I had a hard childhood. I had a really hard childhood. Each day felt like survival. Thinking back, I'm surprised I'm alive. There are some things no one should have to go through. There are some things that are better left in the past.
But here I am. Writing this all out. Why? I don't know...I feel like by doing this, by telling you all this, I can finally purge my mind of these memories. I know they will always be there, lurking behind my most lonely days...but they won't have the bite they do now. By telling you this, I hope to take their fangs away.
So let me start with some things you need to understand.
My mother died when I was two. I'm still not entirely sure how, but I think it had to do with drugs. I was her only child, leaving me in the care of my father, Richard. I don't remember my mother at all. Not even her face. I've never seen a picture of her, never heard a story told about her...nothing. My father just told me she died when I was two.
My father, Richard, was the hardest of men. He worked construction and I didn't see him much. I grew up in a two bedroom apartment, fending for myself, mostly abandoned. I had to find ways to feed myself, wash, and survive. I didn't go out much for the first couple years. I just stayed in my room or wandered around the filthy space, hoping my dad left something for me to eat.
It wasn't abuse at that point, at least not compared to what came later. It was neglect. He didn't harm me, he didn't yell at me, he just hardly acknowledged my existence. He went to work and then came home, maybe muttering a few drunken words to me as he went to collapse in his bed.
At that point, I wasn't unhappy. It was my life, it was all I knew. I thought that's what everybody's lives were like. Thinking about that now makes me sick, but then? Then it was just the way it was.
But you spend all that time alone...it does things to you.
When I was six, I created Ryan. Ryan was older than me, at least by a couple years. He was my friend. I talked to him, confided in him, cried to him. He was my imaginary buddy. He was a part of me. He was a projection of a strength I longed for.
And Ryan hated my father.
I tried not to talk to Ryan when my dad was home. It was hard though, because the more I invested into the fantasy, the more real he became. Even now, I can picture exactly what Ryan looked like.
When my father started catching on that I had an imaginary friend, that Ryan existed, that's when things became...bad. If he caught me talking to Ryan he would hit me, tell me to “stop being such a little faggot”.
He was worse when he drank, like all fathers are.
He'd bring women home sometimes and tell me to stay hidden in my room while he had sex with them. Sometimes though, he'd drink too much and couldn't perform...and when that happened, he would get furious. That's when the beatings were the worst. He'd kick out whatever unlucky woman he had convinced to go home with him and then come stumbling into my room. The stink of rum on his breath, the dark silhouette, the deep rumbling in his chest.
Yes. Those were the worst nights
Ryan would watch, fists clenched, fury boiling from every pore until it was over. Then he'd come hold me as I cried, wipe the blood from my face, and tell me to hold on. He would cry with me, shaking his head, my agony one with his.
It went on like this until I was eleven.
That's where I'll start my story...that's where I think the deepest darkness dwells.
I watched the land flow past me as I stared out the window. The sun was spilling its soft pink warmth over the horizon and I longed to be swallowed up by its light.
I gripped my lunch box in my fist, wondering why I even needed it. All it held was a single banana, my lunch for the day. I didn’t dare complain though. It wasn’t worth it. I was used to it. Feeling hungry was better than feeling my dad’s anger.
I glanced up at him, noticing the way he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He wasn’t in a good mood this morning. He was hungover, I could smell last night’s liquor on his breath still. Heavy bags dripped from his bloodshot eyes. After he dropped me off, he was headed to work. I wasn’t looking forward to whatever mood he came back with tonight.
I said nothing, just impatient to get to school before he found a reason to yell at me. I hated the yelling. I hated the way he made me feel when he was mad at me: stupid, small, a bother to everyone, an inconvenience he had to deal with.
I didn’t have friends at school, but at least I didn’t have any enemies. When my dad was hungover, I was his enemy.
“He stinks today doesn’t he,” Ryan commented from the back seat.
I said nothing, didn’t even look behind me.
We pulled into my school and my dad stopped the car at the front entrance. He didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead and waited to be rid of me. I fumbled with my seat belt and then opened the door, pulling my backpack along with me.
I shot a look over my shoulder, “Ok, see ya dad,” I said softly.
