Never Did I Ever...
1
I never thought it would happen to me. How dare God take such hard actions and strike them down upon me. I only wish that it was easier to convince myself to let go of the situation. The most logical way out for me would to be disengage myself. I was told I could. But I can’t. Not now, not ever. I’m in for the long haul. And that was my eternal promise.
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1
2:30. 30 more minutes and I am free from this putrid day. It’s not that school is rough, school has never been rough. Though it’s never been easy, it isn’t difficult to follow the curriculum and do the work. It’s just the atmosphere. I go to East Towne High, a stark little hellhole located in a suburb of Chicago called Meyville. I wonder what the founders of the town were thinking. You don’t just name a town Meyville. Most likely, they were a perfect little family living in a shack with 4 kids. They probably lived in close quarters, and probably couldn’t get around each other in the kitchen. But they were probably the happiest family in the world, the Mey family, and they took it upon themselves to start up Meyville. If only my family were like that.
East Towne High isn’t exactly…what’s the word…not the best school located around Chicago. Actually, East Towne is probably the lowest rated school of Illinois. It’s chalk full of punks, people from the hood, go-getters, and the biggest drug pushers in the world. Then, there’s me. I don’t fit in anywhere here. I’m the oddball, the pasty- white kid that lives in 4E at West Main Apartment building. I’m the one who everyone whispers about, the one that even the most secluded people talk about because I’m so odd. I don’t belong here, but I don’t dare bring up the matter to my father. Convenience, that’s what my parents are all about. That’s why I’m here. The easier it is to keep me close but not too far away is exactly what they like. Mom cares about me, dad might lift his eyes from the paper when I come through the door, but the relationship that really matters in my household is the one between my mother and father.
He started hitting her about two years ago, here and there. The first time it didn’t seem so bad. I was 13, and what did I know then anyways? They were arguing about a car. Dad wanted this fancy new Camaro, but Mom insisted that his Oldsmobile was just fine, and that we were “barely making it as it was.” Dad wouldn’t let Mom tell him what he could or couldn’t have. In a flash, I saw his hand fly towards Mom’s cheek. It was like time froze. I saw his fingers, outstretched, only a bit; but enough to cause pain all over. His bicep was bulging with the force he was swinging out with his right hand. The expression on my mother’s face has forever burned into my brain. It quickly shifted from frustratingly angered to horrified. Absolute terror was strewn across her face. Her eyes flitted to me for a second before time started again and his hand collided with the side of her face. She fell into a heap onto the carpet. Her new carpet. How much she loved that carpet, and how filthy it now was with her pain. I sat, glued to my chair. Did I go to her? Did I leave? Did I get a cold cloth to soothe her burning face? Dare I scream at my father for such a formidable act? I did none of these options as she rose her head to look at me.
“Cam. Cam, go to your room. G-go to sleep.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Dad silently padded out of the room. I watched as he walked out onto the dim porch and I soon saw the angular glow of a cigarette between his fingers. He said he’d quit. Ass.
“CAMERON!” I quaked as my mother roared, now standing up.
“I-I’m sorry.” I muttered as I got to my feet and shuffled gingerly up the steps. I tried to control myself, I tried to be strong, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t get my legs to stop shaking. My hand trembled as I pushed open my bedroom door. I fell into my bed, trying to forget the terrible events I had just witnessed. Perhaps it was my brain working into overdrive, or maybe my body was in a state of physical deprivation of energy. Either way, I remember the sound of my mother’s sobs fade into blackness as I drifted into an effortless sleep. I didn’t dream.
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And I haven’t dreamed since then. I’ve never been graced with the fascination of flying; when you still can’t be sure if you’re asleep or not until you wake up. I wish I could dream again. Just once. Maybe if he’d stop hitting her. But he won’t. It’s been two years now, and he hits her when he wants. She doesn’t talk much, anymore, mom doesn’t. She’s walking on a permanent layer of eggshells. I tread lightly as well, but I’m not as worried as she is--as she should be. Dad doesn’t make advances toward me--he doesn’t notice me. I’m just another small fragment of his life that he has to pay for. I simply sulk in the corner and eat his food and ignore his presence. And we live. Mom told me about a year ago that she didn’t know how much longer she could take it.
“It is never right to hit a woman, Cameron,” she hissed in a hushed voice one day at Wal-Mart.
She was angry. I peered helplessly at the strawberries. And what was I supposed to do? I was 16 at the time, I didn’t exactly have any care in the world. It’s funny, after living for a decade and a half, you’d think that I would have a sense of responsibility, or of caring. But impeccably, I only cared for myself. I brushed my teeth in the morning. I made myself present when needed. I tried to keep my emotions evenly balanced, and that was enough. I suppose I could have comforted her. I could have placed my hand on her shoulder and said, “Everything will be okay. Let’s leave. He’s an asshole, and we both know it. We can make it without him.” But I just stared longingly at the melons, with my mouth taped shut. Could of, would of, should of.
