RAGE (9 page)

I opened my eyes and listened, trying to make out what he was yelling about. Then I remembered the gun.

My heart beat faster and my palms began to sweat. I don’t know what I’d been thinking last night when I’d taken the gun from him. He was going to be more than angry. He’d probably beat me, and as angry as he was, he might very well beat me to death.

I got up and walked to the door, the pain stabbing my side. Slowly and quietly, I turned the knob and opened the door a couple inches. I heard him better now. He was making a lot of noise, flipping over furniture and stomping around the room. I could plainly hear him cussing.

Carefully, I eased my door open and walked down the hallway slowly, trying my best to avoid making any noise.

He was on his knees, looking under the couch. The cushions were on the floor between the living room and the kitchen. The remnants of the coffee table lay where it fell last night. The chair in which Dale had been sitting was flipped, cushion lying beside it.

I watched Travis for a few minutes as he felt around under the couch, cussing loudly.

Finally, he stood. He ran his fingers through his oily hair, growled in frustration, and then bent down and grabbed the bottom of the couch. He heaved it upwards with all his strength, flipping it over backwards, just as my mother walked through the front door.

I saw her confusion as her eyes went wide and she gasped.

“What are you doing?” she asked as her purse slid off her shoulder and hung on her forearm. Had her arm been straight, it would’ve hit the floor.

“This is bullshit,” Travis yelled.

“What is?” my mother asked. She walked into the kitchen and sat her purse on the table. Turning to him, she put her hands on her hips and waited for him to explain.

“My gun is missing.”

“What gun?”

“The gun I bought from Dale.”

“You bought a gun?” I could hear the surprise and disappointment in her voice. I wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it, but it made me mad that he kept things from her.

“Yeah, a bought a fucking gun, okay? And now the damn thing is gone. I fell asleep on the couch last night with it in my hand. I woke up this morning and it’s gone.”

“Was it loaded?”

“Of course. What the hell good is a gun if it isn’t loaded?”

I hated to hear him talk to her with that tone, but what was I going to do about it?

“Well, it has to be here somewhere. Let’s look for it,” she said as she walked further into the room and began looking everywhere he’d surely already looked.

“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing, Brenda?” he said her name sarcastically. “I’ve been looking since I woke up. It’s not here.”

“Where’d you get the money to buy a gun anyway?” She sat the chair upright and replaced the cushions, running her hand down into the bowels of the chair.

“That’s for me to know. Just find the fucking thing, will you?”

“What’s it look like?”

He laughed. “What’s it look like. What the fuck do you think it looks like, Brenda? God. I see why your kid’s as dumb as my pecker hair. He gets it from you.”

My mother stood and turned to face him. With her hands on her hips, she said, “I mean is it black or is it shiny?”

“Does it matter? How many guns do you think you’ll come across? Jesus. You find a gun, it’s mine, okay?”

My mother turned around shaking her head, and that’s when she saw the coffee table.

“What happened to that?” she asked, pointing.

“Your fucking kid came in here running around like a chicken with its head cut off last night and fell on it.”

I watched my mom look at the table, then at Travis, and I wondered if she believed him. She probably did. She always did. I hated it, but I guess she was too tired to try to sort out the truth from the lies. It was easier to believe what he said than to question it.

As my mother helped Travis look for his gun, she asked, “Why did you need a gun?”

“You never know, Brenda,” he said, spitting her name out like poison. “You can’t trust people. Someone could come in here and steal our shit, or kill us. I want to be prepared.”

“You’re ready to kill someone?” my mother asked looking behind the television.

Travis spun around to say something, but he saw me standing there, peeking around the corner. He stared right into my eyes without blinking, and answered my mother’s question with, “Yes. I’m ready to kill someone.”

Maybe I was wrong, but I took that as a threat. The look on his face when he said it, and the way he was looking into my eyes made me feel like he was saying he was ready to kill me specifically. And after the incident with the pistol last night, I had no doubt that he would. He would kill me, and then he’d tell everyone that I’d tried to kill him and he had to defend himself. My mother would believe him, as always. He’d murder me and get away with it. And clearly, he was ready to do it.

