The Dreaming Smile Above the Skin

It’s silent. The silence is all I need. The outside world has done nothing but crush me, consume me, try to turn me into something I’m not. I want to die. My whole life I’ve gone and taken this shit from my dad. He comes home drunk every day now. My mom, she's helpless. She is a slave and I’m the child who sits out by the sidelines watching; just waiting to get dragged in. Because my dad never leaves me out of it, of course he doesn’t. He thinks it’s fun beating us when the liquor is swimming in his stomach.
Tonight has been one of those nights where I’m afraid he's finally gonna kill her. Then again I’m always afraid something like that will happen. It’s silent only because he's going to find a stronger belt to beat her with. I stand no chance against him. I’m just a worthless fucking faggot whose only friend is a guitar. It worries me, noticing there's no more tears coming out of my eyes.
I cry over my mother more than I cry over my dead grandpa. He was my best friend until his hourglass emptied.
I’m curled in a ball, wishing I was gone. Gone from everything; everyone. I can now hear him walking down the hallway. No doubt he can't walk in a straight line. That thick belt in his hands. I knew which one was his favorite, the one he could really slap the shit out of you with. He calls it 'Donnie'. I would never understand. I feel as though it might have been someone he knew.
I remember a few years ago, he would take that belt and use it on me whenever I was bad.
He would say, "Here’s Donnie. Donnie’s gettin ya cuz you've been a bad, rotten son.”
I remember looking in the mirror and seeing those lines all down my back. I remember at school during PE., boys would ask what the hell happened. I would never tell. Never. Because I could never talk of my family to anyone. There was no one I could trust with something like this.
I hear my mom scream as I start motioning back and forth. I can hear the belt slashing at her skin. My mother is an amazing woman. She’s kind hearted, beautiful, and a free spirit. She never deserved this shit. I never deserved this... I look at the clock. The minutes tick away and it feels like a fucking time bomb.
I remember in the first few months of his heavy drinking and beating, my senses finally snapped. Everything snapped. I would go into the bathroom with one of my mother's favorite kitchen knives and drag it down my arm. I would watch the blood come seeping out and wish there was more. I wanted to drown in my own blood. I wanted to taste it on my tongue as I took my last breaths. I wanted to fucking die because I had no one. No friends. No family I could call. Everything I loved was disconnected. My music couldn't save me... nothing.
The lack of food never helped either. I remember some days, starving because we couldn’t afford decent meals. All because the only thing he would ever do was buy more alcohol.
After a while I would carve messages in my arm: cunt, fag, worthless, dead; stupid.
I remember when I first cut it hurt so fucking bad, but I sucked it up and kept going until it was nothing but numbness.
My dad would leave bruises and I would leave scars.
Somehow I couldn't bring myself to suicide... because deep down I knew I was the only thing left to my mom. I wanted her to be happy. I would make up the biggest lies about her kitchen knives. I would clean the bathroom spotless every time I cut. I would wear long sleeves and make sure her mind was never on the fact that something was wrong with me. The only son she had left... the only one that could ever bring her happiness.
Somehow the tears do fall more as I just listen. Because that's all I ever do.
“Ryan..... Ryan.” I hear my name slide off his fucking tongue. I don't want to move. He yells louder. I stay put… because I am fucking done.
He charges into my room, grabs me by my sore wrist, and drags me into the living room. He throws me down and I look at my mother. Her arms are bruised and her chest is bleeding. Her eye is puffy and her lip is beat up bad. I let tears fall because her perfect face is almost destroyed. Dad then shouts at the top of his lungs about rules and how to not bug him when he's working. To fucking read his goddamn mind to know what to do and not do to be covered with untouched skin. He lies through his teeth because he likes to see us in pain. His job. Something to do. His fun time. His joy. And I’m done.
“You..... fucking..... bastard.” I tell him. And what does he do? Punch me right in the face. I fall to the ground, my hand covering where he hit. My hand removes from my face to reveal blood. That stench I was so used to, now burning the more and more he keeps coming. He spits out names and it's just anger. I built up strength somehow.... from my friend.... Spencer.