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You see, life is full of ‘coulds’. You don’t really realize it until you think about things that, well, could have been. It’s not until a time, here, whilst I’m sitting in Pre-Calculus wasting away in sorrow of memories past that you can see in your mind, Wow, I wonder what could have been. Let’s say for kicks and giggles that my mom never met my dad. She could have met a nice man, someone who would care for her and comfort her. But still, then, I could not be alive today without my dad. Well, technically I could be, say my dad was a sperm donor and my mom used the program. That would have been nice. If that would have happened, I could not have a worry in the world today. I could be free. I could dream, once again, of flying. Before the ordeal. That’s what I call it. The events…that day…when I stopped dreaming. The ordeal, that’s all it was. No more than a small time in history. It’s done now. Dwelling on a broken time lapse is truly useless.
I’m abruptly shaken from my thoughts as the bell rang. I hate our bell. It’s too shrill. A bell is supposed to be a good thing, a reminder. A bell gently urges you, Go on, you can leave now. But East Towne High’s bell isn’t that at all. Our bell is loud an obnoxious. You clod out as fast as you can as it screams in your ear, Get your ass out of here, the day’s done, you’re not wanted anymore! deafeningly. As I turn the lock to 36 on my locker, I hear the metallic click-clock of high heels on our dirty, hard school floor. Ugh. I absolutely hate high heels. My mom wears them literally all the time, and to top it off, Mrs. Kingsley at school constantly has them on, click-clocking around everywhere. I can’t stand it. And it just so happened she has to be walking my way now. She probably knows I don’t like it. She probably purposely walks past me everyday just to be obnoxious. I sigh as I grab my Spanish book. Suddenly, the click-clocking stops. Relief floods through me. Thank God. I move to grab my backpack as a bleak “Hey,” resonates in my ear. Why would Mrs. Kingsley want to talk to me? I don’t have any classes with her. I turn around to face her. Shockingly, it isn’t Mrs. Kingsley at all. It’s my mother. My…mother…?
“Uh,” I stammer, “What are you doing here? I was just coming--”
“We’re leaving.” she says. A smile mantles itself upon her lips.
“Oh, yeah, school? Cool, thanks, but I really could have walked, you didn’t need--” I start.
“No, Cam. Not school.” she interrupts. She inhales to start talking again but stops. She pauses with thought, and then looks at me. “We--we aren’t leaving school. We’re, well…I don’t know how to say this, so I may as well just say it. We’re going to England. Well, moving. Moving to London. So, we need to hurry. Your dad doesn’t know, and he’s going to be home at five. We need to be out of there by then.”
My eyes widen with shock as my backpack drops to the floor.
_____________________________________________________________________
1
2:30. 30 more minutes and I am free from this putrid day. It’s not that school is rough, school has never been rough. Though it’s never been easy, it isn’t difficult to follow the curriculum and do the work. It’s just the atmosphere. I go to East Towne High, a stark little hellhole located in a suburb of Chicago called Meyville. I wonder what the founders of the town were thinking. You don’t just name a town Meyville. Most likely, they were a perfect little family living in a shack with 4 kids. They probably lived in close quarters, and probably couldn’t get around each other in the kitchen. But they were probably the happiest family in the world, the Mey family, and they took it upon themselves to start up Meyville. If only my family were like that.
East Towne High isn’t exactly…what’s the word…not the best school located around Chicago. Actually, East Towne is probably the lowest rated school of Illinois. It’s chalk full of punks, people from the hood, go-getters, and the biggest drug pushers in the world. Then, there’s me. I don’t fit in anywhere here. I’m the oddball, the pasty- white kid that lives in 4E at West Main Apartment building. I’m the one who everyone whispers about, the one that even the most secluded people talk about because I’m so odd. I don’t belong here, but I don’t dare bring up the matter to my father. Convenience, that’s what my parents are all about. That’s why I’m here. The easier it is to keep me close but not too far away is exactly what they like. Mom cares about me, dad might lift his eyes from the paper when I come through the door, but the relationship that really matters in my household is the one between my mother and father.
He started hitting her about two years ago, here and there. The first time it didn’t seem so bad. I was 13, and what did I know then anyways? They were arguing about a car. Dad wanted this fancy new Camaro, but Mom insisted that his Oldsmobile was just fine, and that we were “barely making it as it was.” Dad wouldn’t let Mom tell him what he could or couldn’t have. In a flash, I saw his hand fly towards Mom’s cheek. It was like time froze. I saw his fingers, outstretched, only a bit; but enough to cause pain all over. His bicep was bulging with the force he was swinging out with his right hand. The expression on my mother’s face has forever burned into my brain. It quickly shifted from frustratingly angered to horrified. Absolute terror was strewn across her face. Her eyes flitted to me for a second before time started again and his hand collided with the side of her face. She fell into a heap onto the carpet. Her new carpet. How much she loved that carpet, and how filthy it now was with her pain. I sat, glued to my chair. Did I go to her? Did I leave? Did I get a cold cloth to soothe her burning face? Dare I scream at my father for such a formidable act? I did none of these options as she rose her head to look at me.