Our relationship had obviously crested. It had been building up to this for years. He’d tried to get my mother to send me away many times, but they couldn’t afford to send me to any kind of camp or school, and there were no relatives to ship me off to live with. He’d been stuck with me all this time, and I guess he was ready to be rid of me for good.

He stood there, staring a hole in my soul, and smiled. It wasn’t a good smile. At least not for me. It was the creepiest, scariest smile I’d ever seen. He must’ve been imagining what it’d be like to finally be rid of me. Or to kill me. Or both.

I began to tremble.

Slowly, he brought up his E-V-I-L hand. His index finger was straight, his thumb up, imitating a pistol. He aimed it at my head and jerked it upward, as if he’d fired it. As if he’d shot me.

I felt the warmth running down my legs. I hadn’t peed myself in quite a while, but I was now and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

I took a step backward, then another. I didn’t dare take my eyes off Travis. When I couldn’t see him anymore, I turned and went into the bathroom. I didn’t want to make a mess on the floor.

Quickly, I took off my clothes, stepped into the shower carefully, and turned on the water. After dropping the soap three times because my hands were shaking so badly, I managed to wash myself. Figuring it was okay to do so in the shower, I cried. The tears mingled with the water, masking my pain.

With a towel wrapped around my waist, I quickly and quietly headed back to my bedroom to get dressed. I then went back to the bathroom for my soiled clothes. I carried them at arm’s length to the laundry room and loaded them into the washing machine. I put in the detergent and started the wash.

Then, I went back to my room and listened at the door as Travis told my mother he was certain that Dale or Mike had stolen his gun. They’d still been here when he’d passed out, so he was sure one of them had taken it. He was going over there to get it back.

I closed my door and sat on the bed, still trembling.

At least he didn’t suspect me of anything. At least not yet. But when he talked to Dale and Mike and realized that neither of them had it, he’d surely figure it out. Then, he’d know it was me.

What would I say to him when he burst through my bedroom door demanding the gun? Would I give it to him? Would I lie? What if I lied and he searched my room and found it? That would be even worse than if I just admitted having it when he asked me. I had no idea what I should do. I only knew one thing for sure. If he got the gun back, he would kill me.

I sat on the floor of my room, my back against the bed, sketching pictures for the art show. It wasn’t until the third picture that I managed to keep my hands from shaking. It was no coincidence that it was also the same time I heard Travis squealing the tires of my mother’s car as he sped out of the driveway and down the street. He was undoubtedly going to confront Dale and Mike about the missing pistol.

I tried to imagine what would happen when Travis pulled into their driveway, jumped out of the car, beat on their front door, and then demanded to know where his gun was. Of course, both men would deny taking it because they hadn’t. Fights would surely break out among the men. Then, when Travis finally realized that neither men had the gun, he’d come home. I wasn’t sure how long it would take him to figure out that I had taken it, but I knew that he eventually would. Even Travis was smart enough to guess that.

Trying not to dwell on what would happen then, I continued to sketch. Worrying now wouldn’t do anything to save me when that moment finally arrived. I would just face it then, in the moment, when maybe I could do something.

I heard my mother walk down the hall. I listened as she went into the bathroom and took a shower. Minutes later, I heard her leave the bathroom and head to her room to go to bed.

I felt bad that she’d worked sixteen hours on her feet and had to come home and put up with Travis. But as bad as I felt for her, it was her choice. If she would make Travis do his share, she wouldn’t have to work so much. But I knew why she didn’t do that. I didn’t understand her reasons, but I knew them.

She was afraid of being alone. Lots of people were, and I didn’t hold that against her. I just wished she would’ve picked someone else. Actually, if I was going to wish for something, I wished she didn’t feel that she couldn’t be alone. It’s not like Travis added anything to our house. He had no skills, no job, no income, and he was mean. He didn’t beat my mother like he did me, but he was mean to us both. The things he said to and about my mother made my skin crawl. She could do better. She sure couldn’t do any worse.

