It was worth it. His sister hugged him and cried as she said, “Thank you.” No thanks required. Adopted or not, Pammy was his sister, and he protected his family.
Later that night, Mom brought him up his favorite dessert and said, “Next time, don’t get caught.”
He didn’t. But that violence, that outlet for his inner frustrations, pulsed more fiercely than before. It wanted an outlet. He found it in the military.
From the age of eighteen until two weeks ago, Dominick had served his country. Needed the structure. Learned to control the throbbing inside. As if something tried to crawl out.
For years, he’d thought he had it under control, and then once he hit his thirties, he found himself constantly battling inexplicable rage. Picking fights. Constantly in the gym when not in the field. But the black eyes and loose teeth weren’t why people noticed that he had a problem.
Blame some shitty pot laced with something.
Dominick woke up about ten kilometers from camp, naked and covered in animal blood. Especially around his mouth. Just his luck, the military police for the camp found him, and they didn’t sweep it under the rug.
It wasn’t long before he found himself medically discharged. The doctors claimed PTSD, and that was it. Military career over.
Crushed, Dominick returned home because he had nowhere else to go. Given his constant deployments, he’d not bothered renting an apartment in a while.
Even now, home almost two weeks, and his shit remained boxed in the basement where it’d sat for years. Dominick only had the bare minimum in his old room, once shared with his brothers Stefan and Raymond. Now, it was just Dominick in the top bunk, which groaned ominously every time he climbed in. He really should dismantle it and turn the frame into something that could fit two singles side by side. He didn’t, though, mostly because that would imply his situation was permanent.
Not really a bad thing, as it remained way more comfortable than some of the places he’d stayed. Under the faint glowing constellations on the ceiling, he slept more soundly than he had in years. If he ignored the strange dreams of running through forests and the hunting that didn’t involve a gun.
But in good news, no blackouts. He remained drug and alcohol-free. Wouldn’t even have a cigarette no matter how many times Stefan offered. Nicotine was a drug. He needed to remain in control.
Being home helped with that. There was tranquility in the familiar surroundings. It eased him to be around his family. Especially his mom, who loved to cook.
A good thing, too, because he found himself with a huge appetite. Since his return, Dominick was hungry all the time. Which was why, staring at the fresh cookies, the pain in his mouth and hand faded. He forgot all about the repercussions if he stole another.
Forget resisting. Those round, blissful bites would now be the perfect temperature.
Want.
He reached again and endured another smack.
One bite was all it took to find heaven. He groaned as his mom admonished, “Brat! Those are for the bake sale at Tyson’s school.” Tyson being his much younger brother. Sixteen going on attitude.
Dominick pulled a bill from his pocket and handed it over. “Will that buy me a third one?”
“You can have one more. And not the biggest,” she added with a shake of her head.
Dominick snared a midsized cookie with lots of chocolate chips and took his time enjoying it, taking smaller bites as he watched Mom bustle around the kitchen.
Despite the cane she kept handy, she moved quite well, the stiffness in her right leg not slowing her down at all. But he worried.
They all did. He and his other siblings. More than most people had. At last count, nine, including him, with the youngest aged nine.
What would they have done if Mom had died in that car accident a few months ago?
“Stop staring at me.” She caught him and chided.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Would you stop worrying? I’m fine. I’m just old. It takes longer to heal.”
“If I ever get my hands on the person who ran that stop sign…” He growled. Deeply. Startlingly.
His mom eyed him. “You’ll do nothing. Because the cops will do their jobs, and the culprit will be arrested and jailed. Don’t you dare do anything that screws up our Thanksgiving dinner.”
At the mention, he played aloof. “Depends. What are you making?”
“As if you care about anything but my tourtière,” Mom scoffed.
She was right. He loved tourtière, the Quebecois version, with chunks of meat, potato, onions, and diced carrots. Cooked into a flaky crust that burst in the mouth along with the flavor of the spices and the gravy. The chunks of meat melted in the mouth. Mmm.
“You’re dreaming of food again,” Mom cajoled as she flipped cookies into a container.
“Fuck yeah, I am.” Too many years of field rations had whetted his appetite.
“Language!”
That brought a tilt to his lips. “Please, I’ve heard you use worse.”
“What happened to do as I say and not speak as I do?” Mom arched a brow.
“I think I’m old enough now to use whatever language I like.”
“Oh, really?” his mother drawled. “We have young, impressionable ears in the house.”
He snorted. “Have you heard Tyson when he’s gaming online with his buddies?”
“Are you tattling on your brother?” More like an uncle given the age gap between them.
“The boy needs a firm guiding hand. Are you slipping, old lady?” He ducked before she could throw something at him and grinned at her snort.
“Don’t you start. You know Tyson had a rough year. Last thing he needs is me harping on him all the time. Or are you telling me you’re a better parent, Mr. Doesn’t-even-own-a-dog?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Never will, either. And I guess you’re a mostly awesome mom,” he teased. His family was the only thing that could draw out the gentler side of him.
“Only mostly awesome?” she queried.
“Another cookie might change my mind.” He tried and got shot down.
“Ha. See if I bake you the good stuff.” She poked him in the belly. “From now on, only healthy options for you.”
“So long as they have chocolate in them.”
“Even the chicken I’m making for dinner?”
“Chicken?” His eyes lit. “What kind?” Because Mom made a mean deep-fried version with buttermilk batter that crunched with each bite. But she also had this version with a lemon sauce, ooh…and the one with the stuffing—
“Stop drooling. I haven’t even put them in the oven yet.” A massive, industrial-sized appliance that rarely didn’t have something cooking. With nine kids, she’d learned to have massive amounts of food ready to eat at all times. Not a single leftover ever went to waste. Sunday was kitchen-sink day. All leftovers in the fridge had to go, and if there were none left? They had a pizza place on speed dial because Sunday was Mom’s day of rest.
“How many are you expecting for dinner tonight?” It could vary wildly because, on any given night, his siblings might bring boyfriends and girlfriends. Mom always rose to the challenge, and no one ever left her table hungry. It helped that they lived on a farm with a few animals and some crops. Still, it didn’t provide for everything.