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Sparks of Bucking Bronco - 5
7 years ago
General
Chapter 5: Values
He woke only a couple hours later.
He could hear his father’s snores through the wall. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looked out of his window. He checked his alarm clock, something he never set. It read 8:07AM. He felt like he hadn’t slept a wink but swung his legs over the bed, stretching. His arms went back down as he felt the aching of his side. The pain made him remember what happened last night, and what he was supposed to expect today. The memories of having killed another bull crashed through his mind. He closed his eyes and sighed as he mentally prepared himself for his soon to be beating.
He got up and looked around for anything to keep him occupied. He found nothing. Sitting back on his bed watching the time tick down before his father woke up from his drunken isolation, he stared out the window. Buck frowned at the sight beyond the glass. He saw other kids his age with backpacks and books in their arms as they chatted among themselves.
Buck envied them.
They got the chance to go to school. They had better lives than he. They didn’t have to wonder if their lives were in danger that day. Today, they’d all go to school to learn how to read, write, and do math. Buck had to rely on his mother for all of that. He wished he could go to school, but his father decided to enroll him in the fighting ring instead of getting an education. Granted, the pay was nice for winning the fights, and Buck won his last fight. But his dad didn’t bet on him that last fight. He bet on Buck’s death. And Buck won. So Buck knew that he was to expect either especially hard training or a huge beating from his father when he awoke.
Buck watched the kids get on the bus that had pulled up at the corner of the street.
“I’d be in second grade I think…”
He looked away from the window, done torturing himself.
“I’m going to get worse torture in a couple hours anyways.”
Couple hours passed and his dad still hadn’t bust into his room with a crowbar. Buck was getting super anxious waiting. He watched the door with a wide-eyed stare as he listened to each tick of the alarm clock. His mother had already went to work that morning and given him a hug and kiss before leaving. He sat there, afraid of his situation. Afraid of leaving his room. Buck stood up slowly, panting from the stress. He walked to his door, holding the knob with a hoof. He took a deep breath and opened it slowly. He looked through the door and peered around the corner. He smelled smoke. Cigarette smoke. Exiting his room, Buck walked down the hall quietly and saw his father sitting in his chair watching the television. Buck blinked and saw another beer can in his father’s hoof. He held the corner of the hallway with one hoof and stood there staring at the side of his father’s head. His father’s ears perked up and he turned and made eye contact with Buck. Immediately, Buck ducked behind the corner, pinning himself to the wall. His breathing became short and his body shivered. He heard his father’s voice,
“Get out here.”
It was surprisingly calm, like how he sounded before his fight last night. Buck stepped from behind the wall and stood there, near the corner.
“Closer.”
Buck took a couple steps forward getting a couple feet from his father. His dad slowly stood up and turned towards him. He held the can in front of Buck,
“Go throw this away for me.”
“Yes sir.”
Buck quickly took the can and turned around to throw it in the trash, his feet carrying him quickly to the kitchen. The can was near the entrance. He made it to the can when he felt the back of his head get hit by a glass bottle, it shattering on impact. Buck fell to the floor, holding the back of his head as his knees pressed into the glass on the floor. He whimpered and looked back to see a hoof straight in his face, but Buck was too dazed to dodge. The blow connected, throwing Buck’s muzzle into the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.
“You piece of shit! You know what you cost me?!”
His father was standing over Buck’s motionless body, his face a seething rage. His teeth were clenched as he squeezed his fists.
“I had so much on that fight, and you just had to go and survive it didn’t you!? Now what are we going to do? That would’ve paid our rent!”
He paused and glared down at Buck. The victim didn’t dare look back up, for fear of more injuries, but it was inevitable.
A swift kick connected Buck’s rib-cage as his father walked past him, grabbing another beer from the fridge. Laying as still as possible as if trying to keep an angry brown bear from eating him, Buck lay there, curled into a ball near the entryway between the two rooms.
“You know what? You’re going to earn me that money back, one way or another. I don’t care if I have to sell a sorry excuse for air like you but you’re going to get me my money back.”
Buck didn’t have time to stop himself. He looked up slowly and watched his father still leaning in the fridge. He sat up staring down his occupied father before uttering quietly,
“You mean mom’s money...”
His father froze, then immediately slammed the door closed, the insides rattling from the impact. He looked at Buck, his eyes wide with anger and bewilderment. Buck realized what he had said and didn’t look away from his father for a split second before looking down at the floor. Bruce approached quickly,
“Who’s money?! That is my money! Your fucking mother wouldn’t have a place to live if I hadn’t bought this house! THAT IS MY MONEY!”