It was four months into countless drunken nights. Where my hope was gone and I would cut like there was no tomorrow. I remember during lunch I was sitting way out in the field and I finally dropped my cool. The tears fell down my face. My casual bullies would tell me I was a pussy. Course I would take it. I was broken. I kept looking at my scars, telling myself how much these red lines blessed me with some sort of distraction. Because in the end I did deserve them. Death was all I wanted at the time. I was doing myself a favor. Before I knew it, a voice arose above me.
“Hey...”
He had this innocent; kind face, but it played out confusion.
He asked me what was wrong, and I knew I wasn’t fast enough to hide my scars.
“Nothing....” That’s what I said. That’s all I ever said.... but then he said.....
“That’s a lie.”
At that point I wanted him to leave me alone, but he wouldn't. Everyday at lunch for the next few weeks he would sit with me and try to get me to talk. I wouldn’t. Because I had my breaking points and someone like him didn’t deserve to see them.
After a while he gave me his phone number... telling me his name was Spencer.
One night I actually decided to call him because I was deathly afraid that my father had broken one of my bones. I ran out of the house that night. It was the first time I did, actually. I ran... all the way to Spencer’s. He only lived a few blocks away.
I remember ringing on his doorbell. He opened the door so fast and brought me in. He gave me band aids and even wrapped my finger up with cloth and tape. Spencer had told me his parents were gone for the weekend so I slept with him in his bed. I remember how warm he was and how much I wanted him to keep holding me forever. I had felt something deep inside my chest for him... and it was really something, at the time that I couldn't put into words. I remember each time tears fell down my face he would wipe them away and tell me
“It’s going to be okay.”
He would kiss the top of my head.... and I knew I was home.
From my father's drunken nights I would find ways to Spencer’s house. He would always be there. I remember when I first met his parents. They were surprised with how I looked so damaged all the time. They would constantly ask about.... everything. I would lie... because somehow I was good at it. The only one who knew was Spencer. He was my guardian angel and I loved him. I remember the first time I told him I loved him was when we were saying goodbye for the night. He pulled me into an extra long hug. Then there was the next time I went over... I had a black eye and my ear was bleeding. He cleaned me up and we sat on his bed again. I remember when I kissed him after he finished putting ice on my eye. It was my first kiss and it was wonderful.
He was the only one that kept me from slicing my skin... because he was my saving grace and I had enough sense to not throw my life away.... because he was there. He had me in his arms and he loved me so much.
Then... I remember the day he walked up to me at lunch with tears in his eyes.
“I’m moving.” Passed from his lips
That was the day I knew it was over.
My few month streak of being scar free.... was soon to end.
I remember it was the day he was moving... and I wanted to say goodbye... but my father had me pinned down for far too long. The escape plan was over, until he finally decided to sleep.
I rushed out of the house as fast as I could and by the time I got there...... no more Smith family....
I walked home with more tears in my eyes. I remember when I got in, my mother told me I had gotten a call. Her shaky hands handed me my phone. It was Spencer. I called him back and we talked until all my minutes ran out.
That day I made a promise with him that as long as he was around... cutting wasn't the answer. And after 20 long minutes of arguing.... I took it. And I remember trying whatever I could... just for him.
It was back to my dad spitting out his words as if they make sense. My face is as sore as hell and all I want to do is be done. He then pulls my hair.
“Do you understand me boy? Do you fucking understand?”
And I nod my head like my life depends on it. I was still weak, even throwing around words like that... I still couldn’t be strong enough.
He then goes back to my mom as he yells at me to watch as his hands ripped the hair right out of her skull. I scream now.
“Stop..... stop.... stop.” The tears choke my words.
He pushes her to the ground after she tries to say something. Her eyes are so filled with fear; it scares the hell out of me. Father then slams his boot covered feet on her legs.
