Page 37 of His Cruel Exception

“You too, Mom. I love you.”

I lower my phone when the call ends, remaining against the wall as my thumb hover over Antonio's name. He's already told me to stop thanking him, but I can't very well pretend that what he's done for Mom isn't one of the most important things anyone has ever done for me.

I finally push myself away from the wall and retrieve a bag of Cheetos from my backpack. I tear open the bag and resume walking, popping a few into my mouth as I make my way through the crowded hallway.

When I step out of the building, I'm stopped in my tracks, but this time it isn't because of a pleasant surprise.

My father is standing near the bottom of the stairs, wearing the same worn jacket I remember from the last time I saw him, his shoulders slightly hunched. His eyes are fixed on me, and the moment he notices that I've spotted him, his mouth twists into a smile that makes my stomach turn.

A flash of anger cuts through the uneasiness gathering in my chest, and I quickly descend the stairs. “What are you doing here?” I hiss through my teeth, stopping a few feet away from him.

“Is that how to talk to your father?” he demands, his words slurring as he straightens and looks down at me.

The smell of alcohol reaches me, and I lean back, taking in his bloodshot eyes and the way he sways slightly on his feet.

He's drunk.

He's always been a bum, even before he abandoned us after Mom's diagnosis. I can still remember the countless times he stole money from her purse or helped himself to whatever little savings she'd managed to put aside. There was always an excuse whenever she confronted him, and when he wasn't drinking away our money, he was finding some other way to make our lives miserable. The only good thing he ever did for us was leave.

I glance around, suddenly conscious of the students moving past us, but no one is paying us any attention. I stuff the remaining Cheetos back into my backpack, turn on my heel, and walk away. I've barely made it a few steps when a hand suddenly grabs the back of my shirt and yanks me backward with enough force to make me stumble. Before I can regain my balance, I'm shoved against the wall of the building, the impact sending a sharp pain through my shoulder as my backpack slips off and falls to the ground.

“You think you are so grown now?” he sneers, his face twisting with anger as he crowds me against the wall. I open my mouth to tell him to get his hands off me, but the words never make it past my lips because both of his hands close around my neck, his fingers digging into my skin as he begins to squeeze. “Walking away from me when I’m talking to you.”

The smell of stale alcohol fills my nose, mingling with the familiar odor of cigarettes and sweat, and suddenly, I'm a little boy again, cowering in the corner of our living room while Dad shouts at Mom, desperately hoping that if I make myself small enough, he'll forget I'm there. But he never forgets I’m there. I remember all those times mom had to claw at his arms to get him to release me, sometimes getting hurt herself in the process, and the nights I spent lying awake because I was terrified he'd come into my room and find another reason to be angry with me.

My hands fly to his wrists, my fingernails digging into his skin as I struggle to loosen his grip, but he's much stronger than I am, and every frantic attempt to pull his hands away makes him squeeze harder.

I try to draw in a breath, but barely any air makes it past the pressure around my throat, and a burning pain spreads through my neck and chest as I begin to panic. My heart is hammering so violently that I can feel it pounding in my ears, and my vision starts to blur. I need him to let go, I need to breathe, but no matter how desperately I try to force air into my lungs, I can't seem to get enough.

“Antonio,” I whisper, although the name barely makes it past my constricted throat. “Antonio, Antonio, Antonio.”

I continue whispering his name as tears begin to gather in my eyes. Then, Dad lets out a startled yelp, and the crushing pressure around my neck suddenly disappears.

I barely register what has happened before my knees threaten to give out, and I bend forward, dragging air into my burning lungs, every breath scraping painfully against my throat as a violent coughing fit seizes my chest.

“Alexander, look at me,” Antonio says, and a pair of strong hands lifts me off my feet.

I blink through my tears, struggling to focus on his face as I try to understand how he could possibly be standing in front of me. He wasn't here a few moments ago, but the warmth of his hands and the solid weight of his body against mine are unmistakably real.

I wrap my legs around his waist and bury my face in the crook of his neck, clutching at his shoulders as another shudder passes through me. His familiar woody scent fills my nose, and I press myself closer, breathing it in as I try to calm the frantic beating of my heart.

“You’re here,” I whisper against his neck, my voice coming out painfully hoarse. “Where’s my dad?”

Antonio doesn't answer, and I don't have the strength to lift my head and look around for my father, so I remain pressed against Antonio’s chest while he bends to retrieve my backpack from the ground. I tighten my hold on him, still struggling to convince my body that I'm no longer in danger.

When we reach his car, my breathing has become a little steadier, although my throat still burns and my hands refuse to stop trembling. Antonio helps me into the passenger seat and with the seatbelt.

When Antonio rounds the trunk and climbs into the driver's seat, his face is set in a hard line. The hand he places on the steering wheel tightens briefly before he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb.

“Have you ever seen a doctor about the panic attacks?” Antonio asks.

“I spoke to my general practitioner and she did some blood work then referred me to a psychologist, but since I couldn’t afford the first visit fee, I didn’t go.”

My face grows warm as soon as the words leave my mouth, and I turn my attention toward the window, hoping he won't ask me any more questions about it. I've been managing the attacks as best as I can, and although they can be absolutely terrifying when they happen, I've gotten reasonably good at recognizing the early signs. It's usually easier when Logan is around because he knows what to do when I start panicking, and he never makes me feel uncomfortable about needing him to hold me for a while.

“Do you still have the information of the psychologist?”

“It should be on my phone,” I reply, reaching into my pocket and pulling it out.