Status: Whenever(:
They'll Think I'm Crazy
Part Two
I walk into the bathroom to see how much toilet paper I have left. I've been here for almost a month. And I'm almost out of Febreeze. Only half a can left. I have one toilet paper roll left. One bottle of shampoo.
Three cans of chili.
One six pack of beer.
A can of tomato soup.
Two cartons of cigarettes.
Rotten milk
Cinnamon Toast Crunch
And finally, a can of refried beans.
Mom didn't go to the store very often. She would go out with friends and get drunk and pass out on the sofa, dad carrying her bridal style back to their bedroom, him loving her unconditionally.
And in the mornings dad would make her breakfast, french toast and fresh orange juice. Because he loved her. He loved her so much he was blinded. He couldn't see the monster that was attacking my innocence with greed, just so she could make money.
She didn't need it. The money, I mean. We had enough from the coaching job dad had with a local college.
Occasionally, dad would get to help host a sports show, the conversation always coming back around to the career ending crash and would he ever go back to pitching for the Seattle Mariners or even the Oakland A's? His first team was the Oakland Athletic's. He hated it. So we moved to Seattle when I was five. And his last two years playing was there, in the Emerald City.
Dad never forced me to play sports. That's one of the things I loved about him so much. He loved me like he loved mom, unconditionally. Like her flaws didn't matter. But I know if he knew the truth he would kill her.
I would stay up at night, tossing and turning in my bed, thinking about the crime shows I'd watched when I was supposed to be in bed, wondering if I'd ever sit in court while Max, the neighbor, was at trial. I would start to get too hot in my blankets even though outside it was only thirty degrees out and I was wearing boxers. I would finally get up after tossing and turning, make my bed and just lay on top of my blankets, closing my eyes. I'd think about sitting in the witness box, swearing to God even though mom and dad had raised me in an agnostic household and I didn't believe in a higher deity. I'd picture an assistant district attorney pacing in front of me, finally resting their hand on the wood of the witness box.
And then, she'd ask me if I recognized the man who hurt me for five years.
“Let the record show that the witness has pointed to the defendant, Max Anderson.” The ADA would say, turning to the jury.
“You may step down, son.” the judge would say. And I would step out of the witness box in the suit I only wore to funerals. It reminded me of death.
I would start to walk out of the court when Max would start yelling things at me, calling me a whore, a slut, he'd kill me. And I'd just smile. The jury would know for sure that he was guilty after that.
But in these daydreams, mom would never be convicted. She would move away, to somewhere like Mexico so she wouldn't get caught. Wouldn't get prosecuted. A jury would find her guilty in a heartbeat.
*****
After taking inventory, I sit down at the dining room table. There's piles of mail depending on what it is. Water bill(s), one pile, electric bill(s), one pile, magazines, one pile, newspapers, one pile.
I have a stack of hundreds from dads nightstand. He always kept “emergency” money. And I have a wad of money, all different bills, from mom. It was the money she got for me. She hid it in an old shampoo bottle in the bathroom, under the sink. It looked like a new one though, like an extra. But it was just a fake. To hide her dirty money.
I shake my head and pull one of the bills from the pile.
“Do they take cash?” I mutter. I shrug. They'll take my money and like it.
I sort the bills into piles. Ones, fives, tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds.
“Sir, we called you down here because we think your son may have OCD. Obsessive-”
“I know what it means!”
“He pulled out his pencil case in the middle of class and sorted them. When our class goes to the library, he checks to make sure the books are in alphabetical order.”
I sat right outside the principal's office, my short, chubby, eight year old legs could almost reach the seemingly laminated flooring. I had been rushed to the office when my teacher saw me sorting my pencils, mechanicals here, Ticonderoga's, blue pens, black pens. If I didn't sort them I was going to scream. I didn't know I would get in trouble for sorting.
“So?! Let him if it makes him happy!”
“Sir... it's becoming a disruption.”
I looked at the ceiling and saw the panels. They had been installed wrong. They weren't even. I looked down. The floor was white with random teal tiles interjected into the vast white sea of tiles.
I became so fixated on the pattern of the tiles, I hadn't realized dad was standing next to me. He waited until I got up out of the chair to say “Let's go, Noah.”
If I don't sort things, I scream. I yell. I kick. Then I start to hurt myself, digging my nails into my arms until I draw blood. And then they make me take some medicine and I fall asleep.
I wish I wasn't like this.
