His Story
1/1
He never tells me how it starts.
So I use my imagination. Maybe he’s finishing up his dinner. Or running his hand through his messy black hair, squinting at a math problem. More likely, he’s sitting on the edge of his small bed, strumming his guitar and dreaming past the four grey walls surrounding him, envisioning a life where he doesn’t have to live in this constant fear and paranoia.
It’s a peaceful spell for him, this reverie. But it’s brief. Because then, he comes home. He doesn’t tell me about this part, either, But I can see the headlights of the car oozing into the driveway, shining on the dark gravel. I can hear the door slam, the light slap as he throws his cop’s badge on the kitchen table, the blatant hypocrisy of the bronze metal sitting dully in the dark, forgotten – He’s not a police at home, that’s for sure.
I can imagine the way he stumbles over to find the lights, the world spinning around him, his breath forming light clouds of Grey Goose that float over his words. He’ll then go upstairs, almost crawling on his hands and knees, pathetic for a grown man, and groping the walls for support as the stairs turn into a smooth escalator, confusing his steps. Sometimes he doesn’t make it, and instead passes out on the steps, snoring loudly, his eyelids flickering gently as his mind rolls up the curtain and plays him a shadowy liquor-induced dream. And on those nights, the younger boy, standing above him for a moment to ensure the older man’s unconsciousness, can sleep easier tonight, without reckless nightmares.
But usually, he does make it to the top of the stairs. I can see him sitting in his room, with the door shut, incapable of making any move other than to stare blankly at the wall and wait for what will be sure to come. It’s acceptance of a temporary fate that has become a routine to him.
I sometimes wonder if the older man pauses for a moment as stands outside his young boy’s room, if he even stops to think about what he’s doing. They say blood is thicker than water, but how about alcohol? It weighs down his brain, slowing down his thoughts, and his sluggish brain cells don’t hesitate to ponder how much hurt and pain his actions cause. It shuffles any temporary thought of regret, any sign of a conscience to the back, just as swiftly and dismissively as a club bouncer pulling out two sixteen year olds from the line, and there’s no second thought about what he will do.
Maybe there’s a second of silence, as the only thing separating the two is the door of his room, but then that silence is broken as the older man kicks open the door, and all hell breaks loose.
What are you doing? he sneers, approaching his son. The younger boy doesn’t answer, too afraid to speak, to move, to resist. And he turns violent, When I ask you a question, you little piece of shit, you motherfucking answer me! And the first blow of the evening comes, straight to his fragile cheek, which is still smarting from last night’s similar occurrence.
I’m just doing homework, he replies shakily, leaning over to blindly grab a notebook from his night table.
His father – if that name could even be given to such a creature – snatches the notebook and flips through it. What’s this?. And with horror, his son realizes that he just handed him perfect ammunition to torture him further tonight. Fucking poems? He laughs raucously, pawing through the pages with such inconsiderateness that the boy doesn’t know if it’s possible to hate him any more at that moment.
Songs, he mutters a one-word response.
The laughter stops, and now the air is heavy with the older man’s disgust. And this is why you’ll never have a fucking future, you little fag. He grabs his son and throws him against the walls. Cause you’re busy writing some motherfucking songs. You’re a little pussy. With a grunt he puts his full strength into a blow to his stomach, and the boy falls to the ground, gasping for breath. Just like your mother. He kicks him, hard. Is that who you want to be like? Your mother? He’s shouting now, the liquor slithering through his brain, egging him on.
No, he manages to gasp, his esophagus burning as his father thrusts his scuffed police force boots again and again into his chest. He knows tomorrow there’ll be foot-sized bruises, and once again he’ll have to lie to get out of changing for gym in the boys locker room to hide himself.
Good, because you know what your mother was? He slurs drunkenly. She was a useless fucking cunt. Just like you. With yet another kick, the most painful yet, he adds spitefully, A cunt who left because she didn’t love you. How does that make you feel?
The younger boy, curled up on the floor in a fetus position, shuts his eyes tight, trying to hold in hot tears that leak out anyway. He tries to steady himself – Don’t cry. Don’t cry, he chants over and over inside his head, knowing the consequences if he succumbed to his weak side. Don’t let him see.
Too late. Through his inebriated vision, he sees the tears sliding out from his son’s eyelids, but instead of satisfying him as a mark of a good night’s work, it makes him angrier. Seized with a dangerous, uncontrolled urge of violence, he grabs his son off the floor and throws him, headfirst into the wall. Are you fucking crying? he demands, holding him by the neck, enunciating every word with a fist intended to blemish his beautiful face with purple and blue. The boy struggles; he’s choking, his face slowly turning red, he’s clawing desperately, and all his father can do is laugh in his face.