“Cam. Cam, go to your room. G-go to sleep.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Dad silently padded out of the room. I watched as he walked out onto the dim porch and I soon saw the angular glow of a cigarette between his fingers. He said he’d quit. Ass.
“CAMERON!” I quaked as my mother roared, now standing up.
“I-I’m sorry.” I muttered as I got to my feet and shuffled gingerly up the steps. I tried to control myself, I tried to be strong, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t get my legs to stop shaking. My hand trembled as I pushed open my bedroom door. I fell into my bed, trying to forget the terrible events I had just witnessed. Perhaps it was my brain working into overdrive, or maybe my body was in a state of physical deprivation of energy. Either way, I remember the sound of my mother’s sobs fade into blackness as I drifted into an effortless sleep. I didn’t dream.
****************************************************************************************************
And I haven’t dreamed since then. I’ve never been graced with the fascination of flying; when you still can’t be sure if you’re asleep or not until you wake up. I wish I could dream again. Just once. Maybe if he’d stop hitting her. But he won’t. It’s been two years now, and he hits her when he wants. She doesn’t talk much, anymore, mom doesn’t. She’s walking on a permanent layer of eggshells. I tread lightly as well, but I’m not as worried as she is--as she should be. Dad doesn’t make advances toward me--he doesn’t notice me. I’m just another small fragment of his life that he has to pay for. I simply sulk in the corner and eat his food and ignore his presence. And we live. Mom told me about a year ago that she didn’t know how much longer she could take it.
“It is never right to hit a woman, Cameron,” she hissed in a hushed voice one day at Wal-Mart.
She was angry. I peered helplessly at the strawberries. And what was I supposed to do? I was 16 at the time, I didn’t exactly have any care in the world. It’s funny, after living for a decade and a half, you’d think that I would have a sense of responsibility, or of caring. But impeccably, I only cared for myself. I brushed my teeth in the morning. I made myself present when needed. I tried to keep my emotions evenly balanced, and that was enough. I suppose I could have comforted her. I could have placed my hand on her shoulder and said, “Everything will be okay. Let’s leave. He’s an asshole, and we both know it. We can make it without him.” But I just stared longingly at the melons, with my mouth taped shut. Could of, would of, should of.
****************************************************************************************************
You see, life is full of ‘coulds’. You don’t really realize it until you think about things that, well, could have been. It’s not until a time, here, whilst I’m sitting in Pre-Calculus wasting away in sorrow of memories past that you can see in your mind, Wow, I wonder what could have been. Let’s say for kicks and giggles that my mom never met my dad. She could have met a nice man, someone who would care for her and comfort her. But still, then, I could not be alive today without my dad. Well, technically I could be, say my dad was a sperm donor and my mom used the program. That would have been nice. If that would have happened, I could not have a worry in the world today. I could be free. I could dream, once again, of flying. Before the ordeal. That’s what I call it. The events…that day…when I stopped dreaming. The ordeal, that’s all it was. No more than a small time in history. It’s done now. Dwelling on a broken time lapse is truly useless.
I’m abruptly shaken from my thoughts as the bell rang. I hate our bell. It’s too shrill. A bell is supposed to be a good thing, a reminder. A bell gently urges you, Go on, you can leave now. But East Towne High’s bell isn’t that at all. Our bell is loud an obnoxious. You clod out as fast as you can as it screams in your ear, Get your ass out of here, the day’s done, you’re not wanted anymore! deafeningly. As I turn the lock to 36 on my locker, I hear the metallic click-clock of high heels on our dirty, hard school floor. Ugh. I absolutely hate high heels. My mom wears them literally all the time, and to top it off, Mrs. Kingsley at school constantly has them on, click-clocking around everywhere. I can’t stand it. And it just so happened she has to be walking my way now. She probably knows I don’t like it. She probably purposely walks past me everyday just to be obnoxious. I sigh as I grab my Spanish book. Suddenly, the click-clocking stops. Relief floods through me. Thank God. I move to grab my backpack as a bleak “Hey,” resonates in my ear. Why would Mrs. Kingsley want to talk to me? I don’t have any classes with her. I turn around to face her. Shockingly, it isn’t Mrs. Kingsley at all. It’s my mother. My…mother…?
“Uh,” I stammer, “What are you doing here? I was just coming--”
“We’re leaving.” she says. A smile mantles itself upon her lips.
“Oh, yeah, school? Cool, thanks, but I really could have walked, you didn’t need--” I start.
“No, Cam. Not school.” she interrupts. She inhales to start talking again but stops. She pauses with thought, and then looks at me. “We--we aren’t leaving school. We’re, well…I don’t know how to say this, so I may as well just say it. We’re going to England. Well, moving. Moving to London. So, we need to hurry. Your dad doesn’t know, and he’s going to be home at five. We need to be out of there by then.”
My eyes widen with shock as my backpack drops to the floor.