Status: Uh, up and coming.
Not Your Fault
Prelude
March 21st.
It was March 21, 2007 when I first thought of wanting to die. I was ten years old.
My parents fought a lot. Not like the casually fighting you see in movies where the mom and dad fool around and push each other up against walls and tickle each other. No, they were face-to-face spit flying and nose flaring. That’s the kind of fighting they did.
On March 21st, 2007, my dad hit my mom for the first time. The first time in front of me, that is. I didn’t know how long my mom was taking blows, and I didn’t want to know. It would make me think of how much a failure I really was, times double.
I was sitting on the living room couch, in the middle of my two brothers. We didn’t have the nicest furniture, but it made do. There were stains here and there, a glop of red nail polish on the cushion and spaghetti sauce on the armrest.
It was dinnertime, and we didn’t have a kitchen table. We probably did have a table at one point, but I couldn’t recall anything different from what we did. Since we didn’t have one, our family crowded around our little television and ate our dinner off the plates in our laps. You could say a lot about my family, but being well-off couldn’t be one the things mentioned.
My mom was crying when she came into my room to tell me dinner was ready. “You don’t have to finish it, its horseshit.” She was angry. I thought she was angry at me, as any normal ten year old would think.
I decided not to say anything, because she had drunk some of her “energy drink” earlier. I was smart enough to know that whenever my mom had her “energy drink” she got bleary-eyed and angry at everything. I learned that she wasn’t my mom at night, but she was my mom when she walked my little brother and I to the bus stop in the morning.
The little television was playing some overrated cartoon, that I remember being my favorite. It was spurting nonsense, but it could barely be heard over the ceiling fan that was spinning about. It wasn’t that the ceiling fan was any louder than any other normal fan, but because the T.V. only went up to about the volume of a trashy radio.
“You can’t do anything fucking right. You’re just like your whore mother.” My dad yelled, his feet stomping and kicking the throw pillows that had fallen when my brothers and I took our seats.
My dad wasn’t in any way shape or form intimidating looking, if you saw him walking down the streets. He stood at about five seven and barely had an ounce of muscle to him. But, when he came storming into the room, he was scarier than any horror movie I had accidently watched.
“Whatever Ben! You aren’t getting the last of the gas money, over my dead body are you going to go on your adventures while I’m stranded at work.” That’s all they ever fought about. Money this, money that. I don’t know a time when they didn’t fight about money. I would have thought it would have been strange if they didn’t fight about it. I wondered if the government knew that having a currency affect so many lives negatively, if they would still treat it the same way.
“If you didn’t spend my money on the fucking water bill like I told you not to, then we wouldn’t fucking be in this situation!”
“What did you want me to do? Not pay the water bill? Hell no, Ben! You took away everything, but you can’t fucking take away me being clean.”
By that time, my eyes were glued to the cartoon. If I looked anywhere else I would see the solemn face of Jet and the angry expression of Mikey. Even worse, I could make eye contact with either one of my parents.
With my gaze glued to the television, I didn’t see the impact of the slap of skin-on-skin that echoed throughout the room. That’s also about the time that Jet started crying.
“YOU SEE WHAT YOU DID? YOU MADE YOUR OWN SON CRY! YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR MOTHER: A BITCH!” Dad had screamed at my mother, who was looking like she had trouble walking in a straight line.
“GO TO YOUR ROOMS!”
I stood up and followed my brothers down the hallway, and we went into our respectable bedrooms. I remember closing the door, setting my untouched plate on my bookshelf, and burying my face into my pillows.
When the smacking and yelling had ceased and the cartoon had switched to a late-night sitcom, I closed my eyes and whispered, “I want to die.”
And, I think, I actually meant it.
***
It was March 21, 2007 when I first thought of wanting to die. I was ten years old.
My parents fought a lot. Not like the casually fighting you see in movies where the mom and dad fool around and push each other up against walls and tickle each other. No, they were face-to-face spit flying and nose flaring. That’s the kind of fighting they did.
On March 21st, 2007, my dad hit my mom for the first time. The first time in front of me, that is. I didn’t know how long my mom was taking blows, and I didn’t want to know. It would make me think of how much a failure I really was, times double.
I was sitting on the living room couch, in the middle of my two brothers. We didn’t have the nicest furniture, but it made do. There were stains here and there, a glop of red nail polish on the cushion and spaghetti sauce on the armrest.
It was dinnertime, and we didn’t have a kitchen table. We probably did have a table at one point, but I couldn’t recall anything different from what we did. Since we didn’t have one, our family crowded around our little television and ate our dinner off the plates in our laps. You could say a lot about my family, but being well-off couldn’t be one the things mentioned.
My mom was crying when she came into my room to tell me dinner was ready. “You don’t have to finish it, its horseshit.” She was angry. I thought she was angry at me, as any normal ten year old would think.
I decided not to say anything, because she had drunk some of her “energy drink” earlier. I was smart enough to know that whenever my mom had her “energy drink” she got bleary-eyed and angry at everything. I learned that she wasn’t my mom at night, but she was my mom when she walked my little brother and I to the bus stop in the morning.
The little television was playing some overrated cartoon, that I remember being my favorite. It was spurting nonsense, but it could barely be heard over the ceiling fan that was spinning about. It wasn’t that the ceiling fan was any louder than any other normal fan, but because the T.V. only went up to about the volume of a trashy radio.
“You can’t do anything fucking right. You’re just like your whore mother.” My dad yelled, his feet stomping and kicking the throw pillows that had fallen when my brothers and I took our seats.
My dad wasn’t in any way shape or form intimidating looking, if you saw him walking down the streets. He stood at about five seven and barely had an ounce of muscle to him. But, when he came storming into the room, he was scarier than any horror movie I had accidently watched.
“Whatever Ben! You aren’t getting the last of the gas money, over my dead body are you going to go on your adventures while I’m stranded at work.” That’s all they ever fought about. Money this, money that. I don’t know a time when they didn’t fight about money. I would have thought it would have been strange if they didn’t fight about it. I wondered if the government knew that having a currency affect so many lives negatively, if they would still treat it the same way.
“If you didn’t spend my money on the fucking water bill like I told you not to, then we wouldn’t fucking be in this situation!”
“What did you want me to do? Not pay the water bill? Hell no, Ben! You took away everything, but you can’t fucking take away me being clean.”
By that time, my eyes were glued to the cartoon. If I looked anywhere else I would see the solemn face of Jet and the angry expression of Mikey. Even worse, I could make eye contact with either one of my parents.
With my gaze glued to the television, I didn’t see the impact of the slap of skin-on-skin that echoed throughout the room. That’s also about the time that Jet started crying.
“YOU SEE WHAT YOU DID? YOU MADE YOUR OWN SON CRY! YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR MOTHER: A BITCH!” Dad had screamed at my mother, who was looking like she had trouble walking in a straight line.
“GO TO YOUR ROOMS!”
I stood up and followed my brothers down the hallway, and we went into our respectable bedrooms. I remember closing the door, setting my untouched plate on my bookshelf, and burying my face into my pillows.
When the smacking and yelling had ceased and the cartoon had switched to a late-night sitcom, I closed my eyes and whispered, “I want to die.”
And, I think, I actually meant it.
***
♠ ♠ ♠
Next Chapter should be up soon.