Chapter 6: Into the Lion’s Den

The extra desk by the trash can was removed.

The classroom looked full, you couldn’t even tell a student was missing.

When a person dies, it’s like water disappearing into water.

Everything gradually returned to calm.

Jamie lived on in their words, then in my memory.

His good days didn’t last long, and neither did mine.

In ninth grade, with studies getting intense, the homeroom teacher helped me apply for free dormitory accommodation.

On my second night in the dorm, during evening study hall, Ms. Carter was going over the math test at the front of the room.

My father, reeking of alcohol, barged in.

"Where’s that little bitch Aubrey?"

It seemed he’d lost money again and was in a bad mood, wanting to beat me to vent.

My hand holding the pen tightened. I could feel my pulse in my fingertips.

Ms. Carter put down the test, and after a moment of shock, spoke calmly:

"Sir, please leave. Class is in session."

Her stern tone must have touched a sore spot in the man.

He swung his arm, sweeping everything off the teacher’s desk.

His finger nearly poked her forehead.

"Dare to tell me to leave? Who the hell are you?"

"You really think you’re somebody."

He raised his hand to hit. The whole class froze, pencils dropping and chairs scraping, but nobody moved.

No matter how strict Ms. Carter usually was, she was only in her early twenties. Faced with such a scumbag, how could she not be scared?

Her chest heaved violently, her fingertips dug into the edge of the desk, turning white from the force.

This was my favorite, most respected Ms. Carter.

She would secretly give me pens and notebooks under the pretense of encouragement.

She would argue with the principal to get me a free lunch card.

She saw me eating only cabbage at lunch and would quietly put her chicken strip in my tray.

She cared about my situation in class, afraid I’d be treated unfairly.

But now, she was suffering because of me.

In that instant, I don’t know where the courage came from, but I rushed up like crazy.

I pulled the teacher aside and stood in front of her.

Screaming for my father to get lost, I called him a monster.

A loud slap landed on my face.

The force was so great that half my face went numb, and blood seeped from the corner of my mouth.

My ears rang in waves.

My first thought:

Good, at least I blocked it.

Just can’t give the flower I folded for Ms. Carter from my drawer.

Today was Teacher Appreciation Day.

But it seemed I wasn’t worthy to be her student.

The monster was taken away by the belated security guard.

I slowly raised my head, feeling something indescribable from the gazes around me.

They did nothing, but I felt stripped bare.

That slap shattered the teacher’s dignity, my self-esteem, and my last umbrella of protection.

The principal told Ms. Carter that my staying in the dorm would affect other students’ safety, suggesting I continue as a day student.

The teacher wanted to speak up for me, but I couldn’t bear her help anymore.

I agreed to move out that night.

Luckily, I had so few belongings, I didn’t need help and could move by myself.

Looking at the dark night outside, I knew that starting tomorrow, my good days were over.

The abuser would have no scruples, becoming even more reckless.

And after returning home, I’d face the consequences of my first act of resistance.

Carrying my luggage at the crossroads, I imagined the past and fantasized about the future, both mixing with the early autumn wind that night.

In a daze, I fell into the illusion that my whole life would be a muddy, hard road.

But the world didn’t stop for my pain. Tomorrow would come, ready or not.

So, in this river of suffering, I paddled my broken oar and set off again.

The most direct way to deal with violence is with violence.

An eye for an eye.

I wrapped myself in a thin blanket, shivering in the wind at the bridgehead all night. There was no one on the street, only the yellow glow of the streetlights and the hiss of tires far off.

As dawn broke, a pair of eyes flashed through my mind—black as coal, cold and sharp.

Half a year ago, a family from out of state moved to Maple Heights.

They opened a tattoo shop at the far end of Willow Lane.

I heard: mother and son, one a reckless troublemaker, the other an unpredictable woman.

My father always bullied the weak and feared the strong.

Once he got drunk outside and raved, saying the crazy widow in the alley was a slut, anyone could pass by her door.

This got to the troublemaker’s ears.

That night, my tall, burly father was dragged home like a dead pig.

His face was bruised and swollen, his mouth full of blood and two broken front teeth.

The man was tall, his face hidden by the porch light.

He casually threw my father into the yard, then stepped forward and ground his foot hard on my father’s fingers, his tone sinister:

"Old bastard, if I ever hear your filthy mouth on my mom again, you can forget about your tongue."

My father nodded frantically, not daring to make a sound.

I hid behind the door, peeking through the crack.

Suddenly I met those deep, sharp eyes. The man let out a low laugh from deep in his throat.

When I came to, he was gone, and my back was covered in cold sweat.

He didn’t hurt innocents—the troublemaker still had principles.

