Care For Me Not, I'll Hurt You Too Much

A hazy light makes its way through the living room window the next morning. You sit on the couch, carrot stick in hand, eating. The rest of the carrots sit idly in their bag on the coffee table in front of you. You sit with your feet tucked underneath you, attempting to shield them from the cooling air of the changing seasons. The television plays on mute as you nibble lightly on your “after breakfast snack”. You really only had just a small peanut butter sandwich and some crackers…all of which you had purchased the night before.

Everything was hidden away already. You bought mostly things that could be stored out of the way and in the back of cabinets. You had six years of practice hiding things, so you knew exactly where to put them so he wouldn’t find them. The items that needed to be kept cold, you hid in the bottom drawer of the fridge. The drawer was kept empty most of the time, simply because it was one of the hardest damn things to open. You found out year earlier that all you had to do was shift it to the right and it’ll slide right open. But you counted on the hopes that your father didn’t know this and stored your food in there, “locking” it shut afterwards.

Now you sit silently, watching a silent channel on the television that you had no idea still worked. You figured he would have stopped paying for nearly everything several years ago, the television being one of them. Then again, he could watch it. You really had no idea who he was or what he was like. Even as a child you had no clue who your father really was. All you knew was that whenever you answered the phone and someone asked for “Mr. Venton” then you gave the phone to him. That is, if he was home.

He stayed out so often when you were growing up, that it was odd seeing him home all day. You began to remember the way it was always just your mom. She was the one always home, she was the one always taking care of you, and she was the one always tucking you in. You remember when she spent the night in the hospital and your father came in to your room to tuck you in. You were about seven years old, and he walks in and simply pats the blanket and says good night before walking out. No hug, no kiss, no smile.

What was she in the hospital for? You wonder, remembering the situation as to why your mother could be there.

She wasn’t home for days then. Was it because he hit her too?

Did mom ever get the same kind of bruises?

Did he ever hit her too?

You mull over it quietly, still staring blankly at he constantly moving screen but not paying any attention to it. No.

He never hit her, and you knew it.

Now that you look back at it, she seemed to be the only person that he did care about. Every time you saw them around each other, he would hold her and stare at her until she smiled. He would ignore you completely, but always make sure that she had everything she wanted. He loved her…and only her.

Why was she in the hospital then? The semi-forgotten pessimistic voice comes challenging.

You think about it, not really caring that her voice was back, but really just seeing it as something inevitable. She always came back.

Because she was pregnant. You tell her.

With who? She asks.

Your brother.

And how did he treat him?

You remember the smiles. You remember the kisses. You remember the coos. And you remember simply watching from the hallway as others gathered around the three of them, painting the perfect family portrait without you.

He loved him too.

But why not you? Who ever loved you?

You are tempted to say that nobody did. You were tempted to say that nobody ever cared for you at all. You are tempted to say that your life was erased the day that they brought him back home. But instead you say…

“You did.”

You voice rings out and breaks the silence that captured your concentration. You blink your eyes and look around your living room, feeling as if you had just woken up. Blindly, you reach forward and grab another carrot off the coffee table.

-
Lunch time rolled around and you hadn’t moved. The only time you did was to reach forward and either grab a carrot or flip the television off mute for several seconds before realizing that you preferred the silence over the noise and turning it back on. The silence gave you opportunity to let your mind run wild with thoughts and worries. Most of which containing the person living next door.

Just go next door. the voice says for what felt like the hundredth time.

No. You answer mentally, not wanting to break the silence.

You know you miss it.

You hated how this voice followed you now. You hated how it seemed to be the only thing other than Gerard that you could talk to. You hated how you now felt completely insane for having conversations with yourself.

Just go back.

A loud, hollow tap breaks the silence in the room. You jump in surprise at the sound, and wait.

What was that?

You begin to think it was simply something hitting one of your windows before another one occurs, this time in rapid succession.

Someone’s knocking.

You hear the knocking coming again, this time hearing it coming directly from the front door behind you. You keep quiet and listen for anything other than that, considering not answering.

If you just stay still then they will go away. You tell yourself, but turn the television off anyway.

They knock again.

Who the hell? You decide it was probably girl scouts or something. They often came through the neighborhood, knocking door to door trying to sell boxes of whatever types of baked misfortunes they were forced with. You got them before, every one usually around this time. You just waited for them to give up before you finally look out the curtains to see them marching dejectedly down the sidewalk. It was then that you felt bad and opened the door, calling them back and offering to buy one of their less expensive boxes of cookies. You always regretted it.

The knock comes again, this time with less enthusiasm than before.

You knew they were about to give up, and you knew you would just follow the same pattern that you did before, so you decided to change it up a bit. You got up and walked to the door after shoving another smaller carrot stick in your mouth. After all, you still had some money leftover from the night before. Perhaps it could be enough for you to gain a box of cookies and the human contact you were lacking in the past few days.

You open the door before you believe they’re going to knock again.

No girl scout.

Younger boy instead.

He stared at you wide-eyed for a few seconds, his glasses nearly slipping off his nose in the process of his mouth opening in shock. He was lanky, but tall. He was nearly as tall as you even though he looked to be several years younger. His nose was pointed and his lips were thin as he pursed them together anxiously. You couldn’t stop staring at his face.

“Umm…hi.” He says, his voice layered with the pre-puberty softness.

Something’s not right here.

You don’t know what it was, but something about his voice made something feel wrong again. You look over your shoulder at the house behind you, making sure your father wasn’t readying to creep up on the both of you. That was always the first thing you think of whenever you feel as if something was wrong. But this time, your father wasn’t suddenly there, and you knew he wasn’t the reason why you felt something was wrong.

Something about the boy. He was familiar.

“Kendall?”

Shit.