Freefall
o14.
A dark, foreboding room and cold, dirty floorboards are all that greet him that morning, just like all the others. He pulls his legs up tighter to his thin frame, hoping to absorb at least some heat from them. He clamps his eyes shut, hums under his breath, trying to lull himself back to sleep, praying to a god he didn’t believe in that she wouldn’t bother to take notice of him on the cold November morning. His breathing slows, as most peoples’ do as they attempt to keep in all the heat that they can: like someone dying of hypothermia. He figures that he would be better off if he would just freeze to death, figures it would save both of them the trouble of having to deal with him any longer.
Heavy footsteps tromp into the room, signaling her return from wherever she had stayed the night before. He can picture her without so much as creaking open an eyelid. Her hair is messy, thrown this way and that, matted in some places, frizzy in others. Her makeup would be smeared: mascara dripping off the corners of her eyes, eyeliner smudged halfway down her face, lipstick… Oh, the lipstick would only half be there, partially gnawed off by some man’s grotesque, ravenous mouth, but still partially smeared across the remainder of her pale skin, leaving snail trails like blood all the way along. Her eyes would be glazed over, still stuck in the memories of her job the previous night. Her posture would be slumped, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders: her feet would drag, her shoulders would be slouched, and her head would be hung. And for a moment, she would look almost human. And then, as if she had been spit back out of a whirlpool, everything would come back full force, slamming her in the face. And she would look for the closest thing to take whatever it was that was dragging her down out on. And that thing always seemed to be the thing that she should care about the most: her son.
So he lies there, prays that she won’t see him, won’t want to hurt him today. He doesn’t move, hardly dares to breathe except for the bare minimum of what was expected to keep living. Minutes that seemed like hours drag past, and he thinks that maybe she left, maybe she didn’t quite feel the same as all the other times that she came home from a late night working… well, wherever the busiest street corner that night happened to be. One eye slowly creeps open, then the other. And he sees a sight that he is not used to, that he didn’t know could happen.
She’s standing there in the doorway, leaning up against the frame. Her hand is covering her smeared face, the other rests on the frame to support her. Her shoulders are sagging in their usual way, but there is something more, something not right by any means. She is shaking, not violently or anything, but it was noticeable, if only a little bit. It was still off of her normal character, and so Ryan notices. It is almost like she is crying: little, tearless sobs that rack her body. Except she was not crying, more of just a fearful quake. He supposed that a person could only hold it in for so long before they had to at least release some of it, if only to accumulate more to be let out at some other unsuspecting moment in time. He wondered how long it would last: this breach in her inhumane behavior that seems so comforting right now. Would this fix things? Would she be like this from now on? He isn’t sure what to do.
And then, as suddenly as it had come, the tremor stops, and she straightens up, running thin hands through her coarse hair, messing it up further. Ryan snaps his eyelids shut again, hoping she hadn’t seen. But it was no use: she had, and he would hear it.
“So you think you can just up and spy on me, do you, you little brat?” she rages, storming over to him. He shakes his head vigorously, eyes still shut, not wanting to cause more trouble by having them open. “You think this is funny? Hmm? You think you can just spy on people and then pretend that everything’s okay, and that it’s okay to joke about it?” She continues on, grabbing him roughly by the shirt, pulling him up. “Look at me, you worthless little brat!” He obeys cautiously, swallowing the lump in his throat. What would she do this time? Would it be the stick? Or maybe it would be the knife again? He shutters at the thought of the blade against his skin.
“I’ll teach you to spy on people. I’ll show you what happens to people like you,” she spits the words in his face, shaking him to emphasize her point.
“Momma, please, no…” he whimpers, lip quivering. He didn’t want it to be another night spent nursing his wounds in the bone cold chill of the night. He didn’t want to get hurt again. Why couldn’t he do anything right? Why did he have to be born defective? Why did he have to be born at all?
She pulls him into the makeshift kitchen, not caring what he runs into in the process. She grabs a smoldering coal from the remains of the stove with a towel, tests its heat with one finger. “I’ll show you what happens to people like you,” she reiterates, pushing to coal closer to his face.
Heavy footsteps tromp into the room, signaling her return from wherever she had stayed the night before. He can picture her without so much as creaking open an eyelid. Her hair is messy, thrown this way and that, matted in some places, frizzy in others. Her makeup would be smeared: mascara dripping off the corners of her eyes, eyeliner smudged halfway down her face, lipstick… Oh, the lipstick would only half be there, partially gnawed off by some man’s grotesque, ravenous mouth, but still partially smeared across the remainder of her pale skin, leaving snail trails like blood all the way along. Her eyes would be glazed over, still stuck in the memories of her job the previous night. Her posture would be slumped, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders: her feet would drag, her shoulders would be slouched, and her head would be hung. And for a moment, she would look almost human. And then, as if she had been spit back out of a whirlpool, everything would come back full force, slamming her in the face. And she would look for the closest thing to take whatever it was that was dragging her down out on. And that thing always seemed to be the thing that she should care about the most: her son.
So he lies there, prays that she won’t see him, won’t want to hurt him today. He doesn’t move, hardly dares to breathe except for the bare minimum of what was expected to keep living. Minutes that seemed like hours drag past, and he thinks that maybe she left, maybe she didn’t quite feel the same as all the other times that she came home from a late night working… well, wherever the busiest street corner that night happened to be. One eye slowly creeps open, then the other. And he sees a sight that he is not used to, that he didn’t know could happen.
She’s standing there in the doorway, leaning up against the frame. Her hand is covering her smeared face, the other rests on the frame to support her. Her shoulders are sagging in their usual way, but there is something more, something not right by any means. She is shaking, not violently or anything, but it was noticeable, if only a little bit. It was still off of her normal character, and so Ryan notices. It is almost like she is crying: little, tearless sobs that rack her body. Except she was not crying, more of just a fearful quake. He supposed that a person could only hold it in for so long before they had to at least release some of it, if only to accumulate more to be let out at some other unsuspecting moment in time. He wondered how long it would last: this breach in her inhumane behavior that seems so comforting right now. Would this fix things? Would she be like this from now on? He isn’t sure what to do.
And then, as suddenly as it had come, the tremor stops, and she straightens up, running thin hands through her coarse hair, messing it up further. Ryan snaps his eyelids shut again, hoping she hadn’t seen. But it was no use: she had, and he would hear it.
“So you think you can just up and spy on me, do you, you little brat?” she rages, storming over to him. He shakes his head vigorously, eyes still shut, not wanting to cause more trouble by having them open. “You think this is funny? Hmm? You think you can just spy on people and then pretend that everything’s okay, and that it’s okay to joke about it?” She continues on, grabbing him roughly by the shirt, pulling him up. “Look at me, you worthless little brat!” He obeys cautiously, swallowing the lump in his throat. What would she do this time? Would it be the stick? Or maybe it would be the knife again? He shutters at the thought of the blade against his skin.
“I’ll teach you to spy on people. I’ll show you what happens to people like you,” she spits the words in his face, shaking him to emphasize her point.
“Momma, please, no…” he whimpers, lip quivering. He didn’t want it to be another night spent nursing his wounds in the bone cold chill of the night. He didn’t want to get hurt again. Why couldn’t he do anything right? Why did he have to be born defective? Why did he have to be born at all?
She pulls him into the makeshift kitchen, not caring what he runs into in the process. She grabs a smoldering coal from the remains of the stove with a towel, tests its heat with one finger. “I’ll show you what happens to people like you,” she reiterates, pushing to coal closer to his face.