And then he’s dropped to the ground. He falls to the floor, massaging his neck and gulping in precious, sweet air. Above him, his father grunts dismissively. You need to grow some fucking balls, faggot. He doesn’t say anything; he closes his eyes tight, knowing that the worst is over, as out of the corner of his eye he sees those scuffed police boots turn and begin to stumble to the doorway. Every night is like this. The sickening buildup, the blinding pain, and then the temporary relief, knowing that although tonight’s lesson may be done, tomorrow’s round is ready with a date and time.
But the worst isn’t over yet. As he watches from his stance on the ground those black boots slipping and sliding in front of each other in an attempt to form a straight line, a single step, he sees him loose his balance – or maybe he didn’t lose his balance, maybe it was on purpose. Either way, he trips and falls just when he reaches the doorway, and his full weight lands on one of the most precious love of his life – his classic white Fender Jazzmaster guitar, the one that he saved for months and months to buy, the very one that acts as his sole comfort in his worst hours, the only thing that has very quite possibly kept him sane for the past year.
He watches it fall in almost slow-motion, unable to move his battered and bruised body to save his beloved baby from meeting its untimely death – and death it is indeed, as the guitar lands with a crash on the ground, the rosewood fingerboard that he spent so many hours forming blisters on his fingers breaking off into pieces. His stomach lurches treacherously.
Oops. His father is grinning, amused. Must have drank too much tonight. And he shuts the door with a slam. Once he’s sure his footsteps have disappeared to reside in his room, he crawls over on his hands and knees to touch the broken pieces disbelievingly. Oh, God, he murmurs. Oh God, oh God, oh God is all he can whisper, shivering, his head buried in his hands. And when he finally has the courage to raise his head, he has a destination in mind.
And I do know what happens after. I wake up at one in the morning to the sound of my vibrating phone, and I know what to do. I get out of bed right away, carefully walk across my room and creep slowly downstairs. Outside my porch and through the glass sliding door, I see a dark shadow. Without any second thoughts, I slip open the latch and, without a sound, pull open the door for him.
Hey, he whispers to me, sliding into the room, closing the door behind him. In the dark, all I can see is his silhouette, but without even asking, I know why he’s here. No questions asked, I turn, gesturing him to follow me, and lead him up to my room. Once in the safety inside my four walls, I take a good look at him. His face is trickling blood; he’s limping and wincing, unconsciously clutching his stomach every time he makes a move. “Sit,” I whisper to him. “Take off your shirt. I’ll be right back.”
For the second time that night, I carefully step out of my room to down the hall. I stop momentarily outside my parents’ bedroom; quite snoring assures me that all is well on their side of the door. I only wish I could the say the same for my side. Quietly, I make my way downstairs again. In the kitchen, I raid the medicine cabinet and take out bandages, antibacterial cream, rubbing alcohol, a washcloth and a bottle of pain medication, and from the freezer I take an icepack. I hurry back upstairs, as quietly as I can, and in my room I find him lying across my bed with shirt thrown on the ground, his chest rising and falling painfully with each breath he takes. He struggles to sit up when he sees me, and I hasten to the bed. “Stay down,” I warn him. He collapses back down.
I look down at his body and take a sharp intake. Tonight’s beating may have been the worst yet. Yellow-purple bruises cover the entire right side of his chest, and a cut seems to have erupted from the non-stop strikes, splitting open his skin as easily as cutting a slice of cake. Biting my lip, I wipe the blood with the washcloth and dab the cut with rubbing alcohol. He winces, unintentionally calling out as the liquid burns his skin as it seeps in. “Shhh.” I take his hand and rub small circles with my thumb to comfort him. “It’s okay, baby.” Once his body relaxes, I gently apply the cream to the area of the cut, then cover it with a bandage. When the cut is taken care of, I put the icepack on his other bruises to help the color fade. I then turn my concentration to his face.
Our eyes meet, and I look deep into those blue eyes I know so well – eyes that I’ve seen go through every emotion in the book. I’ve seen his eyes sparkle when he laughs, go flat when he’s worried, widen when he’s surprised, but now, now I see more feeling than I’ve ever seen before. There’s pain, hurt, regret, and doubt all concealed behind those diamond crystals embroidering his irises, and I’m momentarily floored by the untold story hidden in the immeasurable layers of his pupils, the secrets that no one else knows. He looks down and breaks contact, and I take a shaking breath and get to work. I gently clean his face from the blood trickling from his nose, and apply the same cream to the blackened skin around his eyes. I rub the cream in with my fingers more softly than I even would to handle a baby – to me, his face, having withstood so many blows and hits, is so delicate that extra care is necessary. When I’m done, I raise his head and help him swallow down two painkillers. Then I lie down beside him.
