Damaged (7 page)

"What is wrong with you, Adam? I was just wondering if you wanted to get Wendy's instead of pizza. I don't have enough for it. Do you—“

"I'm yelling at you because you piss me off. You fucking annoy me constantly. I want
pizza
, not goddamn Wendy's!
Fuck Wendy's!
" He was too upset to be hungry right now, anyway.

Irritated, she said, "You want me to fix spaghetti?"

Adam sighed and slammed his fist down on the banister. Wood cracked.

"Hey now!" She ran to the top of the steps but would not close the distance. "You don't always have to hit things. This isn't your house, y'know. What is your problem? You sure you still want that birthday party of yours?"

With that threat at play, Adam took a deep breath and seemed to calm.

Or was it just a trick?

"All right, I'm sorry." He hated apologizing. He wanted to get even with her. "I'm just not in a good mood. If it's not too much to ask, I'll take Wendy's."

She walked over to him and checked the banister. Small split, but virtually unnoticeable. "I'm going to get your father to buy you a punching bag. Would you like that?"

He nodded.

"I'll go get you your Wendy's. Number one, right?"

Again, he nodded. She walked away and went back downstairs. Adam, however, was not though with her just yet.

***

It was true that Adam punched walls on occasions, dented some plaster, broke some wall boards, broke a door hinge off with a good little kick—all within his own bedroom. Breaking things gave him a sense of relief, a way to get rid of stored-up tension. It was fun, too, punching inanimate objects he imagined were the faces of his threatening foes.

Adam entered his room and watched through the window as his mom drove down the street in her beat-up Cavalier. He sat on his bed in the silent bedroom, holding back the tears.
Just a little longer... till she gets back.

So he sat there, as if meditating, but was breaking every Zen law in the book. No peace or calm here, nothing but unwanted memories.

***

The bang of a car door
... five minutes later.

He was prepared to destroy the creature who’d given him life.

The front door opened and closed. Adam exited his room and leaned over the banister. Angela was there, Wendy’s bag in hand, a target in cross-hairs, in the young man's eyes.

"Adam, here!" Angela said, a big dumb grin forming on her pathetic face.

Adam went downstairs and grabbed the bag of food out of her hand. "Thanks," he said, trying to make her feel appreciated.

"You're welcome."

No, I'm not.
He turned and stomped into the kitchen, purposely making enough noise to gain her attention. It worked. Smiling, she watched him as he went to the trash can, turned, intentionally smashed the bag of food with both hands, and threw the meal she’d bought for him at the bottom of the waste basket.

"Here's what I think of
you, mother
!"

The smile deflated. She looked, above all, saddened by his hurtful reaction to her good deed. He knew all she wanted was to make his empty stomach full; what he wanted was to make her full heart empty.

Her shock made him feel better, worse. He actually felt worse than she did. He hated what he was doing, but liked it, invited it, hated himself for doing it, and hated himself for even considering loving her.

He knew she loved him.

Nobody loves me! I won't let them!

"Fuck you and your goddamn food! I don't need it. I don't want it!
You got that?"

She looked as though she'd been hit in the stomach by a sledgehammer. The words she tried to speak came out more like little squeals. To degrade her further, Adam mocked her with small, sarcastic squeals of his own.

He laughed.

Adam rushed over to her and her poor, lost face. She wanted to cry, but Adam beat her to the draw. Tears streamed down his cheeks when he flew past her and headed upstairs.

"Mother, I hope you fucking die!"
he said when he reached the top. He could not believe he said it, or had said it before. It was like pouring salt onto a wound over and over again just to see if it still hurt.

Adam entered his room and slammed the door shut, crying. "Fuck!
Fuck! Fuuuuck!
" He flailed his arms about, as if trying to knock out an invisible opponent. All pieces of his togetherness were shattering. Adam did not hit his walls or kick his door. He sat down on the bed, drooling, and grabbed the utility knife off the nearby nightstand. In the heat of the moment, he opened the blade and ran it across his outer forearm. Blood immediately surfaced, ran, and dripped to the ugly green carpet. Some pain went away, so he cut deeper.

More relief and more blood.

He cut a third time. Deeper still.
"I can't goooo oooon!"
His
arm was dripping, oozing, running blood. He didn't cut any vein or artery, but he did come close on the last one.

***

By the time he was done, fourteen deep lacerations crisscrossed his left arm. The sheets, the pillow, Adam's clothes—all covered in blood. The most painful thing to Adam wasn't the wounds or the way he'd hurt his mother; it was that tomorrow he would have to start this same bullshit
all over again.

***

The rest of the day and night, Adam was either sleeping or crying. He was surprised that his mother did not once come upstairs to check on him. And he contemplated going back down, taking the food out of the garbage, and eating it.

Before he knew it—

"Adam! Get up! Time for school
!"

Oh, no.

"I ain't going," he grunted, burying his head under the pillow. He counted in his head: four, three, two, one—

"Adam, please get up."

He almost had her alarm down to a science.

Through a slit in his eye, he watched the sunlight shine in through the window. Way too bright.

“
Adam, you're going to have to get up now!" she said, bursting into the room.

As if attacked by an assailant, he jolted up and said,
"What!
I'm awake, okay? I'm tired. I want to go back to sleep,
if that's not too fucking much to ask!
"

She slapped her thighs with her hands.
"Let's go
!"

