(Kyle)
One powerful punch to my abdomen tells me he’ll do it again. He grunts and grits his teeth as his fist meets with my jaw –luckily it won’t leave a mark this time. He lands a punch to my stomach. I cringe and let out a slight groan. I almost topple over onto the wooden chair in the lounge.
He is drunk off the power he prides; he is angry at the thought of not getting his way; he is unmerciful at the suggestion of defiance.
I’ve done everything he’s asked me to –indulged in a life of crime to protect my own secrets and to protect the people I care about.
Nothing I do is ever good enough for him.
Nothing I do will ever be good enough.
“You fool,” he spites, panting, his breath is all alcohol, “Get to it, now!”
I struggle to stand to my feet. I’ve been trained
