Is The Love of a Brother Strong Enough to Subdue His Father’s Torment?

"I'm sorry. I can't. Not tonight" Six words. And it was over. Any argument of confusion or concern cut short with a succinct beep. It wasn’t a lie. He couldn't. Or at least that's what Beau told himself. He made his choice against his mother’s wishes. He sighed, dropping his phone to the ground, and running a hand over his face.

BUZZ!

Colten again. Beau let it ring. No voicemail, but another call. And then a few more times after that. At some point, Beau stopped looking. He knew that it was Colten, but his eyes fell on the dirty walls of the gas station bathroom before he allowed himself to look at the cracked screen again.

“I’m sorry,” Beau whispered, letting his head fall back against the tile. He sat on the floor now. No idea when his body made that choice. An apology heard only by the cockroach sitting in the corner, either minding its own business or having the unusual intellect to avoid the young man.

Beau’s eyes traced the graffiti for several minutes. Admiring the colors, the curves, and the artistry with no real criticisms. A work of art, beyond the recognition of those who decided it was beneath them done by an artist whose name was lost under mud and muck.

His hands could never do something like that. Something with care and attention to detail. With love and passion. His hands were bloodied and bruised. Too damaged for gentility. Crooked, broken fingers meant for fighting. Meant to batter someone else. Or at least that was the choice he made earlier that night.

“Hey! You dead in there?” The attendant pulled Beau’s attention away from his hands. The young man pulled himself off the floor and made his exit. Once outside he shoved the key into the attendant’s chest, “Look kid, I know you’ve been through some shit tonight…but I’ve gotta business to run.” he said with a forced but understanding grin.

“Yeah, no problem, John,” Beau mumbled, limping out the door.

“You cleaned up well enough, but there better not be any blood in my bathroom.” John joked without any real humor, following Beau, “A-And tell you Mom I said hi!” He called out after him. John only received a half-hearted wave in response as Beau approached a pick-up that looked about as beat up as him, only about 30 years older.

Beau took out his phone again, a mild ping of gratitude firing off in his brain for remembering to talk it off the floor, “Jesus Colt.” He smiled after seeing the 27 missed calls from his brother. He’s been a worrywart since they were kids, but that’s probably cause Beau always gave him a reason to worry.

He pressed play on the most recent one, “Beau. PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE. Mom’s crying. She keeps saying it’s her fault, Lani won’t stop asking where you- dammit. Fuck it. I’m coming to find you. Should’ve let that bastard rot in hell.” Colten finished as venomous as he began. Beau wanted to laugh because it was too ridiculous, but between the bruised ribs and the forced realization of how much he fucked up, he couldn’t.

“I hate it when you’re right.” Beau grimaced. He leaned against the truck, an arm resting on the side mirrors and keys in his hand. He let another message play.

“Beau, please. I know he hurt you and Mom, but Greg isn’t worth this. You know this. Think for ONCE.” Colten pleaded without holding back.

He always accused Beau of being impulsive, but he wasn’t. Tonight was planned. Calculated even. For years, Beau had been waiting for the shit stain he called his father to make his appearance and trained for that confrontation. Colten would never understand because he was lucky enough to have a father that loved him. Finally, he drove off.

Greg Lebrante was not a man who loved. He was rage and fury, and he took it out on anyone who pissed him off that day. Man did he have a short fuse. He should’ve thought of that before he had a son with his eyes and temper. After years of running away, Beau found his opportunity.

As much as Greg was a violent man, he was still a coward. Hiding in a remote cabin, cut off from the world and away from those he’s tormented. Beau noted how beautiful it was when he first arrived. Lovingly handcrafted from strong, protective oak with ivy climbing up the sides and a well-kept garden out back. Beau thought of the puzzles his younger siblings liked to complete together. So serene. So gentle. So nice.

Greg didn’t deserve this.

