I think I struck a deal with the devil. I don’t care what you call it. I have to watch out for my mom. I love her. She’s good to me. Always makes sure I’m okay and not hurt too bad. She sneaks into my room at night and tells me how lucky we are to have each other, that most families don’t have mothers and sons that are as close as we are. I like when she hugs me and plays with my hair.
I know she’s trying to make the situation sound better than what it is, but that’s what moms do, right? As long as she keeps looking after me, everything will be okay.
***
Twelve years old…
Coach saw the bruises yesterday. I told him I got them when I went to my cousin’s farm last week. I think I was pretty convincing, even though I don’t have any cousins or know anyone who owns a farm. Coach looked at me for a long while.
Please don’t call my dad.
Shit. If he calls dad, I’ll get another round tonight, and last time I stayed out to avoid it, he beat mom.
“Come on, Coach. Don’t get me in trouble for chasing the pigs,” I say.
Chuckling, Coach replies, “You’re a good kid, Asher, but you’ve got to be more careful. You’re a great addition to the team. ”
Dad beat me that night anyways. He was drinking again. He drinks all the time. He yells a lot, and when he’s not yelling, he’s sleeping. He smells bad. I don’t think he’s had a shower in months. I try to hold my breath when he’s near me because the smell makes me want to throw up.
He got me good. Broke my nose. I’m getting used to keeping painkillers in my school bag. I always take a few before I come home, just in case. I’m nervous about going home tonight. Last night was the first night he told me to fight back. I think he was shocked when I did. Got him in the jaw a few times and pushed him back into the bookcase.
As soon as he was down, I ran to my room. I locked the door and jumped out of the window. I’d rather be out in the rain than home with him.
Tomorrow I’ll quit baseball.
>
***
Thirteen years old…
“How many fucking times have I told you to keep that shit down?”
I grit my teeth and shut my eyes tight. My chest heaves and tears run out of the sides of my eyes. It hurts more when you look at it. I hear my skin sizzle as he presses the metal into my skin. This is his new favorite thing to do. Heating anything metal and burning me with it. Tonight’s choice is a fork.
As soon as the prongs touch me, I want to scream loud and hard, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. Besides, if I scream, he works harder. My body shakes. Shaking is good. It means I’m not gonna pass out. I have to be careful when the shaking stops. He knows it too. He waits and watches for it.
His knee digs into me, holding me down to the ground, and he touches me over and over with the heated prongs. Never touching my arms, only my chest. He learnt a lesson from breaking my arm. If people could see the scars, they’d ask questions. He doesn’t want people to ask questions, so he avoids the areas people can see. Every now and again he’ll punch me in the face, but people believe anything my parents spout. A few of the better excuses are ‘He’s a very active boy. Loves his sports’ and ‘Boys will be boys’, is an old favorite of my dad’s.
Blood roars in my ears.
The pain is almost unbearable. I don’t give in though.
The thing about burns is that the healing is just as painful as getting them in the first place. I think that’s why he likes doing it so much. Doubling my pain.
Clenching my mouth shut, I have no choice but to breathe in through my nose and the stink is so bad. I feel the vomit climb my throat, but I swallow it down again.
If I vomit, he’ll make me eat it like last time.
Mom sits in the corner of the room. She’s empty. There’s nothing left of the sweet woman I loved. He makes her watch, but she goes someplace he doesn’t know about. She disappears inside her head and hums. I close my eyes and listen to her. She hums one of the songs she used to sing to me when I was a baby. This is her only form of comfort these days. He would punish her for coming to see me at night, so she stopped. I’d like to say I understand, but I don’t. Now I hate her as much as I hate him.
I’m the child. She should be protecting me. Not the other way round.
She’s weak. And I hate her.
***
Sixteen years old…