Chapter 1: Boiling Point by Eric Thomas Lyrics

I hate you! I wish I could take back the words I said to her that day, but I couldn’t. I swear it was not premeditated. If I could only turn back the hands of time, I would have done it differently. I should have sat her down years ago and just talked it out. I should have gotten it out of my system instead of being so secretive about it. I should have told her the day it happened that I felt betrayed and angry, and that I felt as though I couldn’t trust her anymore. Why didn’t I just tell her? Well, it’s too late; I have gone too far. I can’t go back and change things now. It is what it is! < < Ring… ring… ring > >. “Hello… hello,” I said as I rolled over in the bed reaching for the phone. “What you still doing in the bed?” Melvin said in a surprised tone. “Wh at? It’s Sunday, it’s cold, football season is over, and I have the house to myself. Unless you know something I don’t, I don’t see a reason to get outta bed ! The question is, why are you calling my house so early? Don’t you got a girl yet?”, I asked jokingly as I readjusted the covers. “I’m lifting weights and I need someone to spot me,” Melvin replied. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Give me thirty. I need to hop in the shower real quick and throw some gear on.” I jumped out of the bed, grabbed a pair of all red Lathrup High jogging pants, my red Lathrup hoodie, a pair of socks, a white t-shirt, my underwear, and headed for the bathroom. Suddenly, I heard a noise coming from downstairs. It sounded like someone opening the garage door, but that was impossible. My parents were in Chicago visiting my aunt Wanda. Then I heard loud footsteps moving toward the living room. My heart was pounding so loud I was afraid the intruder could hear it. My adrenaline started to kick in and I tiptoed back into my room, grabbed my baseball bat from under my bed, and headed toward the stairs. With the bat tightly clinched in both hands, I gently walked down each stair trying desperately not to make a sound. As I approached the last step, I turned my body toward the direction where I heard the sound and out of the corner of my eye I saw a large male frame standing in the living room area. I walked slowly toward the figure with the bat at my side, ready to swing and bring whoever it was to the ground. I bent down trying to stay low when suddenly, the image became clear . It was my father. But that could not be, he was supposed to be in Chicago with my mother. I stopped dead in my tracks, did an about face,

walked toward the house I told myself, “Party or no party, right or wrong, he wasn’t going to put his hands on me again.” I was the only kid on the block still getting whippings in high school. I was 16 and still had to wear long-sleeved shirts to school to hide the bruises on my arm that I got from trying to protect myself from the belt. It actually looked worse than it felt. What hurt the most was the fact that my classmates would joke on me about it. When I walk in this house if any one of them says something about me getting a whipping, it’s on! As I grabbed the knob on the screen door and walked through the garage into the house, I kept telling myself to relax and act normal. I deliberately went through the garage and not the front door because it gave me a few extra minutes to gather myself. I paused for about 30 seconds to calm down, gain my composure, and practice saying, “What’s up ma, Mrs. Brown said you wanted to talk to me.” I must have practiced saying, “What up ma, Mrs. Brown said you wanted to talk to me,” a million times before I mustered up enough courage to walk into the house, and into the family room to face my parents. As I walked into the family room, the sight of my parents struck fear in my heart. I opened my mouth and all the moisture evaporated and my voice began to crack, “Mrs. Bbbbbbrown, I stuttered, ssssaid you wanted to see me.” “Yes, I talked with your dad yesterday and he said that the steak was missing. Do you know what happened to it? “No ma’am.” “Well, that’s strange because your father and I found beer bottles in the backyard and the grill looks like someone cooked steak on it recently. I am going to try this again! Did you have a party here last night?”, she pressed. “Party? No ma’am, I didn’t have a party here last night.” I tried to keep a straight face, but it was difficult because my mom always knew when I was lying. “Stop lying. Eric, I am so damn sick of you. How could you have a party in my house, eat the groceries your father and I worked for, and have absolute strangers in my house? What in the hell were you thinking?”, she screamed. I didn’t say a word; I just stared at her. “Eric, do you hear me talking to you? I asked you a question, what in the hell were you thinking? I want an answer and I want it now!” I didn’t flinch, I just stood there with a blank look on my face. “Son, your mother