It starts like any other summer day; too hot in my tiny room, but I stay cooped up in there anyways, box fan blasting, curtains drawn and lights off. Like that’d cool it down any. But Dad is home, so going downstairs for more than a quick snack in peace is nothing more than a pipe dream. At least my sister gets that luxury.

Then, the yelling started. Nothing new.

Mom stays on the other side of the door, and I start recording on my shitty android phone with the scuffed screen, squatted by my ugly green wall. That’s been the routine since freshman year of high school. 7 years of recordings, almost every instance cataloged in that wretched device. Nothing ever changed. Until he threw a punch. It ricocheted off the thin door across the hallway and reverberated through me.

Then, in a blur, the police are called. I get the dog into my room, and she’s shaking. Everyone is scared. My blood is boiling over, the adrenaline making me tense and unsteady, but my breathing stays even. I’m not scared of him. There’s only feelings I may never be able to pin to a name clawing at my chest, chief of which being hate.

The bedroom door, victim to the attack, is cracked across the top. Laminate pokes through the white paint like it’s covering up cardboard. I peek at the police officers through my slightly ajar door, and for once my dog stays put on the bed, drinking the last of my water out of my favorite mug. If it was under different circumstances, maybe I’d laugh.

He’s downplaying the severity of it, saying that little crack is barely anything. The cop escorting him away nods along, and I’m sure it’s just a deescalation method, but part of me can’t help but worry. Maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe dads were supposed to hit moms and break shit and yell and hate their failure kids. I stand in the doorway. My sister somehow snuck in there between everything and I won’t let him hurt my family.

So I stand in the doorway.

He asks for a hug.

I never liked hugs, and he knew this. I made it abundantly clear, but as a man, he never took my AFAB worries as anything but me being sarcastic or PMSing or whatever. My comfort wasn’t something he took seriously. And seriously? For fucking real? We’re just going to hug out the abusive tendencies? If there wasn’t a door in between my parents, I know my mom would’ve been nursing a black eye or worse. I could only shake my head.

“Really?” He grinds out. He’s escorted out of the house.

I never saw him again.

I’m glad I got to disappoint him one last time.