He leaned over and grabbed the door from the inside and slammed it shut before speeding off. I sighed.
Ryan placed a hand on my shoulder, “Fuck him. Come on dude, let’s go in.”
I hefted my battered backpack up onto my shoulders and made my way inside.
School passed in a blur of gray and black. Moving from classroom to classroom, long walks down crowded hallways, the chatter of my fellow students floating just above my head. It was all just part of the scene, a movie I could watch but wasn’t allowed to be part of. No one talked to me, no one bullied me, no one even seemed to acknowledge my existence. I was the weird kid, the poor loner who was avoided. Even the teachers didn’t talk to me any more than they had too.
I was a ghost, a pale boy with a sad face.
Ryan kept me company though. He would comment throughout the day, yell at kids he thought were assholes, and whisper answers to me from behind my desk. I was grateful to him and his constant support. He got me through those dark times in more ways than one.
When school was over, I climbed onto the bus and took it home. I sat in the back and stared out the window, ignoring everything that was happening in front of me. I watched the road pass underneath, the white painted lines zipping past. I pretended they were lasers just missing our spaceship.
When I got home I unlocked the front door of the apartment with my key and put my stuff in my room. I went to the kitchen and opened up the fridge, my stomach growling. I spotted a half-eaten burger from a fast food place down the street. It was partially wrapped and I snatched it up, tearing away the remaining paper. I didn’t even microwave it, just stuffed the burger down my throat, hardly chewing.
After I had licked my fingers, I went to my room and pulled out my notebook. During these quiet moments, I would draw. It was a way for me to release and detach myself from my reality. I would lay in my room for hours, sketching anything I could think of. I wasn’t very good, but I wasn’t bad either. Dragons, space ships, warriors, swords, guns, nothing was safe from the point of my pen. Sometimes I would create stories around my pictures, simple paragraphs about whatever I had drawn. Ryan would watch me, fascinated, and give me suggestions on what to do next.
I was just putting the final touches on a sea monster when I heard the front door crash open. I jumped, the sudden noise shattering the still quiet. I looked at my clock and saw that it was almost midnight. I couldn’t believe it, how had I been drawing so long? My stomach snarled and confirmed the late hour. I put my pen down, my fingers stiff from the hours of creativity.
My father wasn’t alone. I could hear him talking and laughing with another person. A woman.
“Sounds like he made a friend,” Ryan said darkly.
I slipped off my bed and went to my door. I peeked out from the crack and saw my dad leading a blonde lady into his bedroom. He sounded drunk, they both did. He must have picked her up at a bar after his shift. I watched him put something down on the counter, what looked like more beer, and stumble into his room.
“What does he do with them?” Ryan asked, leaning over me to stare out the door.
“Adult things,” I muttered, closing the door. This was a familiar situation. My dad brought women home on a regular basis, mostly drunk, and take them into his bedroom. I knew they kissed and stuff, but there were other noises that made me think they were doing more. I didn’t know what, but it seemed to make them happy.
My father was usually in a good mood the day after such events. It was these days he’d actually talk to me. It wasn't much, but it was something and I clung to those times. I wanted to talk with him, wanted him to like me, even love me. I didn’t understand why he was always so mad at me. Other kids at school didn’t have bruises on them. They didn’t talk about how their dad’s hit them.
I felt like there was something wrong with me. That myself, as a person, had some deep seeded flaw that rendered me un-loveable. I figured my dad could see it and that’s why he was always so mean to me. I used to cry about it a lot, but as I got older I just accepted it. There was something wrong with me and one day I’d understand what that was.
“Boy!”
My heart froze in my chest.
Was that my dad? Why was my father calling me?
I turned to Ryan, eyes wide and terrified, “What do I do?”
Ryan shrugged, looking equally as confused. I was a ghost when my father brought home his friends. I was to stay in my room and not come out. I was dead until they left.
“Come here!”
I shot another terrified look at Ryan and then opened the door with a shaking hand. My heart sputtered like a wild drum.
I walked down the hall, mouth dry, and pushed open my dad’s bedroom door. It was dark inside and I couldn’t see his face. He and the woman were on the bed, two shadows with gray washed skin.
“Y-yeah dad?” I asked, the words clogging in my throat.
