud with drunken slurs. “You can’t handle a case like that! You haven't had a case in over four months. Assign it to another team.”
“My team and I can handle this case. We are the best.” James grit his teeth and his eyebrows furrowed, but his voice remained calm. His father's eyes burned and a vein in his temple jumped out, signaling he was beginning to get drunkenly angry. Not a good sign.
“You were the best. Until your last mission, which was a complete failure, and you don't even know if your target was successfully terminated and you got my son killed.” His father spat the words out in his drunken stage.
I’m your son, too… James forced his face to remain neutral. Don’t let him see he’s upsetting you.
“Nathaniel was the only reason you and your pathetic team were the best.” His father grabbed the bottle and chugged it dry, then threw it in the trash can.
James grimaced. The words stung deeper than they should've, but the death of his brother was still a tender subject, even four months later. And his father was right; his team was the best because they had Nathaniel. James didn't have any reply. Instead, he sank back in the couch, refusing to make eye contact with him.
James Senior turned his back to him, clenching his fists at his sides. “Your brother always had the humbleness to help others before himself. I knew it from the very beginning. I should've known he'd make such a stupid mistake like he did—”
James leaped from the couch, grabbing his father’s shirt, and slammed them both into the wall. His ears felt red hot, and his blood was boiling. “He didn't make a mistake.” James spat. “He did what he thought was right—”
“Exactly.” His father shoved him, causing James to fall back, releasing his father. “He broke the cardinal rule: always protect yourself.” He shook his head, a sad smirk on his face. “The family business we run has endured for decades, traveling down the line from an ancestor I can’t even remember. Since the nineteen-hundreds we’ve conducted covert missions without a single casualty... until Nathaniel. All because he broke the cardinal rule. Because he couldn't protect himself first.”
His father turned away with that same sad smirk, only causing James’ rage to grow. No one talked about Nate like that. No one. He grabbed his father by the arm, pulling him back to face him. “I don't care what your cardinal rule says! He sacrificed himself for me. To make sure I got out of there alive. He followed his own rules... the rules of an older brother, and that is a code of honor.” The words he spoke felt torn from his chest. His hands shook at his sides along with his voice. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes, but he forced them back.
“He's a disgrace.” James Senior spat and shoved James away.
“He’s family!” James returned the favor and pushed his father too. His father stumbled for a second, then recovered.
“He’s dead!”
The burning anger inside James didn't register that his father had gone on the offense, and the next thing James saw was a fist colliding with his face.
James' knees gave out beneath him and he fell back against the wooden coffee table near him. The table did nothing to stop his fall, as it collapsed too. Pain ignited behind his eyes and stars danced in his vision. Sluggishly, he brought a hand up to his face and felt a wet liquid. Blood. When his sight returned, he saw his father kneeling over him, hand on his chest, pinning him down, and the fire dancing behind his deep brown eyes.
“It should’ve been you to die. Not my son.” His father’s voice grew quiet, but the fire in his eyes never receded. James had to swallow hard, his heart beat at 200 miles-per-hour, and fighting tears at the same time.
“I—I know.” Those were the only words James could get to come from his mouth.
His father sneered and a fist met James’ face, pain shooting through his body. Grabbing his face, feeling blood trickle from his nose, he rolled onto his side, groaning. Cracking open his eyes, he managed to open them enough just in time to see the next blow—a kick right in his stomach. Impact met, and air flew from his lungs, causing him into a gasping fit. He threw up his hands right as contact met him again at his stomach, and this time James rolled over onto his hand and knees, hurling the dinner he just ate.
Cursing, his father grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, heaving him up. “I trained you and your brother since you were seven. Seven! And this is all you have done for me? Such a pathetic excuse!”
His father threw James back into the remains of the table, collapsing in a heap, and didn’t move again. James barely heard his father mutter an insult in Spanish before giving James a final kick in his side. The teen didn’t even have enough energy to groan in pain. His father left then, slamming the front door closed, leaving James beaten and bruised in the remains of the table.
He laid there, between a state of being knocked out and awake. During his daze, memories of the incident four months ago floated around in his vision, the brutal sounds rattling in his ears. A loud bang, as if someone had slammed a door, but much louder. Then shouting voices, followed by immense pain. But over all of that, there was a distant voice echoing in his head, “We don’t have time for games anymore, James. We’ve got to stay focused if we’re going to stay alive during all these missions. You can’t keep being reckless like this. James, you’ve got to understand that one day, I won’t be here to protect you and when that happens, you’ve got to stand for what’s right on your own.”
James woke up after that, like he always did when he dreamed about it. But when he dreamed it, he would always wake up jumpy and sweaty, a feeling James thought would cost him in the field. The anger and adrenaline he felt earlier had vanished, leaving him drained and in tears. He carefully picked himself up, holding his side and wincing. Tears fell from his eyes, not because of the abuse, but because of the memory that came back. He took a shaky breath and limped to the stairs, grasping the railing for support. He winced as a sharp pain surged up his spine, through his shoulders and lower back. He cursed himself for getting into a fight with his father. He knew better, from past experiences. Foolish. James shook his head and instantly regretted it. His head swam, black spots dancing in his eyes. He tightened his grip on to the railing, and took deep breaths until the ground quit spinning.
He made it up the stairs and passed his own room, his father's, then his mother's, before reaching the last door in the small hallway. He pushed it open slowly and was greeted with the familiarity of the bedroom. There were many nights when he and Nate would stay in Nate's room, looking at old pages in their bright yellow scrapbook while their parents would argue or James would be resting after his father's latest abuse. He remembered eight-year-old Nate bringing home the scrapbook one day and told him, “Let's put good memories in here, so we can remember the good ones during the bad.” James sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as he did, and closed his eyes. There were no screams, slamming of doors, or the laughter of his brother as they'd flip through the scrapbook. It was too quiet, and it bothered him. With his brother gone, the house seemed to be dead, just like Nathaniel.
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