"No. You can't fucking make me! Fuck school!"

She stormed over to him and pulled the covers off his body. "Your bus leaves in fifteen minutes, so you'd better hurry. Come on!"

Adam looked into her eyes—deep. For the first time, she was afraid of what she saw. He looked like he wanted to murder her, hide her body, and go on with life as usual.

Not my Adam.

"I'm staying here. Sleep."

"You're going to school. Now."

The fuse blew.

He grabbed the lamp off his stand and winged it across the room with full force. His mother flinched. The porcelain thing shattered into fragments against the wall over the TV. A piece of shrapnel cracked a window.

She had underestimated his power, his strength, and did not want to witness any more.

"That's it, Adam, I've had enough! You break things in my house, you pay the consequences."

"It's
my
fucking room. I can do whatever the hell I want
. Just—go away!"

"No. I'm not leaving till you get ready and go to school."

Adam shut his eyes. Sleep was here, right around the bin.

"Adam!"

Sleep was gone as sudden as a flick of the fingers. "Jesus Christ,
lay off me! You can't make me do shit
!"

She stepped over to him and went to grab his foot, but he pulled his leg away so quickly that he put a small dent in the wall with his heel.

"This is ridiculous! You've missed more days of school so far this year than you went."

"Big whoop! I fucking
despise
school!"

"Love it or hate it, you're going to deal with it." She went to grab his foot again. He screamed as soon as her flesh touched his.

"No. Not again. Day after day you do this—"

"Then get a clue! School's a bunch of horseshit! I do
not
belong there."

"Yes, you do. I am so tired of this. Every day after day you pull this stunt, and it's getting old real fast—"

“
You're getting old real fast! You get on my nerves every day, making me go—
grrrr
!"

They eyed each other down like two solemn gunslingers.

"I ain't going. Nope."

"Then your friend isn't staying this weekend."

Again, that murderous glare.
"Yes, he will!"

"If you get ready for school, yes."

Adam stood up and pounded out of the room.
If only I could dropout...
that thought was glorious. Nobody to pick on him again, ignore him, cut him down like a dead tree.

As he rushed down the hall to distance himself from Angela, she stepped out of his room and said, "Adam, stop. Stop!"

"Tell it to someone who cares," he mumbled, too quietly for her to hear. Adam entered the bathroom and slammed the door, leaving a crack in the frame. Angela gasped.

Adam went to the tub and sat on the ledge. He knew she wasn't through but wished she was. Any minute and she'd come pounding on the door like a stubborn Jehova's witness.

Bang, bang, bang!

"Adam, open this door right now!"

He wiped away some oncoming snot with his sleeve.

"Adam, let me in!
Now
!"

"Go away."

"If I have to come in there—"

"Get away from me
you fucking bitch! I hate you! You hear me, don't you?"
He stood and went to the door. "I hate you. You're not a good mother at all. I hope you die. I hope you drop dead."

She stumbled away from the door, crying silently. She wasn't sure if he meant it or not, but it sounded genuine. Pain worse than childbirth.

She walked away, defeated, too drained of energy to combat her son any longer. Today he got his wish: no school.

He knew it was over. He even stopped crying. Today was all day television, food, a little writing, and maybe a call to Chris when he got home from school. Adam's life was really not so bad on days off from school.

Angela's life, however, was dampened on the days when he played hooky. How would he support himself, get a job, and experience life without a good education? She had tried therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists, but none were able to get through to him. Like a mute, he simply refused to talk to any of them. Anyone who wanted to hurt him was an enemy; anyone who wanted to help him was an even greater threat. Adam thought society needed repaired, not him.

***

He slept most of the day, dreamed little, oblivious to the world outside as well as within.

At 2:12 P.M. he woke up and turned on the television. Jillian Johnson, a local newswoman with lots of cleavage, appeared on screen. She spoke into a microphone, "If you've seen either person,
Ronald
or Emma
Lostone
, please call your local police department."

The camera cut to a news anchor. "
If you're just tuning in with us, Mr. Ronald and Emma Lostone, age 18 and 19, of Berry Township, were reported missing two days ago."

"Hmm," Adam mumbled. "Big news for this valley." Berry Township, an even smaller town than Blake County , was right across the river from the McNicols'.

Not thinking much about the story, Adam turned to the Lifetime Channel. He'd memorized the times of his favorite shows; he knew what was on every channel and when. Now playing was a repeat episode of Unsolved Mysteries, a show that used to give him vivid nightmares. His favorites were the stories about ghosts, aliens, demonic possession—anything paranormal. Today's broadcast was about wanted fugitives, lost loves, lost heirs.

He turned the television off. Though wide awake, Adam laid back and shut his eyes.
Nothing better to do.

A knock on his bedroom door woke him at four o’ clock. Chris' knock. Loud, fast and repetitive.

"C'min," Adam called.

Chris entered and shut the door. "You just waking up?"

Adam sat up. "Yeah. I can't believe I went back to sleep. It's almost supper time.”

Chris, a truly animate person compared to the slow bear on the bed, sat beside Adam, pulled a pack of Liggets from his pocket, and fired one up. "Smoke?"

Adam flipped him the bird. Chris always offered, knowing Adam wouldn't take the bait, but he liked to get a rise out of him anyway. "You're sick, aren't you? Not going to school, the straight A student overachiever that you are—" Chris began.