Her screams are so terrifying.
He then steps on her arms, kicks her, and I can see.... she’s losing the fight. And I can’t fucking do anything.
He yells at her to shut the fuck up and kicks her right in the face... and she stops moving.
I yell at the top of my lungs.
No
No
No
I get up onto my shaky legs. I run into my room as fast as I can and start to pack my stuff. Anything. Clothes, books, games, anything........
I can hear him getting closer to my room. I’m more scared than I have ever been in my whole life. Right as he opens the door, I throw my suitcase out the window. I’m weak, and I just want to get out.
I do the quickest thing I can and grab the lamp off my bed post. I swing it at him and the bulb breaks against his skull. He falls to the floor and I hop out of my window to make an escape.
I run, I run as fast as my legs can carry me. It’s 3 in the morning.
Eventually I find a bus stop and sit on the bench. With the water bottle in my luggage, I splash some of the liquid on my face because my injuries burn. The air is cool.
I’m... so... tired...
And before I know it,
I’m asleep.
I wake to the sound of moving feet and, “A boy.... there's a boy. Who are you, kid? Hello.... hello?”
I open my eyes and there's a man standing there. He looks confused.
“Mind if I take a seat?”
“Oh.... oh yeah no problem.” I sit up for him to sit down.
He sits next to me... and somehow it feels strange because he's just looking at me.
“Sorry.... I was sleeping.” I tell him.
“I could see that.” He says.
He then asks where I’m going and I tell him I have no idea. A few minutes go by as he finally notices my huge luggage case.
“Somewhere far far away. Looks like it.”
“Yeah.... I just don't know where.”
“Anywhere but here I take it?”
“Yeah.”
We don't know each other... of course we don't... so I’m more than happy knowing he isn’t gonna ask about all the bruises and scars.
I look in my pockets to see if I have any money and I think I have enough for a bus ride.
I ask the driver how far he takes anyone... and the place he says seems reasonable. From that point I would spend my money on bus rides to anywhere but here... and it was progress.
By the time I actually find a place to stay, I try and work for whatever I can just to rent out a motel night. The people there somehow have sympathy for a beaten up kid with all his things on his back.
After a while I manage to find a job. It’s working at a... dog kennel. Isn’t the best in the world, but it’s something.
After a while I can't afford to be at the motel. But then a man by the name of Zack lets me stay at his place until I’m able to earn enough money.
He’s a nice and funny guy. He gives me some hope for better days. I never really lighten up to tell him of my family.... of Spencer. He doesn't have to know. No one does.
Then it's one cold Saturday....
I receive a letter. Zack hands it carefully to me, not really aware of who it's from... or how it even got to some far away place like this. But then I think again. My cell phone.... it must have been tracked or something. Wow... just wow.... I don't need my dad finding me and trying to bring me home.
And my mother.... god knows what happened to her.
I open the letter carefully. And it read:
To Mr. Ross the third,
Something something something... there was money left in a will.... and then I realize... in the smallest hint possible... it was about my mother. Her will. She really was dead.
And for the first time in months the tears fall down my face. I read more and it says....
The one thing.... I have been wishing for... in the worst way...
My father was dead as well. Alcohol poisoning. Along the lines of "out of grief from loss of wife and son"
But that bastard deserves to live in fucking hell for doing those things to my mother… and to me. But as if my life would be of any value.... and really…
The tears still fall more and more. Because.... she's gone.
I was only living for her. Now I wouldn't have to.... I wouldn't.
“Ryan”.... My name slips off Zack's lips.
This is the first time he's seen me cry.
“It.... it's nothing.” I try to hide the letter.
He’s too fast. He takes it from my hands and reads. He doesn't need to know... and it's too late to think much of it.
“Ryan.... I’m so sorry.” His face grows sad.
Of course he's sorry. But he doesn't have to. None of it was his fault. I never really understood why people say they're sorry. Out of sympathy? Most likely. And I don't need that bullshit.