I sketched several more pictures. I had no doubt that I would have the sketch pad full before school on Monday. Which was a good thing, but it made me sad. I didn’t know how I’d get another one. This one had been a gift from my art teacher at the beginning of the school year, after she saw how good my drawings were. She had given it to me with a red bow attached to the front cover and told me to unleash my inner artist. I had.

I was still thinking of ways to make enough money to buy another pad when I heard Travis pull into the driveway. As was always the case whenever I heard Travis come home, my heart began to beat faster, my throat tightened, and my stomach was filled with butterflies. My palms grew damp with sweat. I didn’t enjoy being on edge, but it was what my life had become.

To avoid ruining my sketches with my sweaty hands, I closed the pad and laid it on the table beside the bed.

I sat on the bed, back against the wall, and listened as Travis banged his way into the house. It made me angry that he never bothered to try to be quiet when he knew my mother was asleep. He knew how hard she worked and how much she needed her rest, but it didn’t bother him. Then I realized that he probably didn’t know what it was like for her because he’d never worked.

Soon, Travis came stomping down the hallway and threw open my bedroom door.

“Get in here,” he said gruffly. He then turned and walked back toward the living room.

Reluctantly, I followed.

He was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, twisting the top off a bottle of beer.

I stood facing him, as far away as I could be without making him mad, afraid of what was coming.

“Have you seen my gun?” he asked.

I swallowed hard to remove the lump in my throat. I wasn’t sure what to say. I shook my head no.

“Don’t lie to me. Have you seen my gun?”

“Not since last night,” I said quietly. I wanted to add that the last time I’d seen it, he was pointing it at my forehead and pulling the trigger. But there was no sense in asking for trouble when it found me so often on its own.

“Well Mike and Dale both said they don’t know where it is. Now you say it too. Somebody’s fucking lying.” He walked toward me and I thought I was going to throw up, but before I could, he continued on past me. He walked out the front door, slamming it behind him.

I sighed, feeling a huge relief. Even as the relief washed over me, I knew it was temporary. This was far from over.

Since I was already in the kitchen and Travis was outside for the moment, I took the opportunity to eat. I made myself an egg sandwich because it was quick. I wanted to be in my room when Travis came back inside.

I stood by the sink gobbling down the sandwich and washing it down with a glass of water. I considered watching television, but I didn’t want to be in the living room when he came back in the house. So I went back to my bedroom.

I was reading an old comic book when Travis came to my door. He opened it and leaned his head in.

“If your momma wakes up and asks, tell her I went back to Dale’s house.”

With my heart racing and a deer-in-the-headlights look plastered across my face, I nodded and he left. I waited until I heard him squeal the tires as he pulled away before I moved.

I ran from my room, excited to be free of him if only for a little while. I went to the couch, flopped down and turned on the television. After searching through a few channels, I found a cartoon to watch. I settled in and enjoyed this rare luxury.

In the back of mind, I tried to remember what it was like to not feel fear every second of every day. It had been so long since I’d experienced the feeling of freedom, I was unable to remember. So I had to imagine what it would be like. Just to wake up each day with no butterflies in my stomach, no lump in my throat, and no sweaty palms or shaky hands. It would be nice to be able to go to bed every night without the fear that at some point, a man would force himself on me painfully. How great it would be to be able to live in my own house, not just my room, without fear of being beaten. And while I was imagining, I imagined having plenty of food to choose from. And my mother, who didn’t have to work at all, would always have hot meals ready for me. And I wouldn’t have to wear the ill-fitting clothes I wore now. I could be stylish and wear what the other kids were wearing. And that meant there would be no bullies. No Dominic, no Spencer, no Taylor, and no Garrett.

How I longed for a life like that.

Of course, my life was nothing like the life I longed for. It was the exact opposite. Every second of my day was filled with fear. Even as I sat there watching cartoons, my stomach was tight, waiting to hear the car pull into the driveway. Then, as always, I’d have to quickly turn off the television and dart to my room before Travis came inside.