“You need to tell someone,” I cautiously bring up a taboo subject.
No, is his immediate and expected answer. A second later, he adds bitterly, He’s a fucking police officer. Who can I tell who’ll believe me? He’ll just do worse things if I even try to report him.
There’s nothing I can say in response to this, so I don’t. A couple minutes later, I break the silence and ask quietly, “Do you want to talk about tonight?”
No. he forces out strongly. But when I turn to look at him, I see tears escaping his close lids.
I lean over, my hair falling out of its ponytail, and with my thumb I wipe away the tears, then softly kiss the trails made down his precious cheeks. His eyelids flicker open. Please tell me the truth, he begs hoarsely, sounding so much older than his sixteen years.
“Always,” I promise him.
Do I deserve this? There’s a catch in his throat, but he continues. Am I weak?
With these words I sit up right away and stare down at him. I’ve never heard him sound so vulnerable, so abused. Abused. The true term for his condition. “Baby, never say that,” I tell him sharply. “Of course you don’t deserve it.”
Then why…? He can’t finish his plaintive plea as he struggles to contain his emotion.
I grab his hand tightly and look deep into his eyes. “Listen to me,” I tell him fiercely. The words uncoil and spill out of me, falling on top of each other like dominos. “He’s a sick, sick man. That’s all he is. You’re so much more than that; you’re kind, smart, incredibly talented – don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And you’re beautiful, and I love you, more than you can ever imagine.”
I lay back down beside him, interlocking my fingers with him. “And to me, baby, you’re the strongest person I know,” I breathe in his ear. “Every step of the way, I’ll help you through this.”
His eyes, those expressive windows to his soul, look at me with overwhelming gratitude and relief. Thank you is all he can manage. I wrap my arms around him and bring him close to me, holding him tight. Thank you.
And in that moment, I’ve never felt such a powerful feeling, such a close bond to anyone before. And I vowed to save him, hold him up until his dark days were behind him, to the day when he learned to love himself again. Because I knew deep down, the day would come when he would muster up the courage to confess the unforgivable truth. To let everyone know. To tell the world his story.
So I use my imagination. Maybe he’s finishing up his dinner. Or running his hand through his messy black hair, squinting at a math problem. More likely, he’s sitting on the edge of his small bed, strumming his guitar and dreaming past the four grey walls surrounding him, envisioning a life where he doesn’t have to live in this constant fear and paranoia.
It’s a peaceful spell for him, this reverie. But it’s brief. Because then, he comes home. He doesn’t tell me about this part, either, But I can see the headlights of the car oozing into the driveway, shining on the dark gravel. I can hear the door slam, the light slap as he throws his cop’s badge on the kitchen table, the blatant hypocrisy of the bronze metal sitting dully in the dark, forgotten – He’s not a police at home, that’s for sure.
I can imagine the way he stumbles over to find the lights, the world spinning around him, his breath forming light clouds of Grey Goose that float over his words. He’ll then go upstairs, almost crawling on his hands and knees, pathetic for a grown man, and groping the walls for support as the stairs turn into a smooth escalator, confusing his steps. Sometimes he doesn’t make it, and instead passes out on the steps, snoring loudly, his eyelids flickering gently as his mind rolls up the curtain and plays him a shadowy liquor-induced dream. And on those nights, the younger boy, standing above him for a moment to ensure the older man’s unconsciousness, can sleep easier tonight, without reckless nightmares.
But usually, he does make it to the top of the stairs. I can see him sitting in his room, with the door shut, incapable of making any move other than to stare blankly at the wall and wait for what will be sure to come. It’s acceptance of a temporary fate that has become a routine to him.
I sometimes wonder if the older man pauses for a moment as stands outside his young boy’s room, if he even stops to think about what he’s doing. They say blood is thicker than water, but how about alcohol? It weighs down his brain, slowing down his thoughts, and his sluggish brain cells don’t hesitate to ponder how much hurt and pain his actions cause. It shuffles any temporary thought of regret, any sign of a conscience to the back, just as swiftly and dismissively as a club bouncer pulling out two sixteen year olds from the line, and there’s no second thought about what he will do.
Maybe there’s a second of silence, as the only thing separating the two is the door of his room, but then that silence is broken as the older man kicks open the door, and all hell breaks loose.
What are you doing? he sneers, approaching his son. The younger boy doesn’t answer, too afraid to speak, to move, to resist. And he turns violent, When I ask you a question, you little piece of shit, you motherfucking answer me! And the first blow of the evening comes, straight to his fragile cheek, which is still smarting from last night’s similar occurrence.
