Anything But Red
3
I remember being in the bathtub with her when my father gets home from work. The heavy steel-toed boots scraping across the floor before they stop on the other side of the door. My mother's expression suddenly changes as she frantically wipes her hands on her dress and gets up. Their conversation starts off as low mumbles. I am playing with a small plastic boat, bobbing along the surface of bubble-tainted water. Voices get louder until there is shouting in the hall. I still can't make out what they're saying, but the tone is what has tattooed itself in my mind. There is shoving. More yelling. I am petrified, but instead I cover her ears. She is crying. My mother pushes the door back open frantically, trying to pull us out of the water. My father appears in the doorway with a gun. Points it at her. We’re all crying. He pulls the trigger, and then he is gone. There is nothing but the echo of whimpers down the hall like ghosts. And there is red pooling out along the floor.
The small plastic boat floats upside down along the surface of the water. The bubbles are gone, the water is cold. The crying continues. There is a flood of red and blue lights as the men in blue come in with guns in their hands. They stop at the sight of two kids in a bathtub. They take us away kicking and screaming. The last thing I see is the small plastic boat. It is the last time I ever see her.
"Get me out of here! You people are sick, you know that! Fucking sick!" I’m pulling at my hair, grabbing onto anything I can catch hold of.
The man in white comes back and tries to calm me down.
"Don't touch me," I keep screaming. For what, I’m not sure of.
"Son, you're going to be fine. But you need to stay here," he tells me.
"You don't even know how this feels," I scream. "You have no idea..."
"Why don't you tell me?"
"I don't want to! Living it once was enough, can't you see? I can’t go back to this... I can't."
"Well, you're records say that you've been in foster care since you were five. Why don’t we talk about that?"
I can’t remember why. All I remember is the sound of yelping. Crying. Heavy breaths. The one or two other boys there were laughing at the sound coming from the burlap sack. I can’t remember their faces, or their names, I only see masks the colour of the smoke rising from the squirming bag. I guess I hadn’t quite grasped the concept of destruction. I wanted to test boundaries. The dog belonged to the neighbor two doors down- the one with the white picket fence and the neat little garden of perennials leading up to their door. I got scared, clawing through the gasoline soaked bag, smoke clouding my face as my raw fingers blistered, but it was too late. I had killed it, and I was 7. They made me swear to secrecy.
The small plastic boat floats upside down along the surface of the water. The bubbles are gone, the water is cold. The crying continues. There is a flood of red and blue lights as the men in blue come in with guns in their hands. They stop at the sight of two kids in a bathtub. They take us away kicking and screaming. The last thing I see is the small plastic boat. It is the last time I ever see her.
"Get me out of here! You people are sick, you know that! Fucking sick!" I’m pulling at my hair, grabbing onto anything I can catch hold of.
The man in white comes back and tries to calm me down.
"Don't touch me," I keep screaming. For what, I’m not sure of.
"Son, you're going to be fine. But you need to stay here," he tells me.
"You don't even know how this feels," I scream. "You have no idea..."
"Why don't you tell me?"
"I don't want to! Living it once was enough, can't you see? I can’t go back to this... I can't."
"Well, you're records say that you've been in foster care since you were five. Why don’t we talk about that?"
I can’t remember why. All I remember is the sound of yelping. Crying. Heavy breaths. The one or two other boys there were laughing at the sound coming from the burlap sack. I can’t remember their faces, or their names, I only see masks the colour of the smoke rising from the squirming bag. I guess I hadn’t quite grasped the concept of destruction. I wanted to test boundaries. The dog belonged to the neighbor two doors down- the one with the white picket fence and the neat little garden of perennials leading up to their door. I got scared, clawing through the gasoline soaked bag, smoke clouding my face as my raw fingers blistered, but it was too late. I had killed it, and I was 7. They made me swear to secrecy.