I heard my dad shifting on the bed, a dark smudge in moving black, “Bring me the beer on the counter, now.”
The woman giggled and there was more movement. My father’s words were slurred and wet, the familiar alcohol soaked speech of a night out. It was a language I was used to, its alien accent becoming more and more understandable as I got older.
Wordlessly, I padded into the kitchen, heart still thundering. I spotted the six pack sitting on the counter. I grabbed it, shooting Ryan an uneasy look. I walked back to the bedroom and stopped in the door. I didn’t know what to do now.
From the darkness, a hand motioned me forward, “Well bring it here!”
I walked to the foot of the bed, beer extended. The woman leaned forward out of the black, completely naked, and scooped it from my grasp. She giggled and patted my head.
“You have a cute kid,” She said, speaking with the same slurred accent. She placed the beer down on the bed and leaned forward again, her breath hot and stinking.
“Do you want to stay and watch?” She asked, reaching out to touch my face.
I jerked away from her hand, appalled and disgusted by her. I didn’t know what she was talking about but I knew I wanted no part in it. She laughed as I recoiled and retreated into the shadows with my father.
As I turned to leave, my dad’s voice cut through the air.
“Stop!”
I gulped and slowly turned around, “Y-yeah dad?”
“Why didn’t you bring a glass for the lady?” His voice was heavy, a boiled rumble coming from his chest.
“I-I’m sorry dad,” I stuttered.
Suddenly a beer bottle exploded across my head, the pain sudden and fierce. I howled and clutched my skull as sharp glass and warm beer rained down on me. I fell to the floor, vision going blurry, my head pulsing with intense agony.
“Leave him alone,” Ryan growled from the doorway, his fists clenched.
I scrubbed the stinging spot on my head and stood slowly, beer dripping from my bangs. Before I could get my bearings, I felt a hand grab the back of my neck.
I stumbled, my father’s grip like iron, and blinked against the pain as he led me out of the room. I was bumbling apologies, a useless stream of regret that fell on deaf ears.
He dragged me into the kitchen and threw me against the refrigerator. I cried out as my shoulder took the brunt of it, a jolt of pain snaking its way into my muscles. I tried to stand but my father was in front of me, grabbing me by the hair and pulling my head up to look at him.
“If you embarrass me again, it’s not going to end well for you,” He growled, his voice like burning coals.
Ryan’s face was a gaunt mask of pale fury, sweat standing out on his skin and a vein bulging in his forehead. He leaned in and snarled into my father’s ear, “Get your fucking cunt hands off of him you repulsive motherfucker.”
My father pulled me up, my mind in a haze, and grabbed my shoulder, “Now go get the beer while I fetch a glass.”
He pushed me towards the bedroom and I tripped and almost fell over. I steadied myself and blinked, rubbing my shoulder. Ryan was at my side, one arm around me, helping me. I felt tears running down my cheeks. I grit my teeth and sniffled, confused and miserable.
Ryan looked down at me and I could see the hurt in his eyes when he saw the fresh tears on my face. His body tightened against mine and I felt him begin to shake with fury.
I entered my dad's room and went to the bed. I groped around and found the six pack. The woman was lying on her stomach, watching me, a distant look on her face like she had never seen a child before. She didn't say anything, just watched as I pulled the beers to my chest and left the room.
As I left, I felt a sharp pain prick the bottom of my foot and I fell with a short cry. The beer I had been holding soared into the hallway and smashed against the far wall in an explosion of foam and glass. I rolled on the floor, clutching my foot, gritting my teeth, fighting back more tears. I had stepped on a broken piece of glass, the remains of the bottle smashed over my head.
“What the in fucking hell!?” I heard my dad roar as he charged towards me. He stopped as his eyes washed over the mess, his mouth open in shock.
“I-I'm s-sorry dad, it was an accident,” I said weakly, getting to my feet, dread flooding my guts.
“Don't apologize,” Ryan said helping me up.
“Quite the clumsy kid you have,” the woman droned from the bedroom behind me.
My dad lunged forward and grabbed me by the throat, dragging me down the hall towards the front door. Now that he was away from the woman, he threw me against the door and backhanded me across the mouth.