I’m just doing homework, he replies shakily, leaning over to blindly grab a notebook from his night table.
His father – if that name could even be given to such a creature – snatches the notebook and flips through it. What’s this?. And with horror, his son realizes that he just handed him perfect ammunition to torture him further tonight. Fucking poems? He laughs raucously, pawing through the pages with such inconsiderateness that the boy doesn’t know if it’s possible to hate him any more at that moment.
Songs, he mutters a one-word response.
The laughter stops, and now the air is heavy with the older man’s disgust. And this is why you’ll never have a fucking future, you little fag. He grabs his son and throws him against the walls. Cause you’re busy writing some motherfucking songs. You’re a little pussy. With a grunt he puts his full strength into a blow to his stomach, and the boy falls to the ground, gasping for breath. Just like your mother. He kicks him, hard. Is that who you want to be like? Your mother? He’s shouting now, the liquor slithering through his brain, egging him on.
No, he manages to gasp, his esophagus burning as his father thrusts his scuffed police force boots again and again into his chest. He knows tomorrow there’ll be foot-sized bruises, and once again he’ll have to lie to get out of changing for gym in the boys locker room to hide himself.
Good, because you know what your mother was? He slurs drunkenly. She was a useless fucking cunt. Just like you. With yet another kick, the most painful yet, he adds spitefully, A cunt who left because she didn’t love you. How does that make you feel?
The younger boy, curled up on the floor in a fetus position, shuts his eyes tight, trying to hold in hot tears that leak out anyway. He tries to steady himself – Don’t cry. Don’t cry, he chants over and over inside his head, knowing the consequences if he succumbed to his weak side. Don’t let him see.
Too late. Through his inebriated vision, he sees the tears sliding out from his son’s eyelids, but instead of satisfying him as a mark of a good night’s work, it makes him angrier. Seized with a dangerous, uncontrolled urge of violence, he grabs his son off the floor and throws him, headfirst into the wall. Are you fucking crying? he demands, holding him by the neck, enunciating every word with a fist intended to blemish his beautiful face with purple and blue. The boy struggles; he’s choking, his face slowly turning red, he’s clawing desperately, and all his father can do is laugh in his face.
And then he’s dropped to the ground. He falls to the floor, massaging his neck and gulping in precious, sweet air. Above him, his father grunts dismissively. You need to grow some fucking balls, faggot. He doesn’t say anything; he closes his eyes tight, knowing that the worst is over, as out of the corner of his eye he sees those scuffed police boots turn and begin to stumble to the doorway. Every night is like this. The sickening buildup, the blinding pain, and then the temporary relief, knowing that although tonight’s lesson may be done, tomorrow’s round is ready with a date and time.
But the worst isn’t over yet. As he watches from his stance on the ground those black boots slipping and sliding in front of each other in an attempt to form a straight line, a single step, he sees him loose his balance – or maybe he didn’t lose his balance, maybe it was on purpose. Either way, he trips and falls just when he reaches the doorway, and his full weight lands on one of the most precious love of his life – his classic white Fender Jazzmaster guitar, the one that he saved for months and months to buy, the very one that acts as his sole comfort in his worst hours, the only thing that has very quite possibly kept him sane for the past year.
He watches it fall in almost slow-motion, unable to move his battered and bruised body to save his beloved baby from meeting its untimely death – and death it is indeed, as the guitar lands with a crash on the ground, the rosewood fingerboard that he spent so many hours forming blisters on his fingers breaking off into pieces. His stomach lurches treacherously.
Oops. His father is grinning, amused. Must have drank too much tonight. And he shuts the door with a slam. Once he’s sure his footsteps have disappeared to reside in his room, he crawls over on his hands and knees to touch the broken pieces disbelievingly. Oh, God, he murmurs. Oh God, oh God, oh God is all he can whisper, shivering, his head buried in his hands. And when he finally has the courage to raise his head, he has a destination in mind.
And I do know what happens after. I wake up at one in the morning to the sound of my vibrating phone, and I know what to do. I get out of bed right away, carefully walk across my room and creep slowly downstairs. Outside my porch and through the glass sliding door, I see a dark shadow. Without any second thoughts, I slip open the latch and, without a sound, pull open the door for him.
Hey, he whispers to me, sliding into the room, closing the door behind him. In the dark, all I can see is his silhouette, but without even asking, I know why he’s here. No questions asked, I turn, gesturing him to follow me, and lead him up to my room. Once in the safety inside my four walls, I take a good look at him. His face is trickling blood; he’s limping and wincing, unconsciously clutching his stomach every time he makes a move. “Sit,” I whisper to him. “Take off your shirt. I’ll be right back.”