At night, I pretended to sleep, listening to my father wailing and cursing next door all night, feeling a secret pleasure inside. It was the only time I’d seen him so afraid.

The troublemaker was ruthless.

My father couldn’t get out of bed for three days, and didn’t have the strength to beat me.

Afterwards, afraid of trouble, I always avoided that alley.

I’d never had contact with him.

The only one who could handle my father, besides him, I couldn’t think of anyone else.

So, at dawn, I entered the alley for the first time.

The cracked pavement was edged with soft green moss.

At the end stood a two-story building, the old peeling walls repainted clean white. A faded Harley-Davidson flag fluttered above the door, and the front steps were littered with cigarette butts.

A small dogwood tree grew in front, the air filled with a faint fragrance. The kind that made you think of spring, even when your life felt like permanent winter.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Inside was a living room, the walls hung with all kinds of hand-drawings.

A man stood with his back to the door, wearing a white work vest, his arm muscles tight and defined.

One hand held a cigarette between his fingers, the other was arranging tools on the workbench.

Hearing a sound, he flicked his cigarette ash, continuing his work.

His tone was indifferent:

"We’re closed. Come back later."

I knew, the sign at the door said 3:00pm—midnight.

But I wanted to say, I’m not here for a tattoo.

Yet I found it hard even to open my mouth; last night’s wounds untreated, my lips stuck together.

"Come back this afternoon..."

He turned his head.

Even the cigarette in his hand shook.

His dark eyes stared at me for a long time, then he cursed in a low voice, "Shit."

Before I could wonder why—

"Son, is the fried rice—oh my god, I knew getting up early was a bad sign, bad sign!"

A woman poked her head out, then hurried back to the kitchen with a spatula, so fast I only saw a flash of her clothes.

"......"

Realizing something, a small mirror was handed to me.

The man pressed his cheek, put out his cigarette, not wanting to say more.

I took it.

In the mirror, the girl’s face was pale, hair disheveled.

Dark circles under her eyes, one side of her face swollen high, dried blood at the corner of her mouth.

Wearing a red and white school hoodie.

And it was early morning.

No wonder it looked a bit scary.

It was lucky I wasn’t beaten just now—lucky for his good temper, lucky for me.

I awkwardly wiped my mouth.

He picked up a leather jacket from the sofa and put it on quickly.

"No need to come this afternoon either, I don’t tattoo minors."

"Especially runaway, rebellious kids."

He misunderstood.

I shook my head, took out a crumpled ten-dollar bill from my pocket.

Slowly placed it on the table. My voice barely came out. I tried to sound tough, but it cracked anyway.

"I heard you keep people safe—for a price. Can you... keep me safe, too?"

He glanced at me, neither lightly nor heavily.

"Do I look like a gangster?"

I plucked up my courage to look at him carefully.

Surprisingly young.

His brows and eyes were sharp and cold, his long lashes thick as crow’s wings.

Very good-looking, also very fierce.

Especially when expressionless.

Not only did he look like a gangster, he looked like a gang boss.

Thinking this, I blurted it out.

"......"

"......"

He twisted his neck, sneering.

"Pretty bold, whose kid are you?"

"Uh, the one from the far west end."

He thought for a moment.

"Don Murphy your dad?"

"He doesn’t have to be."

"......"

Maybe his neck was sore from talking down to me, so he turned and sat on the sofa.

"Didn’t you see that night?"

"I beat up your dad." He said, picking up the mug on the table.

"So are you going to beat me?" I asked.

"Do you need a beating?" he shot back.

I shook my head decisively.

My dad needs it, I don’t.

He lifted his eyelids.

"Then that’s settled."

He meant he wouldn’t hit me.

I didn’t know why, but I believed him.

Seeing the topic drifting, I pushed the ten dollars on the table forward again.

Maybe I was too indifferent about my dad being beaten, or too persistent in asking for help from the one who beat my dad.

He was surprised: "Don’t you hate me?"

"I do."

"I hate you didn’t beat him to death." I didn’t even think.

He choked, coughing several times.

He gripped his mug.

"No, how do you want me to protect you?"

"Beat my dad to death."

Half a joke, half serious.

He stopped drinking, putting the mug down.

"For a kid, you’re pretty wild."

I had no confidence, so I compromised.

"Then cripple him."

He rubbed his brow, annoyed:

"I can’t take that job."

I hadn’t had much hope anyway.

But hearing a no still disappointed me.

My heart slowly sank, I felt breathless and dizzy.

My vision blurred.

The next second, I fell forward.

Vaguely, I landed in a hurried embrace.

His arms caught me before I hit the floor. “You got guts, kid,” he muttered, but his voice was softer now. The world spun, and I wondered if this was what safety felt like—or just another kind of danger.