Blood tastes like pennies and disappointment. My left eye's already swelling shut as Dad's fist connects with my cheekbone again, a dull crack echoing through our kitchen. Tuesday night at the Crackwell house, just another family dinner.
"HE RAISED HIS HAND AT ME! HIS OWN MOTHER!" Mom's shrieking behind him, her perfectly manicured nails clutching dramatically at her throat like she's auditioning for a soap opera.
Bullshit. Complete bullshit. All I did was catch her wrist mid-swing when she started using me as her personal punching bag. Apparently blocking counts as assault in this fucked-up household.
Dad grabs my collar, lifting me halfway off the linoleum. His knuckles, scarred from years in the ring, are already bruising from connecting with my face. "What a joke," he spits, actual saliva landing on my chin. "Trying to hit your own mother. I thought I taught you better than that."
"Fuck you."
The words hang in the air for a split second before Dad's face morphs into something truly terrifying, something beyond rage. He hurls me to the ground like I'm nothing but garbage, my spine cracking against the hard floor. The wind gets knocked out of me in a painful whoosh.
"I've always fucking hated you," he snarls, looming over me. "Weak. Pathetic. Not even a real man."
I finally snap. Eighteen years of fear crystallizes into blind fury. I lunge upward, trying to tackle him around the waist.
He doesn't even budge. Despite all my training, all those secret midnight sessions at the gym, I might as well be a toddler trying to topple a mountain. Dad laughs, actually laughs, as he grabs my shoulders and slams me back down.
"You think you're tough now?" His voice drops to that dangerous whisper that always precedes the worst beatings. "Let me show you what tough looks like."
I see his fist wind back, knuckles white, arm cocked like a loaded gun. Time slows down. I notice the oddest details, the fleck of my blood on his wedding ring, the vein pulsing in his temple, Mom cheering him on.
His heavy hand rockets toward my face, and I think. This is it. This is where Jack Crackwell's story ends. On a dirty kitchen floor, killed by the man who was supposed to protect him.
Everything goes black.
*****
Gasping awake feels like being yanked from the bottom of a lake. My lungs burn, vision swimming as I bolt upright on... a couch? The kitchen floor's gone, Dad's fist nowhere in sight, and somehow I'm sitting in our rarely-used formal living room with no blood, no bruises, not even a hint of the beating that should've sent me to the hospital.
Mom sits across from me, back ramrod straight, looking more intense than usual, which is saying something when your mother's nickname in MMA circles is "Viper." But it's the stranger that catches my attention. A tall woman with crimson sunglasses perched on her nose, her posture radiating a calm authority that feels alien in our house of chaos.
"So you'll take our disgusting mutie son off our hands?" Mom's voice cuts through my confusion like a serrated knife.
The red-glasses woman's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I think such language about your own flesh and blood is what's truly disgusting here," she replies, voice cool as liquid nitrogen. "But yes, it would be my honor to take your son off your hands and bring him to Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters."
"What?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Mom's head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing to venomous slits. "What's that dumb face for? Your stupid mutant ass is finally being thrown away."
"What?" I repeat feeling like I've walked into the middle of someone else's nightmare. "Mutant? Institute? Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Dad, who I just noticed lurking in the corner like a disappointed shadow, barks out a laugh. "The freak doesn't even know what he is."
The stranger rises from her seat, a fluid motion that somehow commands the entire room's attention. "Jack," she says, and something about the way she says my name, like I'm a person, not a punching bag, makes me actually look at her. "My name is Scotty Summers. I want to help you."
Flashes of Dad's fist, and that moment when everything went black flood my brain. But I'm not hurt. Not even a scratch.
I push myself up from the couch, legs unsteady beneath me. Scotty reaches out, her hand landing on my shoulder, but I flinch away instinctively. The touch burns through my shirt like acid, sending alarm bells ringing through my system. I can't help it, every woman's hand raised near me sets off the same panic response, courtesy of Mom's "parenting style" all these years.
"Sorry," I mutter, not meeting Scotty's eyes. The word's a reflex, something I've learned to say to defuse situations before they escalate.
"No, it's fine," Scotty says, withdrawing her hand without making a big deal of it. There's something unsettling about her understanding, like she's seen this dance before with other kids.
We move toward the door, my feet feeling like they're walking through quicksand. The surreal feeling intensifies with each step. Am I really leaving? Just like that?
Mom's voice follows us down the hallway, sharp as a blade between the shoulder blades. "Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out, Jack!"
No tearful goodbye. No motherly advice. Just one final barb to remember her by.
Outside, a black SUV idles in our driveway, engine purring like a predator. Scotty guides me toward the back door and opens it with a practiced motion. I slide in, feeling numb, watching my old prison shrink in the window as we pull away, though the street feels different.
My hand drifts to my face as we drive, fingers probing for swelling or cuts that should be there but somehow aren't. The world outside the tinted windows doesn't look right either. Everything's the same but... off, like someone rearranged the furniture of reality when I wasn't looking.
"Did I die?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. "Is this some weird afterlife…"
The words die in my throat as we pass a jogger on the sidewalk. A woman running with her chest completely bare, breasts bouncing freely as she maintains her pace. Nobody's staring. Nobody's cat calling her. Like it's the most normal thing in the world.
"Holy shit," I gasp, eyes practically bulging out of my skull as I whip my head around to keep watching until she disappears from view.
I turn to Scotty, heart hammering. "I'm completely lost here. What the hell is going on?"
She laughs, a warm sound that doesn't match her stern appearance. "It's okay, Jack. You're finally with your own people now. You don't have to hide anything anymore."
"My own...what?"
"Mutants," she says simply, like she's commenting on the weather.
I feel like I've been punched again. "I'm not a mutant."
Scotty shifts in her seat, pulling a manila folder from her briefcase. "Your parents told us everything about your ability to heal, Jack." She flips through a few papers. "They also mentioned something else. Something your mother referred to as 'wound transfer.'"
"What the fuck?" The words explode out of me.
Scotty's expression softens behind those weird red glasses. "Look, I'm sure you're confused. You just finally escaped a very abusive situation. I understand it's a lot to process. Just give me a chance."
My mind's racing at a million miles per hour. I have absolutely no clue what's happening, but one thing's crystal clear. This bizarre misunderstanding is my ticket out. Away from Mom's fists. Away from that house of nightmares.
If playing along with this mutant fantasy is my escape route, I'll take it.
"Okay," I say, sinking back into the leather seat.