For the second time that night, I carefully step out of my room to down the hall. I stop momentarily outside my parents’ bedroom; quite snoring assures me that all is well on their side of the door. I only wish I could the say the same for my side. Quietly, I make my way downstairs again. In the kitchen, I raid the medicine cabinet and take out bandages, antibacterial cream, rubbing alcohol, a washcloth and a bottle of pain medication, and from the freezer I take an icepack. I hurry back upstairs, as quietly as I can, and in my room I find him lying across my bed with shirt thrown on the ground, his chest rising and falling painfully with each breath he takes. He struggles to sit up when he sees me, and I hasten to the bed. “Stay down,” I warn him. He collapses back down.
I look down at his body and take a sharp intake. Tonight’s beating may have been the worst yet. Yellow-purple bruises cover the entire right side of his chest, and a cut seems to have erupted from the non-stop strikes, splitting open his skin as easily as cutting a slice of cake. Biting my lip, I wipe the blood with the washcloth and dab the cut with rubbing alcohol. He winces, unintentionally calling out as the liquid burns his skin as it seeps in. “Shhh.” I take his hand and rub small circles with my thumb to comfort him. “It’s okay, baby.” Once his body relaxes, I gently apply the cream to the area of the cut, then cover it with a bandage. When the cut is taken care of, I put the icepack on his other bruises to help the color fade. I then turn my concentration to his face.
Our eyes meet, and I look deep into those blue eyes I know so well – eyes that I’ve seen go through every emotion in the book. I’ve seen his eyes sparkle when he laughs, go flat when he’s worried, widen when he’s surprised, but now, now I see more feeling than I’ve ever seen before. There’s pain, hurt, regret, and doubt all concealed behind those diamond crystals embroidering his irises, and I’m momentarily floored by the untold story hidden in the immeasurable layers of his pupils, the secrets that no one else knows. He looks down and breaks contact, and I take a shaking breath and get to work. I gently clean his face from the blood trickling from his nose, and apply the same cream to the blackened skin around his eyes. I rub the cream in with my fingers more softly than I even would to handle a baby – to me, his face, having withstood so many blows and hits, is so delicate that extra care is necessary. When I’m done, I raise his head and help him swallow down two painkillers. Then I lie down beside him.
“You need to tell someone,” I cautiously bring up a taboo subject.
No, is his immediate and expected answer. A second later, he adds bitterly, He’s a fucking police officer. Who can I tell who’ll believe me? He’ll just do worse things if I even try to report him.
There’s nothing I can say in response to this, so I don’t. A couple minutes later, I break the silence and ask quietly, “Do you want to talk about tonight?”
No. he forces out strongly. But when I turn to look at him, I see tears escaping his close lids.
I lean over, my hair falling out of its ponytail, and with my thumb I wipe away the tears, then softly kiss the trails made down his precious cheeks. His eyelids flicker open. Please tell me the truth, he begs hoarsely, sounding so much older than his sixteen years.
“Always,” I promise him.
Do I deserve this? There’s a catch in his throat, but he continues. Am I weak?
With these words I sit up right away and stare down at him. I’ve never heard him sound so vulnerable, so abused. Abused. The true term for his condition. “Baby, never say that,” I tell him sharply. “Of course you don’t deserve it.”
Then why…? He can’t finish his plaintive plea as he struggles to contain his emotion.
I grab his hand tightly and look deep into his eyes. “Listen to me,” I tell him fiercely. The words uncoil and spill out of me, falling on top of each other like dominos. “He’s a sick, sick man. That’s all he is. You’re so much more than that; you’re kind, smart, incredibly talented – don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And you’re beautiful, and I love you, more than you can ever imagine.”
I lay back down beside him, interlocking my fingers with him. “And to me, baby, you’re the strongest person I know,” I breathe in his ear. “Every step of the way, I’ll help you through this.”
His eyes, those expressive windows to his soul, look at me with overwhelming gratitude and relief. Thank you is all he can manage. I wrap my arms around him and bring him close to me, holding him tight. Thank you.
And in that moment, I’ve never felt such a powerful feeling, such a close bond to anyone before. And I vowed to save him, hold him up until his dark days were behind him, to the day when he learned to love himself again. Because I knew deep down, the day would come when he would muster up the courage to confess the unforgivable truth. To let everyone know. To tell the world his story.
♠ ♠ ♠
Word count: 2,498.No idea where the inspiration came from, but I've been working a really, really long time on this. Comments would be seriously appreciated.
xx