 Beau fell into his rage, seeing red the moment the silver-haired grizzled bear of a man appeared before him. His fists cocked and teeth barred, one blow hit after the other. He kicked, scratched, punched, and even bit him at some point. Beau couldn’t even tell when, but he could still taste the blood in his mouth, a sickening twist of Greg’s and his own. A part of him wished his blood didn’t taste so similar to his father as if there was a way they could be different.

But he didn’t forget that Greg was a fighter. Always has been. And that he’s never lost. Not even to his son. The man had a strength that Beau was not ready for or maybe it was a carelessness. As willing as Beau was to abandon his family, he still had to face them tomorrow. He still needed a face to appear before his mother and siblings the next day.

Greg had nothing, so he didn’t care what Beau needed, “After all this time, you’re still the same fucking mistake.” The older man growled at his son, “The only thing that’s changed is how much of a disappointment you’ve become.” He kicked one last time and left Beau writhing on the ground as he walked away.

After some time, he painfully twisted his neck. The lights were off in the cabin, but he knew Greg was inside. Beau could practically smell it, the man licking his wounds and imagining the son he just pummeled was the same as a trophied hunt. Beau pushed off the ground, suppressing a yelp from the pain shooting up his arm. He brought himself to his feet, unable to stand at full height, channeling his rage into recovery. He slinked off back to his truck with wounds to lick of his own.

By the time he got there, he noticed a figure standing by the driver’s side. His first instinct was to hide until the stranger left, but seconds later he realized it was not a stranger at all. The only person who would come into the woods in color-coordinated button-down, cashmere sweater, tie, and loafers. Colten.

“Beau Lewis McAlistair. I’d reem you if you didn’t look like shit already.” Colten said, with a scolding tone despite his words. The other young man ran forward and wrapped his arms around his brother.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to do it somehow.” Beau laughed, painfully, before pushing Colten off him and limped off to the truck.

“No. You don’t get to do that.” Colten reprimanded.

“Do what?”

“Play the charming, roguish hero. Not after you got your ass kicked when Mom asked you not to. Not after you canceled on Lani.” Colten’s voice raised. His anger renewed in full force. Even in the darkened forest, Beau could catch the anger in his brother’s eyes.

Beau fell against the truck, “I had to-”

“You had to miss our 10-year-old sister’s birthday? You had to do that? To hustle some jackass to fight another jackass in this mosquito-infested shithole, Beau? You just had to do that?”

“Swearing really doesn’t suit you.”

“Answer me.” Colten closed in on Beau, grabbing him by the shirt. Blood-staining his perfect hands. Nothing broken or bruised. His breath was constant and easy as he took in the injured state of the elder, who raggedly breathed against the younger’s face. “Stop avoiding and answer.”

“Yes. I had one shot,” Beau admitted, “I had one shot to get back at him for all that he’s done…and I blew it.” He fell against his brother, the fact that he would have to pay to remove the blood from Colten’s perfectly kempt clothes be damned. Saying the words aloud made his stomach churn.

Colten silently dragged his brother over to the passenger side and gently shoved him in. He didn’t say a word and Beau hated that. He needed to be told to stop. That he could stop. The scars Greg had given him in years past would only function as a reminder for him to never hurt anyone else in the way that he has. But Colten said nothing.

“Colten,” Beau began, closing his eyes, “Colt. Please.” He begged as the truck peeled out of the woods, struggling, and bumping over roots and rocks. Beau let his body be thrown around in the seat.

“It doesn’t matter what I say, Beau. Not anymore,” Beau opened his eyes to look at his brother. The strict frown against his lips and the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, “I’ve said it before, and you still went after him. Mom said it before, and you still went after him. You’re not gonna stop until he’s gone.”

Beau could feel the regret dripping off his brother’s tongue. He did not want to say these things – or at least that’s what Beau wished. After years of not being listened to, Colten must’ve been considering giving up. Greg’s torment would win in the end and regardless of the ending, he could lose Beau forever.

But he still came to his rescue, and maybe that would be enough.