I cried and collapsed to the ground, blood splashing across my tongue. I saw stars and heard Ryan screaming at my father. I felt like this was it. My father was going to kill me. My short life was about to come to an abrupt end as he beat me to death in a drunken rage.
“What is wrong with you?” He yelled, leaning down to scream in my face, “I ask you to do one thing, one goddamn thing!”
“I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR FUCKING THROAT OUT IF YOU TOUCH HIM AGAIN!” Ryan roared at my father, spittle spraying from his lips.
My dad grabbed me and dragged me to my feet. He slammed me against the door, one hand on my throat, choking me. I sputtered, my breath wheezing through my enclosed throat in short desperate pulls.
“Now, I'm going to go to the store to get more and you're coming with me,” My dad said, his hot breath blasting my face with traces of beer and rum.
He let me go and I went to the floor in a pile. I grabbed my throat and sobbed, big wet tears hitting the ground like falling diamonds. Ryan squat next to me, rubbing my back and whispering that it was going to be ok. He was here, he would see me through this. I sniffed and pulled my shoes on. I could hear my dad telling his lady friend that he would be right back, that he was going to get some more alcohol for them.
He came out of the darkness in a t-shirt and jeans. He grabbed the car keys and stumbled towards me. I side stepped his approach and he pulled the front door open. He turned around and pointed for me to go.
Afraid he was going to hit me, I covered my head, still crying, and shuffled quickly past him. He said nothing to me as we made our way to the car, his steps staggered and drunk. I knew he wasn't suppose to drive like this, but I didn't dare bring this up as I quickly climbed into the passengers side seat.
He turned on the car and sped us down the street. He rolled the window down as we turned onto the main road, letting the cool air wash over us. I glanced at him and saw him blinking rapidly and opening his eyes wide. I gripped my seat as the car drifted from side to side, my father doing his best in his altered state.
“He's going to kill us,” Ryan said from behind me, “He's going to fucking kill us.” I heard panic in his voice.
My dad was mumbling and kept rubbing his hand over his face, as if he was trying to pull something from his skin. Thankfully, there weren't many cars out this late and the road was mostly our own.
I shivered as the wind whipped through the open windows and licked my exposed skin with a cold tongue. My head was throbbing from where it had been struck, my whole body aching in unison.
After a few minutes of silent driving, my dad pulled into a gas station. He left the car running as he fumbled for his wallet. I swallowed hard, noticing that we were the only ones around. I could see the clerk from inside looking at us through the window.
“God DAMN it!” My dad roared suddenly.
I shrank into my seat, trying to disappear, trying to melt into the fabric. I couldn't take anymore tonight, my body and mind were at their limits. My face was soaked with tears and my lip stung from where I had been struck. Ryan reached out from behind me and squeezed my arm reassuringly.
“Of course I leave my fucking wallet,” My dad was mumbling, shaking his head, rage building in his eyes. “Of all the nights for you to act like a fucking moron!” My dad growled, turning towards me. “You smashed the beer and you're ruining my chances with this woman. Why do you have to be such a goddamn FUCK up?!”
I didn't say anything, just huddled into myself, crying silently. I didn't know why I was such a fuck up, why I couldn't just make him happy. I wanted to, God knows I wanted to. But no matter what I did, I couldn't seem to win his affection or even care.
“Open the glove box,” My dad said, slapping the back of my head, “Open it, hurry up.”
“I'm fucking warning you,” Ryan said through gritted teeth. He was staring death at my dad through the rear view mirror.
I wiped my face and pulled open the glove box.
A gun.
A revolver.
I stared at it, eyes growing wide, heart beginning to beat faster in my chest. I looked up at my dad, my face a mask of fear.
“Take that and go get me some goddamn beer,” He said, pointing inside.
Every ounce of me screamed not to. I felt panic and acid horror rising in my throat. He wanted me to rob the place. He wanted me to stick a gun in the clerks face and tell him the beer was on the house. No...no I couldn't.
“D-dad, I can't...” I trailed off weakly.
My father leaned forward and snatched the gun out of the glove box and shoved it into my hands. He gripped my face in his rough hand and pulled my eyes to meet his.
“Get in there and get me my beer. You have to make this right. Don't you know that when you do something bad, you have to make it right?”
