As we pulled up to the house, my Dad's anger was still simmering just below the surface, like a pot about to boil over. He had been seething since we left the restaurant, his mind fixed on confronting Mr. Thompson about the way he had been treating me. I could feel the tension radiating from him like a palpable force, making the air around us seem thick and heavy.
As we got out of the car, my Dad's eyes scanned the front of the house, his gaze lingering on the windows and doors as if searching for any sign of trouble. I followed his gaze, my heart racing with anticipation. What would we find inside?
But nothing could have prepared us for the scene that greeted us when we walked inside. Mr. Thompson was standing in the living room, his fists clenched and his face red with rage. And he was hitting my Mom, beating her up with a ferocity that made my blood run cold. She was cowering in the corner, her hands raised to protect herself, her face bruised and battered.
My Dad's anger boiled over in an instant. He charged at Mr. Thompson, his fists flying, his face twisted in a snarl. "You're going to pay for that, you son of a gun!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls.
Mr. Thompson turned to face him, a sneer on his face, his eyes flashing with defiance. "And who's going to make me?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
My Dad didn't hesitate. He launched himself at Mr. Thompson, the two of them crashing to the floor in a flurry of punches and kicks. The sound of their fighting filled the room, a cacophony of grunts and groans, the thud of fists on flesh. I watched in horror, my heart racing with fear, as they rolled around on the floor, their bodies locked in a fierce embrace.
"Stop it!" I screamed, trying to intervene, but my voice was lost in the din of their fighting. "Dad, stop!"
But he couldn't hear me. He was too caught up in his rage, too determined to protect my Mom and me from Mr. Thompson's abuse. He kept fighting, his fists pounding into Mr. Thompson's face, his body pinning him to the floor.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my Dad managed to pin Mr. Thompson to the floor, his arms locked around his neck, his face twisted in a snarl. "If you ever touch my son or his mother again, I'll kill you," he growled, his voice low and menacing.
Mr. Thompson glared up at him, his face twisted with hatred, his eyes flashing with defiance. "You'll pay for this," he snarled, his voice dripping with venom.
My Dad just smiled grimly, his eyes blazing with fury. "I'm shaking in my boots," he said, hauling Mr. Thompson to his feet and throwing him out of the house.
As the door slammed shut behind him, my Dad turned to my Mom and me, his chest heaving with exertion, his face still twisted in a snarl. "Are you two okay?" he asked, his voice softening, his eyes scanning our faces for any sign of injury.
My Mom nodded, her eyes welling up with tears, her face still bruised and battered. "Y-yes," she stammered, her voice shaking with fear. "Thank you, John."
I just nodded, still trying to process what I had just seen. The scene was still playing out in my mind, the sound of their fighting still echoing in my ears.
My Dad put a hand on my shoulder, his eyes scanning my face. "Let's get out of here," he said, his voice soft and gentle. "We'll go somewhere safe."
I nodded, grateful for his protection, grateful to be away from Mr. Thompson and his abuse. We left the house, leaving behind the scene of violence and fear, and walked into a brighter, safer future.
As we drove away from the house, my Mom began to recount the events that led to the fight, her voice shaking and her eyes still welling up with tears. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, before starting to speak.
"It started when Thompson came home from school," she began. "He was furious, his face red with anger, and his eyes blazing with fury. He slammed the door shut behind him and stormed into the kitchen, where I was preparing dinner."
My Dad's eyes narrowed, his face darkening with anger. "What did he say?" he asked, his voice low and menacing.
My Mom hesitated, her eyes dropping. "He said that he had lost his job as the basketball coach because of Gabriel," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "He said that the school administration was unhappy with the way he had been treating Gabriel, and that's why they fired him."
I felt a surge of guilt at her words, feeling a sense of responsibility for Thompson's anger. "What did I do?" I asked, feeling a sense of trepidation.
My Mom's eyes filled with tears. "It wasn't your fault, Gabriel," she said, her voice shaking. "Thompson was just looking for an excuse to blame someone. He's been under a lot of pressure lately, and he's been taking it out on us."
My Dad's face darkened with anger. "That's not true," he growled. "Thompson was fired because of his own incompetence. He's a terrible coach, and an even worse person."
My Mom nodded, her eyes still welling up with tears. "I know, but Thompson wouldn't listen. He just kept yelling and screaming, saying that it was all Gabriel's fault."
I felt a lump form in my throat as I listened to my Mom's words, feeling a sense of injustice. How could Thompson blame me for his own mistakes?
"What happened next?" my Dad asked, his voice softening slightly.
My Mom took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. "Thompson started taking his anger out on me," she said, her voice shaking. "He said that I had made a mistake while serving him dinner, and that's when he started hitting me."
I felt a surge of anger at her words, feeling a sense of protectiveness towards my Mom. How could Thompson do that to her?
"What mistake did you make?" my Dad asked, his voice gentle.
My Mom's eyes dropped, her voice barely above a whisper. "I accidentally spilled some gravy on his shirt," she replied. "That's all. But Thompson blew it out of proportion, saying that I was careless and stupid."
My Dad's face darkened with anger again, his eyes blazing with fury. "That's it, I've had enough of him," he growled. "We're going to make sure that he never hurts you again."