He then talks to me about it. I try so hard to keep cool... but that's impossible. I have no parents. I have no family. No one.
In the next week I collect my parent's money and say goodbye to Zack. He says he'll miss me. Me? Who would miss me? I am this nothing, this sad kid. I have nothing to live for... everything to die for. I would never understand how anyone would grow a heart for me. Of course there was Spencer... but he was the only one. Besides what if.... he and I.... just meant nothing? Only at that time did I feel a great love. I was nothing more than a hopeless romantic. It was pathetic.
By the time I move into my house, it's so much farther away from my old home. I guess that’s a good thing... I don’t need such a nice house. How long am I to last anyway?
Maybe it was a bit unfortunate to be almost an hour from where I worked now. It’s okay because I have a car... god bless. It’s amazing what those agency people could do.
When I finally settle into the house, the continuous pattern was to get up, go to work, go home. Somehow that dog place wants me to die even more. The smell is just terribly horrid.
It never took me long to get settled… never took me long to think about actually killing myself again.
It’s when I quit the job, when I just decide to give up… because the only one to keep me a float is Spencer. I try calling his cell that day because I drip in hopelessness and the sense of giving up. The memories I try so hard to forget come back to hit me.
I just pray and pray that he answers his phone. But when I do… it says the number is out of service.
My mouth drops open as tears come out of my eyes. I throw my cell phone, out of anger, across the room. He isn’t here for me this time… and I don’t think he ever will be.
I get up and grab one of the kitchen knives to bring back with me into the bathroom. I sit on the ground and think… I have no one. I quit my job. I’m a train wreck. Can’t call Spencer. Can’t call anyone.
The monthly streak is over… all over. My healed arm is now going to be fucking ruined.
I slide the blade across my arm and it hurts again. It’s never hurt in such a long time. The blood trickles out and I just watch. Because I’m so willing to kill myself, but I know at the moment… I’m not ready. Even though every fucking day of my life I knew I was ready. Somehow the senseless and the sensible start to fight it out. Course I had nothing to kill myself with… but it’s all I want… to die.
I get up slowly and look at myself in the mirror. Aren’t you a mess? You prick of a son. Because you are nothing. You will never be anything. You will never be loved. You will never be cared for. You can’t care for yourself. You’re a goddamn cunt to think living is the best idea. You’re ugly, worthless, and nothing to anyone. No one would die for you.
Without even being fully aware, I take the knife and make the wound deeper so more blood pours. The knife could be so helpful because all I have to do…
I put my hand over my bloody left arm and take that hand to run it across my neck. It almost looked like it was slit, but this… this would be the line, the gateway, the starting point to something better. Somehow I feel weak but that doesn’t stop me from raising the knife to my neck. One deep sweep and I would be gone. But then… I feel weaker. It’s so strange, because in the next minute… the knife has fallen and everything goes black.
I see a milky white abyss. Maybe I did do it. Maybe I was dead.
But… as my feet carry me, I see a coffee shop. It’s the one I always used to pass by at work. I maybe stopped in once or twice, but it was strange seeing it. Then… a man. A smile flashes right in front of me and I’m awake.
I’m on the bathroom floor. There’s dried blood on my arm. Somehow my mindset changes because now I want to take iron tablets just to build up blood.
I look in the mirror.
The coffee shop. A man. Somehow even with this quick flash of a dream, I know I haven’t seen him before. Strange. Maybe… figuring out who he is might… give me some strength to hold on.
I swore I didn’t need to or have to… but I want to. What’s the point anyway? I was far, far away from the damage and scars.
Somehow I find it stupid one little dream gives me a nudge it live… but it does.
Months go by and somehow I push myself to live. I empty out my past, day by day, and just think of this man. I start going to the coffee shop every weekend, too, and it kind of helps me breathe.
Somehow… living was on the agenda. Whether or not I knew what I was going to do with my life, somehow this coffee shop gave me something. Somehow that man… gave me something even more.