He picked up Buck with one hoof, his fingers trained around the neck,
“You got that you fucking piece of shit!”
Buck only nodded while grasping for the hoof around his throat, gasping for air. Buck felt his head get lifted from the wall only to be slammed back into it, his throat getting pressed into further before dropping to the ground from his father’s released grip. He coughed and gasped for air as he held his chest and throat. His hoof went to the back of his head and he brought it back around to look at the blood dripping from his head. That bottle probably gave him a slight concussion. Beer bottles shouldn’t break that quickly.
“Pick up this mess.”
Buck stopped staring at his hoof and quickly went to the glass strewn across the floor, picking up every piece by hoof. He never looked up to see his father glaring at him from his chair. He didn’t look up when the TV started playing his favorite reality TV show. He didn’t look up until he threw every piece he could find away. And even then, he barely lifted his head as he headed to the bathroom, looking into the mirror to see blood dripping from his muzzle now. He stared at his sorry expression in the glass and tears pricked the edges of his vision. He scowled and raised a fist as if to punch the reflection but before he released his tension he lowered his fist and exited the bathroom. He went straight downstairs and into the basement. He didn’t want to make his father any less happy, so he started training on the punching bag. He threw punch after punch into the bag, it’s fabric denting into the sand within. His breathing was labored as he kept throwing punch after punch, each one harder than the last.
He yelled. He yelled and threw his leg in the air, making him rise high near the top of the bag. His other leg came around and round-house kicked the bag near the top chain, it snapping instantly. He landed facing away from the bag and blinked before turning around to see his accomplishment. The bag was on the floor, laying still with dust floating around it from the impact. He looked up and saw the metal link was broken near the top of where the bag would be attached, dangling with no more extra weight keeping it taught.
Buck smiled softly.
He had finally done it. He finally knocked down that damned bag.
He unfurled his wings and they ignited brightly before dimming down to a smoldering flame around the edges, illuminating the basement slightly. He turned around and sat down, his wings laying across the wingspan of the bag. He kept one knee propped up as he rested his arm on top and laid his head back. His other arm laid across one side of the bag. He smirked at the top of the staircase, imagining his dad coming down to see what he had just done.
Then he’d finally see him as a person. Something with value.
In fact, value was everything to Buck.
Everything.
He woke only a couple hours later.
He could hear his father’s snores through the wall. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looked out of his window. He checked his alarm clock, something he never set. It read 8:07AM. He felt like he hadn’t slept a wink but swung his legs over the bed, stretching. His arms went back down as he felt the aching of his side. The pain made him remember what happened last night, and what he was supposed to expect today. The memories of having killed another bull crashed through his mind. He closed his eyes and sighed as he mentally prepared himself for his soon to be beating.
He got up and looked around for anything to keep him occupied. He found nothing. Sitting back on his bed watching the time tick down before his father woke up from his drunken isolation, he stared out the window. Buck frowned at the sight beyond the glass. He saw other kids his age with backpacks and books in their arms as they chatted among themselves.
Buck envied them.
They got the chance to go to school. They had better lives than he. They didn’t have to wonder if their lives were in danger that day. Today, they’d all go to school to learn how to read, write, and do math. Buck had to rely on his mother for all of that. He wished he could go to school, but his father decided to enroll him in the fighting ring instead of getting an education. Granted, the pay was nice for winning the fights, and Buck won his last fight. But his dad didn’t bet on him that last fight. He bet on Buck’s death. And Buck won. So Buck knew that he was to expect either especially hard training or a huge beating from his father when he awoke.
Buck watched the kids get on the bus that had pulled up at the corner of the street.
“I’d be in second grade I think…”
He looked away from the window, done torturing himself.
“I’m going to get worse torture in a couple hours anyways.”
Couple hours passed and his dad still hadn’t bust into his room with a crowbar. Buck was getting super anxious waiting. He watched the door with a wide-eyed stare as he listened to each tick of the alarm clock. His mother had already went to work that morning and given him a hug and kiss before leaving. He sat there, afraid of his situation. Afraid of leaving his room. Buck stood up slowly, panting from the stress. He walked to his door, holding the knob with a hoof. He took a deep breath and opened it slowly. He looked through the door and peered around the corner. He smelled smoke. Cigarette smoke. Exiting his room, Buck walked down the hall quietly and saw his father sitting in his chair watching the television. Buck blinked and saw another beer can in his father’s hoof. He held the corner of the hallway with one hoof and stood there staring at the side of his father’s head. His father’s ears perked up and he turned and made eye contact with Buck. Immediately, Buck ducked behind the corner, pinning himself to the wall. His breathing became short and his body shivered. He heard his father’s voice,
“Get out here.”