I didn't know what to say. I knew this was wrong.
Ryan leaned forward, his eyes bright and savage, “You can end all this right now...blow his fucking brains out.” His voice was a sharp whisper, “You put that gun in his eye and you pull the goddamn trigger. Put a bullet through the back of his skull.”
“GO!” My dad roared, shoving me against the door.
I got out, knees shaking. The gun was heavy in my hands, the cold steel glowing under a full moon. I couldn't do this. I couldn't do this.
I knew that if I didn't try, my father would kill me himself. That wasn't a question or a possibility, it was a reality. There was a dark edge in my father's eyes tonight, a hard hatred that I had seen growing more and more the past couple of months. It wasn't all about me, it was about the world, his job, his lot in life, everything. A few times I had heard him talking to himself, claiming the deck was stacked against him, that he just couldn't seem to get ahead of things.
I walked into the gas station, a little bell announcing my arrival with a pleasant jungle. I hid the guy by my side, eying the clerk. He was an older man, maybe late sixties. He cocked an eyebrow at me, taking in my appearance. I didn't think about it, how my face looked, and I turned towards the coolers. I opened one at random and the gentle cold washed over my beaten features. I paused, closing my eyes, enjoying the small comfort.
“Just grab one and let's get this over with,” Ryan said softly, throwing a look over his shoulder.
I grabbed a six pack and let the frosted door swing shut. My heart was smashing itself against my ribs, my breathing coming out in staggered gasps. The gun shook in my hand.
I walked to the front, slowly. I kept the revolver hidden behind my back. Not looking at the clerk, I turned towards the door.
“What are you doing, son?” The man asked, clearly not concerned.
I didn't say anything, just kept walking. Almost to the door.
“Hey, stop!” The man yelled, the recognizable tone of adult authority freezing me in place. I gulped, sweat trickling down my spine.
I spun, bringing the gun up. I pointed it at the clerk, paralyzing him in his place. My hand shook and the grip was coated in sweat.
“My dad needs this,” I sputtered, the words fumbling off my tongue, “I-I'm really sorry...I didn't want to do this.”
The man raised his hands, eyes wide, “Whoa, whoa, easy boy, easy. It's ok, I'm not going to do anything.”
I pushed the door open with the beer, “I didn't want to do this,” I was crying now, “Don't call the police...please...”
I dashed out of the gas station. Tears flowed from my face, my vision blurred and dark. My eyes stung as I hopped back into the car, slamming my door.
My dad let out a whoop of delight and floored it. The car peeled out, the smell of burning rubber mixing with self-loathing and despair. I wiped my face, trying to stop myself from crying anymore, but couldn't seem to stop. I hated myself, hated what my dad had made me do.
My father was whistling to himself, oblivious to my sorrows. He rolled down the window a little more and the night air made my eyes sting even more. Ryan was silent in the back seat, not knowing what to do or say.
After a little bit, we pulled into our apartment complex and my father parked the car. He pulled the keys out of the ignition and turned to me, snatching the beer from my lap. He paused, the six pack dangling in front of my face.
“What the hell is this?”
Stomach churning, I looked up at him, at the beer.
“W-what's wrong?” I asked, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
“What's...wrong?” My dad growled, dropping the beer back onto my lap, “I hate this kind of beer. How do you not know that? I don't drink this shit!” He smacked the back of my head and knocked a couple more tears from my eyes.
“Are you doing this on purpose?!” He roared suddenly. “Do you think this is funny? Is that it?!” He grabbed me by the neck and slammed my head against the side of the car. Pain ignited across my skull and stars bloomed like distant fireworks.
“Stop hitting him!” Ryan yelled from the back.
My dad was shaking me, throttling me, “It's like you're retarded or something! Are you a retard!? ARE YOU!?”
“STOP IT!” Ryan bellowed.
My dad's hands were burning a halo of fire into my throat. I hacked and gagged, desperate for air, my vision starting to darken. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe I did deserve to die. Maybe everyone would be happier like this.
“ENOUGH!” Ryan screamed.
He grabbed my hand with his, the hand I was still holding the gun with, and pointed it at my father's face.
“I said leave him the FUCK ALONE!” Ryan howled, his voice deafening.