And I know I'm not a normal kid.
And that's why I haven't been able to tell anyone about dad.
They'll think I'm crazy.
Three cans of chili.
One six pack of beer.
A can of tomato soup.
Two cartons of cigarettes.
Rotten milk
Cinnamon Toast Crunch
And finally, a can of refried beans.
Mom didn't go to the store very often. She would go out with friends and get drunk and pass out on the sofa, dad carrying her bridal style back to their bedroom, him loving her unconditionally.
And in the mornings dad would make her breakfast, french toast and fresh orange juice. Because he loved her. He loved her so much he was blinded. He couldn't see the monster that was attacking my innocence with greed, just so she could make money.
She didn't need it. The money, I mean. We had enough from the coaching job dad had with a local college.
Occasionally, dad would get to help host a sports show, the conversation always coming back around to the career ending crash and would he ever go back to pitching for the Seattle Mariners or even the Oakland A's? His first team was the Oakland Athletic's. He hated it. So we moved to Seattle when I was five. And his last two years playing was there, in the Emerald City.
Dad never forced me to play sports. That's one of the things I loved about him so much. He loved me like he loved mom, unconditionally. Like her flaws didn't matter. But I know if he knew the truth he would kill her.
I would stay up at night, tossing and turning in my bed, thinking about the crime shows I'd watched when I was supposed to be in bed, wondering if I'd ever sit in court while Max, the neighbor, was at trial. I would start to get too hot in my blankets even though outside it was only thirty degrees out and I was wearing boxers. I would finally get up after tossing and turning, make my bed and just lay on top of my blankets, closing my eyes. I'd think about sitting in the witness box, swearing to God even though mom and dad had raised me in an agnostic household and I didn't believe in a higher deity. I'd picture an assistant district attorney pacing in front of me, finally resting their hand on the wood of the witness box.
And then, she'd ask me if I recognized the man who hurt me for five years.
“Let the record show that the witness has pointed to the defendant, Max Anderson.” The ADA would say, turning to the jury.
“You may step down, son.” the judge would say. And I would step out of the witness box in the suit I only wore to funerals. It reminded me of death.
I would start to walk out of the court when Max would start yelling things at me, calling me a whore, a slut, he'd kill me. And I'd just smile. The jury would know for sure that he was guilty after that.
But in these daydreams, mom would never be convicted. She would move away, to somewhere like Mexico so she wouldn't get caught. Wouldn't get prosecuted. A jury would find her guilty in a heartbeat.
*****
After taking inventory, I sit down at the dining room table. There's piles of mail depending on what it is. Water bill(s), one pile, electric bill(s), one pile, magazines, one pile, newspapers, one pile.
I have a stack of hundreds from dads nightstand. He always kept “emergency” money. And I have a wad of money, all different bills, from mom. It was the money she got for me. She hid it in an old shampoo bottle in the bathroom, under the sink. It looked like a new one though, like an extra. But it was just a fake. To hide her dirty money.
I shake my head and pull one of the bills from the pile.
“Do they take cash?” I mutter. I shrug. They'll take my money and like it.
I sort the bills into piles. Ones, fives, tens, twenties, fifties, hundreds.
“Sir, we called you down here because we think your son may have OCD. Obsessive-”
“I know what it means!”
“He pulled out his pencil case in the middle of class and sorted them. When our class goes to the library, he checks to make sure the books are in alphabetical order.”
I sat right outside the principal's office, my short, chubby, eight year old legs could almost reach the seemingly laminated flooring. I had been rushed to the office when my teacher saw me sorting my pencils, mechanicals here, Ticonderoga's, blue pens, black pens. If I didn't sort them I was going to scream. I didn't know I would get in trouble for sorting.
“So?! Let him if it makes him happy!”
“Sir... it's becoming a disruption.”
I looked at the ceiling and saw the panels. They had been installed wrong. They weren't even. I looked down. The floor was white with random teal tiles interjected into the vast white sea of tiles.
I became so fixated on the pattern of the tiles, I hadn't realized dad was standing next to me. He waited until I got up out of the chair to say “Let's go, Noah.”
If I don't sort things, I scream. I yell. I kick. Then I start to hurt myself, digging my nails into my arms until I draw blood. And then they make me take some medicine and I fall asleep.
I wish I wasn't like this.
And I know I'm not a normal kid.
And that's why I haven't been able to tell anyone about dad.
They'll think I'm crazy.