It was surprisingly calm, like how he sounded before his fight last night. Buck stepped from behind the wall and stood there, near the corner.
“Closer.”
Buck took a couple steps forward getting a couple feet from his father. His dad slowly stood up and turned towards him. He held the can in front of Buck,
“Go throw this away for me.”
“Yes sir.”
Buck quickly took the can and turned around to throw it in the trash, his feet carrying him quickly to the kitchen. The can was near the entrance. He made it to the can when he felt the back of his head get hit by a glass bottle, it shattering on impact. Buck fell to the floor, holding the back of his head as his knees pressed into the glass on the floor. He whimpered and looked back to see a hoof straight in his face, but Buck was too dazed to dodge. The blow connected, throwing Buck’s muzzle into the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.
“You piece of shit! You know what you cost me?!”
His father was standing over Buck’s motionless body, his face a seething rage. His teeth were clenched as he squeezed his fists.
“I had so much on that fight, and you just had to go and survive it didn’t you!? Now what are we going to do? That would’ve paid our rent!”
He paused and glared down at Buck. The victim didn’t dare look back up, for fear of more injuries, but it was inevitable.
A swift kick connected Buck’s rib-cage as his father walked past him, grabbing another beer from the fridge. Laying as still as possible as if trying to keep an angry brown bear from eating him, Buck lay there, curled into a ball near the entryway between the two rooms.
“You know what? You’re going to earn me that money back, one way or another. I don’t care if I have to sell a sorry excuse for air like you but you’re going to get me my money back.”
Buck didn’t have time to stop himself. He looked up slowly and watched his father still leaning in the fridge. He sat up staring down his occupied father before uttering quietly,
“You mean mom’s money...”
His father froze, then immediately slammed the door closed, the insides rattling from the impact. He looked at Buck, his eyes wide with anger and bewilderment. Buck realized what he had said and didn’t look away from his father for a split second before looking down at the floor. Bruce approached quickly,
“Who’s money?! That is my money! Your fucking mother wouldn’t have a place to live if I hadn’t bought this house! THAT IS MY MONEY!”
He picked up Buck with one hoof, his fingers trained around the neck,
“You got that you fucking piece of shit!”
Buck only nodded while grasping for the hoof around his throat, gasping for air. Buck felt his head get lifted from the wall only to be slammed back into it, his throat getting pressed into further before dropping to the ground from his father’s released grip. He coughed and gasped for air as he held his chest and throat. His hoof went to the back of his head and he brought it back around to look at the blood dripping from his head. That bottle probably gave him a slight concussion. Beer bottles shouldn’t break that quickly.
“Pick up this mess.”
Buck stopped staring at his hoof and quickly went to the glass strewn across the floor, picking up every piece by hoof. He never looked up to see his father glaring at him from his chair. He didn’t look up when the TV started playing his favorite reality TV show. He didn’t look up until he threw every piece he could find away. And even then, he barely lifted his head as he headed to the bathroom, looking into the mirror to see blood dripping from his muzzle now. He stared at his sorry expression in the glass and tears pricked the edges of his vision. He scowled and raised a fist as if to punch the reflection but before he released his tension he lowered his fist and exited the bathroom. He went straight downstairs and into the basement. He didn’t want to make his father any less happy, so he started training on the punching bag. He threw punch after punch into the bag, it’s fabric denting into the sand within. His breathing was labored as he kept throwing punch after punch, each one harder than the last.
He yelled. He yelled and threw his leg in the air, making him rise high near the top of the bag. His other leg came around and round-house kicked the bag near the top chain, it snapping instantly. He landed facing away from the bag and blinked before turning around to see his accomplishment. The bag was on the floor, laying still with dust floating around it from the impact. He looked up and saw the metal link was broken near the top of where the bag would be attached, dangling with no more extra weight keeping it taught.
Buck smiled softly.
He had finally done it. He finally knocked down that damned bag.
He unfurled his wings and they ignited brightly before dimming down to a smoldering flame around the edges, illuminating the basement slightly. He turned around and sat down, his wings laying across the wingspan of the bag. He kept one knee propped up as he rested his arm on top and laid his head back. His other arm laid across one side of the bag. He smirked at the top of the staircase, imagining his dad coming down to see what he had just done.
Then he’d finally see him as a person. Something with value.
In fact, value was everything to Buck.
Everything.
