“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Dawn, but this subject is closed. I don’t feel like traipsing back down memory lane with you; especially if I don’t have the same so-called memories that you do. Now,” Peggy said, her speech even more slurred. “If you have something more pleasant to talk about, we can. Otherwise—”
“Otherwise what? The conversation is over? Mother, please. For the first time in my life, why don’t you talk to me? Don’t you realize how important this is? But this is always how you’ve been. Out in la-la land. In an eternal state of denial. Sucked down in a bottle of booze. You were never there when I needed you.”
“What are you saying? I was always there for you, Dawn Lynn. Always.”
“You never protected me,” Dawn said, as she struggled to keep her voice quiet, but the rage was escalating her tone.
“Protected you from what? Your father never did anything to you. He never touched you. Never.”
“Oh, so you remember that. That’s not the point. He never did anything to me, but you let me see him do everything to you. You don’t think that damaged me? Huh?”
“Oh, please. How could it? You were perfect. You were Daddy’s little girl. How could that be such a bad thing?”
“It was, Mother. It was. It made me feel like you were worthless. That you were incompetent. And it made me despise you.”
Peggy’s line grew quiet, and Dawn heard the sound of ice cracking. She realized that Peggy was pouring more liquor into her glass.
“So, you’ve been carrying that around all of these years? So, you despise me, huh?” Peggy asked.
“Yes, I did. I hated you for not protecting me. And for ultimately turning me into you.”
Dawn clicked the off button, and slammed the receiver down. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she stormed into the living room, where she ransacked the cabinets in the wall unit until she found a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka. She tucked it under her injured arm, then picked up an old-fashioned glass. Through a tear-filled haze, she stumbled back into Asia’s room.
“Thank you, Mother. I guess I have completely become you,” Dawn said as she poured the clear liquor into the glass until it kissed the rim. She wiped the tears and snot from her face, and carefully sat down on Asia’s bed. She patted her daughter on her back, and noticed that Asia’s breaths were slow and shallow. “Don’t worry, Baby. Mommy’s not going to fail you. You’ll never grow up hating me, nor will you turn out like me. I’ll take care of that, Baby. I promise.” Dawn sniffled, reached over and kissed the back of her baby’s head.
Then she picked up the bottle of Dalmane. It was half-empty because, earlier, she had taken out ten tablets, crushed them, and mixed them into Asia’s chocolate sauce. Dawn poured the remaining pills into her mouth, and held them until they slightly dissolved. She placed the glass of Stoli’s to her lips, and forced the bitter concoction down her throat.
She nestled back into bed with Asia, and placed a loving arm around her only daughter. “Mommy loves you, Asia. I never want you to be like me. Never. Never.” And slowly, Dawn’s words turned into her second favorite lullaby.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”
VICTIM OR VICTOR… SOMETIMES NEITHER PREVAILS.
Collen Dixon is the author of Simon Says, Behind Closed Doors… In My Father’s House, and Every Shut Eye. She has just finished her fourth novel, Relative Secrets, which completes the Simon Says “quadrilogy.” An avid reader, Collen enjoys Feng Shui and tending to her bonsai trees, collecting art and automobiles. She also enjoys “viewing the world from two wheels,” skiing, traveling and entertaining. A huge movie buff, she recently successfully underwent treatment for an addiction to online auctions. She and Chadwick, her fur-faced little boy, currently reside in Mitchellville, MD. Her motto is “Always be grateful, never be satisfied.”
THE GRINDSTONE
NANE QUARTAY
I knew there was something desperate in the night, when I saw the brightness of the sparks that shot off the blade of the machete. And so… that night, I ran.
I ran down Upwards Alley, over to Front Street, and up the hill to my house. I only lived two long blocks up on the top of Front Street, but the street was so deep that I was catching my breath in heaving gasps by the time I made it to our front door. All out of breath and shit!
My youngest sister, Tammy, was sitting out front on a bench that sat alongside the house, watching my two-year-old brother toddling around on the ground. She barely gave me a glance as I stoo
d there, breathing hard but trying not to show it. My oldest sister, Toby, came riding up on her bicycle, hopped off, and went inside the front door. I waited until I heard her footsteps fade away up the stairs and then I began to plot on her bike, laying there where she had let it fall. Toby’s bicycle was one of those girl’s bikes; no metal bar for me to fall on and hurt my undeveloped manhood. I was so small that I couldn’t reach the pedals while I was sitting on the seat, so the absence of that metal bar was crucial. The missing tube created a gap that allowed me to pedal the bike while I was standing up and I triumphantly rode around and around in circles on the sidewalk. Boy! I can’t wait till I’m big enough to ride a boy’s bike! This delicious thought pedaled around in my head as I rode and turned on the bicycle.
The sound of breaking glass messed up my flow. I looked up in time to see my lucky horseshoe, the one I had won at school, come flying out of the window. It landed right in the middle of the street. The next thing I heard was my father’s voice. He was drunk. Know how I know? He was always drunk!
“How you bring a bastard up in my house!”
It was a statement. My statement. My stepfather’s description of me. When he was drunk, it was his only description of me. I wouldn’t say that I hate him. There has got to be a better word for my feelings than “hate.” Yet, he found his hatred of me became intensified when it was mixed with vodka. He was a big man… compared to me. He was a smart man… compared to me. He was a man… compared to me. To me, he was the evil that turned off every emotion I ever had, every feeling, the devil who endangered my very sanity and killed the childhood part of my life. He rampaged on my teenage years, that time of life when relationships develop, some in the most intimate of ways, where bits and pieces of yourself are defined by the company you keep, the friends that you make. The years when life is sweet and carefree… not just painful day-to-day hell. My father did that. My daddy.
He wasn’t my real daddy, though. He was only my stepfather but what’s the difference… especially if you don’t know who your real daddy is anyway.
I fucking hate him. Yeah. That fits better.
I remember the first time he hit me. He tried to punch me with a manpunch, a hard man-punch, straight to my face. I was way too small to take that blow and I could see that shit comin’. I ducked away enough, but not all the way enough, and his knuckle caught me right in the eye. Shit! That shit hurt! My eye was all swollen and shit.