My dad's eyes widened and he immediately retreated to his side of the car. His hands went up and he licked his lips, the sudden aggression catching him off guard. I had never done anything like this before, never stood my ground against his onslaught of abuse.
“Are you ready to die you fucking miserable piece of goddamn garbage?!” Ryan snarled, his eyes wild, his finger pressing mine to the trigger.
My dad seemed to relax slightly, “Huh...you going to shoot me, boy? Is that it? Going to kill your old man?”
“You're goddamn right I am,” Ryan spat, his voice hot iron.
“Go ahead,” My dad said, a small smile on his lips, “Go ahead and pull the trigger. Just do it.”
“I've been waiting a long time to do this,” Ryan growled.
I felt Ryan squeeze my finger around the trigger.
“NO!” I screamed, “Ryan STOP!”
Big, wet tears streamed from my face, my mind shattered into shards of hopeless sorrow and suffering.
I jerked the gun away from Ryan and I saw my dad snort and almost look disappointed.
Weeping, I put the gun to my own head.
“Is this what you want!?” I screamed, an ocean of sadness rising in my chest, filling me. “Will this make you happy!?”
The small smile fell from my dad's face. His eyes grew wide, a sudden unease welling in his features.
“Why can't I do anything to make you happy!?” I howled, voice cracking in suffocating hurt, “Why don't you love me!? What did I do!? WHAT DID I DO!?” The gun barrel was shaking against my temple, my finger wrapped around the trigger like a snake ready to strike.
“WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH DAD!?” I wept, openly sobbing, snot and tears flooding my face.
I saw something come over my father. His features grew soft and he raised his hands to me, “Hey...hey it's ok...” his voice was soft, but shocked, “Please...put the gun down...please...”
“You'll be happier if I'm dead!” I screamed, “I won't be such a bother to you anymore!” I grit my teeth against the horse sobs racking my chest.
“Son...don't do this...please...” His voice was gentle, his eyes sober and concerned, something I had never seen before from him.
I dragged the back of my hand across my eyes, “You don't care about me, you hate me! Well I'm sorry! I'm sorry for making you so miserable! I just wanted you to love me! I JUST WANTED YOU TO LOVE ME!”
My body shook as grief choked me. The gun dug into my skin and I closed my eyes, sobbing.
A hand touched my shoulder, gentle and reassuring.
My father's voice was barely a whisper, emotion lacing every word, “I-I'm sorry...I'm sorry for doing this to you...it's ok...it's going to be ok...” He trailed off, his hand going to the gun.
Weeping, I let him slowly pull it from my temple.
“Why can't you love me...” I whimpered, staring into my father's eyes. “
A deep hurt wrinkled my dad's features, a sudden human pain that filled his eyes. He took me by the shoulders and pulled me to his chest, stroking my hair.
“Shhhh...” he cooed, “It's going to be ok, son. I'm here. Shhhhh.” I felt something drip onto my head and I realized my father was crying as well.
I closed my eyes and hugged him, my body warm against his.
We stayed like that for a long time.
He never hit me again after that night. After some time we went inside and he kicked the woman out and went to bed. We didn't speak about what happened. That night in the car changed my father, opened me up to him in a way I didn't think possible. He saw me differently, saw my suffering and how deeply it had damaged me.
Our relationship has changed since then. We'll never be close, but we're civil now. He's getting older and I have started my first year of college. I don't see him much, but when I do we manage to hold a conversation.
I don't see Ryan anymore. He simply disappeared after that night. Whatever my young mind needed from him had been filled. There were times I missed him and tried to talk to him, but I always found myself speaking in empty space.
I have scars, both mentally and physically, that can never be healed. The horrible memories my father burned into my mind will never go away. He created a fear in me I can never be rid of.
I don't think my father will ever love me the way I long for. I don't think he has the capacity. I've come to terms with that, I'm ok with that now. Writing this out will hopefully purge the remaining anger I have against him. I'm not sure if that's possible, but I needed to try.
I'm tired.
I don't want to be angry.
I'm tired of thinking about him.
My father, my monster.
Submitted March 03, 2016 at 05:30AM by Elias_Witherow http://ift.tt/1UzVIMA nosleep
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