trip is a violent crash-out, plain and simple. a walking eruption.
he would never—never—lay a hand on melvin or gramma. that’s not even up for debate. but that doesn’t mean the greasers get a free pass.
trip, who’ll beat the hell out of some unlucky greaser until he’s sore from throwing punches. until the poor guy is crumpled, soaked in blood—his own—and trip is left breathing hard, fists split, shirt ruined, too far gone to even wipe his hands clean.
trip, who breaks into the liquor cabinet when sneaking out isn’t an option. he tells himself he just needs a little something to take the edge off. but he never stops at a little.
even after he jumps a greaser, he’ll still go drink—sometimes stumbling into the house with blood still on his knuckles, forgetting he never washed it off. sometimes he drinks because of what he did. other times, it’s just routine.
he drinks and drinks and drinks until it all goes numb. then he remembers. or worse—something reminds him. a phrase. a smell. a flicker of someone else’s pain.
and then he’s lashing out again.
he starts screaming—genuinely screaming. a raw, hoarse sound that no one should ever have to hear from someone they love. then he’s sobbing. ugly, full-body sobs that turn his face blotchy and red. sometimes it’s both at once: yelling and crying in tangled knots.
he throws things. beer bottles, mostly. hurls them at the wall, at the door, at nothing. they shatter. the noise doesn’t help, but it feels like it should.
he stumbles around his room like it’s a battlefield. punches the wall. runs shoulder-first into his dresser. he’s not trying to hurt himself, not exactly—but pain feels better than whatever else is happening inside him.
he chucks his basketball at the window. shoves everything off his desk. breaks things he loves and will regret destroying come morning. which just pisses him off all over again.
he hits the wall again. harder this time. his knuckles are split now. blood joins the tears on his cheeks, and it all blends—pain and rage and sadness, tangled up until even he doesn’t know which is which.
when it’s over, he slumps against the wall like his body gave out. legs curled to his chest, elbows balanced on his knees, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. his fingers twist into his hair, tugging at the roots like maybe he can get something out that way.
gramma shows up with that tired, unimpressed look she always wears after one of his blowups. arms crossed, sighing through her nose.
“are you done now?” she asks like it’s a chore she’s tired of watching.
trip screams something at her—some half-coherent mix of curses and defenses, words that don’t even string together right. making a sound that gave gramma a glimpse to the boy she raised.
she doesn’t flinch. just mutters, “you’re just like your father,” and shuts the door behind her.
and when trip wakes up with dried spit at the corner of his mouth, blood on his knuckles, and the dull, sinking ache of regret already blooming behind his eyes. when the air in his room smells like beer and dust and sweat with shards of a bottle glittering under his desk, he still has the audacity to wonder why melvin won’t look him in the eyes at breakfast.
