God Complex

CONTENT WARNING: This chapter contains references to domestic abuse and may be triggering to some readers. Reader discretion is advised. 

~.~

“I can think of a few things that can make you quit hockey,” my father said, his voice relaxed, but his face was filled with hell. 

He stood chest to chest with me, and I fought every instinct screaming at me to lower my eyes, to pull back. I fought them and stood perfectly still, not letting that dark look intimidate me.

“What?” I spat. “Are you going to pay the coach to kick me out of the team? Then I'll just find another team to join.”

“Jackson, please,” my mother whispered, and that just made my fists clench harder. 

Why was she calling me back and not her husband? He was the one threatening to take my dream away from me! My hopes for a better future, and still I was the one being called back? Did she really think I would just roll over and accept this bullshit? Bloody no. 

“That is way beneath me, Jackson,” he said in a low voice, acting like my mother hadn't spoken, eyes still fixed on mine. “I can think of something way worse.”

“Then do your worst, Father. But nothing is making me quit hockey.” 

Silence filled the study as we stared at each other, a muscle ticking under his jaw. Finally, he stepped away first, turning back, and I held my breath, not wanting him to see any weakness.

“Don’t challenge your father, Jackson,” my mother whispered, tugging my arm gently. 

I ripped my arm away from her hold, turning to leave and just be done with this bullshit, but my father’s voice stopped me. 

“A week, Jackson. I will give you a week to make your decision, and if by the end of the week you haven't quit, then you have forced my hand.” 

My back was facing him, and I could feel his eyes burning into me as I said, “Again, Father, do your worst.” 

I kept walking, my hands shaking with anger, but when I reached the door, I paused. I turned to look at him over my shoulder. 

“You feel threatened, don’t you?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh no. No.” I turned to face him fully, my shoulders squared. “You do feel threatened. You always liked to remind us how we'd be nothing without you, without your legacy. You always liked to act like our god, and like we can’t be anything without you. That’s why you’ve been trying so hard to sabotage my chance at hockey. That’s why you’re finally resorting to threats now that you see your petty plans aren’t working.”

I nodded slowly, my eyes wide with realization. “Ah, bloody hell, but it makes so much sense now!” 

And I knew I had hit a mark when every vein in his forehead and neck popped out, and his eyes turned red. He looked like a real monster now, but I wasn't scared of him anymore. I was no longer intimidated. He needed us, not the other way around, but his god complex will never let him admit or see it. He needed us, and we didn't. 

He knew that. He has always known that. 

“Jackson, please, that’s enough,” my mother whispered, her voice trembling with… fear?

I shook my head as I turned to her. “But can’t you see, Mom? Can’t you see that you can finally leave him? He needs us! But we don’t need him!”

But she was shaking her head. “Please…”

“I feel like I've been too patient with you, Jackson.” That cold, hard voice came from his desk, and I fought not to flinch as I turned back to him. “Too soft with you.”

He walked slowly toward me, but my mother jumped in front of me, spreading her arms to shield me. He stared down at her with his face filled with irritation. 

“Step aside, dear.”

She shook her head frantically. “Elijah… Please don’t hurt him.”

Hurt me? HURT ME?

“I do not resort to such acts, and you know it, so step aside. This is a chat between father and son.”

When my mother refused and just remained standing, I stepped in front of her, and she shrieked from behind me, rushing to grab my arm and try to pull me away, but I didn't budge. My father was many things, but I have never known him to be a violent man. I have never seen him raise a hand to strike someone. He barely even raises his voice. 

“Good man,” he said when I remained standing with my back straight. “Now, Jackson Edward M’Call, you will quit hockey at this very moment. You will cease going to that waste of time you call practice, and you will follow in my footsteps.”

I didn't back down. I kept my back straight, and shoulders squared as I said in a cool voice, “I refuse, Father.”

He snapped. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm with such force that I felt something shift. 

“Elijah!” my mother yelled. 

I jerked away from him, trying to free my arm, but then he shoved me hard enough that my feet left the floor. I went down, instinctively throwing my hand out to break the fall. 

That was a mistake. 

Something in my wrist gave with a sickening crack, and a scream ripped out of my throat. 

“Jackson!” my mother screamed, rushing to me, but he held her back with one hand while he kicked me down with his boot when I tried to get up with my other hand. 

My palm slammed against the floor, and another burst of pain shot through my wrist. 

“We’re more similar than you think, my boy,” he said, his voice just as cold as the look on his face. I could barely make out his words from the blinding pain. I could barely hear him over my grunts of pain and my mother’s wailing. “You can hate me all you want, but when you look into the mirror, I will be looking back at you. And you will be nothing without me. You need me. Sooner or later, you’ll come to realize that.”

And then a smile broke across his face, chilly and wrong. He looked like he was enjoying seeing me in pain. He looked like he was enjoying destroying the only haven I have found. 

“You need your wrists to play hockey, don’t you?” he asked in a calm voice as he held back my mother, who was struggling and screaming, watching me as I struggled to get back up, but the pain was too much. 

But it was nothing compared to what I felt when he stepped on my broken wrist. The scream that ripped from my throat was inhuman, raw, and broken. He pressed his heel into my wrist, and I almost blacked out.

“Please stop!” she cried. “Please, God, stop it!” 

“So you won’t be able to play if both wrists are broken, yes?” 

Before I could even register the fresh pain coursing through me, he raised his leg and then brought it down on my wrist. 

Years later, I still remembered the sound.