I woke up in my bed, the room bathed in the soft, bluish glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. My head pounded, and my entire body ached as if I had been run over by a truck. Confusion clouded my mind as I tried to piece together what had happened. The last thing I remembered was the brutal kick from Uncle Philip, the pain in my stomach, and then… nothing.
I winced as I tried to sit up, my left arm throbbing with a sharp, persistent pain. When I finally managed to push myself into a sitting position, I looked down and saw the angry, dark bruises covering my arms and chest. It wasn't hard to guess that Uncle Philip hadn't stopped with just that one kick. Even after I had lost consciousness, he must have kept hitting me. The thought made my stomach churn.
"Seems like you're awake," came a voice from the doorway, startling me out of my thoughts. I looked up to see my mother standing there, her face etched with concern, though she tried to keep her expression neutral.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice hoarse and weak.
"Lyshia brought you here," she said, stepping into the room. She looked tired, as if she hadn't slept all night. "You were unconscious, and she was crying, apologizing to me over and over. She was a mess."
I didn't know how to respond to that. The image of Aunt Lyshia, usually so composed, breaking down like that… it felt wrong. All I could do was lower my gaze, ashamed of my own helplessness.
"So," my mother continued, her tone shifting slightly, "did you achieve anything with your reckless choice?"
"Mom, if you're just here to scold me, can you do it some other time?" I muttered, not in the mood for a lecture. My body hurt too much, and my mind was a chaotic mess of emotions I couldn't even begin to untangle.
"You idiot," she snapped, but there was no real anger in her voice. She sighed, taking a seat on the edge of my bed. "Of course, I'm here because I'm worried about you. You're still my son, no matter what."
I glanced up at her, surprised by the softness in her voice. "Mom…"
"Now, tell me what happened," she ordered, but there was a gentleness in her eyes that made it clear she wasn't just demanding answers—she wanted to understand.
Taking a deep breath, I recounted everything that had happened at Chris' house. The shouting, the threats, Uncle Philip's missing arm, and how I'd tried to help but only ended up making things worse. My mother listened intently, her expression growing more and more troubled as I spoke.
When I finally finished, there was a long silence. She seemed lost in thought, her brow furrowed as she processed everything I had told her.
"Are you sure it was Philip?" she asked eventually, though it was clear she was struggling to believe it herself. "There's no way… that man would never… he couldn't do something like that."
I nodded, but I could see the doubt in her eyes. "It was him, Mom. I wouldn't believe it either if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."
"But you said he was missing an arm?" she pressed, as if hoping this one detail might explain everything.
"Yeah. His left arm was gone, from the shoulder down. I figure he lost it in the war or something," I answered, though even saying it aloud felt surreal.
"That must be it," she murmured, almost to herself. "The battlefield… it must have changed him, twisted him somehow. He must have gone through something horrible, something that broke him."
"Is that really possible?" I asked, finding it hard to accept that war could turn a good man into… this.
"The battlefield is scarier than you can imagine, Will," she warned, her voice heavy with a knowledge I didn't fully understand. "It can change people in ways you can't even begin to comprehend. Some men come back whole, but others… they lose more than just limbs out there."
I looked away, not wanting to think about what Uncle Philip might have experienced, what could have pushed him to this point. "Even if we know why he's like this… we still can't do anything, can we?" I asked, feeling a sense of helplessness wash over me again.
"Not if they don't ask for our help," my mother said, shaking her head sadly. "Lyshia warned me not to let you near their house again. She said it was for your own safety, but I think… I think she's trying to protect you from Philip's anger. He's still furious with you, Will."
I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling up inside me. "Even if you say that… I can't just sit back and do nothing while they suffer," I said, the memory of that awful night playing over and over in my mind. I couldn't stand the thought of Chris being hurt, of Aunt Lyshia crying and apologizing for something that wasn't her fault. But what could I do? I couldn't fight Uncle Philip, not after what Aunt Lyshia had said. I didn't want to hurt anyone, but standing by and doing nothing felt just as wrong.
***
After that, a week passed by in a blur. Every day, I found myself sneaking out of the house, careful not to let my mother notice, and wandering the streets near Chris' home. I kept my distance, just watching from afar, hoping to catch a glimpse of them, to know that they were okay.
But every time, it was the same. I only ever saw Aunt Lyshia leaving the house, heading to the market or to buy whatever they needed. She looked different now—thinner, her clothes hanging loosely on her frame, her face pale and drawn with exhaustion. Her eyes, once so warm and full of life, now seemed empty, filled with a despair that made my chest ache.
I knew my mother was right, that I should stay away, that it wasn't my place to interfere in their family matters. But how could I just ignore what was happening? Chris was my friend. I couldn't pretend everything was fine when I knew it wasn't.
Even if it was pointless, I had to do something. I couldn't just sit back and watch as everything fell apart. I didn't know what I could do, but I had to keep trying. Maybe I couldn't save them, but I could at least make sure they knew they weren't alone.