This is the opening to something I'm currently working on. Let me know what you think.
The day my dad hit my mom was the day I became a man.
It’s strange; the idiom of separating the men from the boys had held no prevalence to me before that day, but after I knocked my father out, it all became so clear.
My father was no man, only a coward.
It was June and summer break had just started. The heat in Las Vegas had become particularly pressing, and I felt like I was baking as I half-ran, half-walked along the street towards my friend Daniel’s house.
Men don’t cry, Eli. Men don’t cry, and you showed HIM who the man was, yes sir-ee, so don’t you DARE cry!
But the tears still came because my left arm was stinging like I had pressed it onto a sizzling burner and I could feel the blister forming from where my father had—
For sixteen-years-old, I sure felt like a grown man. An old man, actually, withering away in this heat. I was glad that there weren’t many people outside of their homes, watching this teenage kid crying and wondering what the hell he was doing.
I was almost there now. Daniel would likely be in his basement, maybe smoking a joint and seeing what delicacies he could find in his stash of old-school porno magazines. Normally, the idea would cause a chuckle to bubble on my lips but then my arm started to sting more and I let out a grunt of pain, fresh tears forming at the corner of my eyes.