Crunch

A bottle crunched into a his mother’s skull. The sickening crack of bone and the acrid stench of rancid milk and piss were already a constant to young John’s life. A veritable mountain of a man was screaming, his white wife-beater was stained with grease and sweat. Fat meaty arms windmilled as the cascade of insults rammed against the seven year old’s ears. He couldn’t try to stop his step-father, he was too weak. He couldn’t try to run away from this man’s tender care, he wasn’t ever fast enough to escape the house or the beatings that would follow the attempt. He wasn’t smart enough to call the police when this was occurring, or to go to any organization that could possible help. All he could do was sit and watch, because according to Frank it helped him “learn”. Young John did learn, because every time Frank got uppity, Mariana would allow him 3 good hits, then show him that she could not possibly be intimidated. So after the punch, the headbutt, and the bottle, Frank was done. Mariana then sidestepped his clumsy fist and placed her own firmly into Frank’s throat. The sudden expulsion of bile and surprise from his father’s face always made John laugh. His 6 and a half foot mother then picked Frank up and threw him into the wall, making the house shake. This happened every other day in Young John’s home. He then got the fantastic sight of seeing Frank beaten to a black and bloody bereaved piece of barely alive pulp then ordered to clean up the house. Violence was a part of John’s life. It was in his blood, from both sides. It was also in his 3 brothers. So it was that the events within his home were not an hour later repeated by the 4 sons, who then attempted to beat the life out of each other. It could be said that the backyard of his childhood home had been given more blood than water to grow with. His life was not wonderful, nor terrible. It simply was.
One day however, as he was picking up the groceries from the store, he saw his mother and father standing together for the first time he had ever seen. It was them defending some old woman from a couple of muggers. It was beautiful. The way the blood flowed, the screams of pain and terror. Fighting was all well and good, but eventually people will get tired of it and you’ll win too many times. But what clicked that day, was that people who defend others? They’ll never run out of people to fight. Why on earth was Old Johnny remembering that now? It was likely because he was in a bar fight. Why? It didn’t really matter other than someone was cowering and so his back was to them and on the people in front. It didn’t help that there was bit of blood seeping out of his arm from a few weeks back, but he didn’t give a crap. After all, what do those people keep saying? 60 is the new forty? Yeah, so in that case he was a little bit past his midlife crisis.