I had learned years ago that it was better when I didn’t show myself in front of Travis. It was almost as if he forgot about me if he didn’t see me. I knew that wasn’t true, for he certainly didn’t forget about me in the middle of the night when he would come to my room. But as far as beating me, he beat me less often if I stayed in my room, out of his sight, out of his thoughts.

My mother slept, and I watched television until I grew tired. It was late, nearly midnight, and Travis still wasn’t home. I hated to end my spell of freedom, but it was time to go to bed. The last thing I wanted to do was fall asleep on the couch and be there when Travis returned. I turned off the television, stretched and yawned, and went to my room.

For a while, I lay in bed listening to the sound of silence. I felt relaxed, as I always did when Travis wasn’t home. I wasn’t at peace though because I knew that at some point, he would be home. The knot in my stomach would return, as would the sweaty palms. The life I longed for would never be mine. Not as long as my mother was married to Travis.

The clock on the table beside the bed said it was nearly two in the morning when I heard Travis stumbling down the hallway.

Immediately, my heart began to pound and my hands grew damp with nervous sweat. A lump formed in my throat and tears came to my eyes. I held my breath and my bladder, though it nearly released onto the bed beneath me. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

As I prayed for him to keep walking past my room and forget that I existed, images flashed through my mind.  Memories of things he’d done to me in the past.

Like the first time he’d came into my room at night. It was Christmas Eve. My mother had just started working night shift as a waitress and wasn’t home. Travis had been drinking all evening.

I had only received a few little toys for Christmas, as my mother didn’t have any money. But my favorite toy was a model car. Someone had already put it together, and I knew my mother had probably bought it at a yard sale, but I didn’t care. It was shiny and black, with lots of chrome. I had no idea what model the car was, but it was gorgeous to me. I loved it so much that I took it to bed and fell asleep holding it to my chest.

I don’t know how much time passed before Travis burst into my room, startling me awake and nearly causing me to wet myself.

He stood in the doorway for a long time, staring at me. I was afraid to move, so I lay there on my side, eyes wide, staring back at him, still clutching the car to my chest.

Unsure of why Travis had came into my room, I watched as he stumbled his way toward the bed. My mind raced to think of what I had done to make him angry. I had no doubt that he was going to beat me, but I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d done to deserve it.

He stopped beside my bed.

“Brian, wake up,” he said gruffly.

“I’m awake,” I managed to whisper, my voice trembling.

“Pull your pants down.”

There were many times he made me pull my pants down so he could spank me with his belt. I figured this was what he was going to do now. Even in the dark, as I began to pull down my pajama bottoms and I saw him fiddling with his pants, I thought he was taking off his belt to hit me.

I still lay on my side, afraid to take my eyes off him. I wanted to know when the hit was coming so I could brace myself. From this position, it was hard to pull my pants down. I’d only gotten them to my knees when Travis told me it was good enough.

“Roll over,” he demanded.

I rolled over slowly. I felt the car against my chest. I brought my hand up to pull the car out from under me, but before I could reach it, Travis crushed me. He lay on top of me, his weight pushing my body onto the bed, onto the car, which poked through my shirt and into my skin. It was painful. Every sharp part of the car found its way into my skin. Had I been able to breathe, I would’ve cried.

Of course that pain was nothing like the pain that followed. Travis raped me for the first time that Christmas Eve. I lay under him, face down on the bed, barely able to breathe, and I cried and begged him to stop. I pleaded with him with every ounce of air I could gather.

And he laughed.

When it was over and Travis had left my room, I continued to lay there in agony. I was crying harder than I’d ever cried before. I felt dirty and stupid. My butt hurt terribly. And the car still dug into my chest.

Finally, I rolled over. I picked the car up and saw that it was broken. Not fixable broken, but throw away broken. This made me mad. It was bad enough what he’d done to me, but my favorite toy had been ruined in the process.

I drew my arm back and threw the car across the room as hard as I could. It hit my bedroom door and shattered into a hundred little pieces. I didn’t care. I didn’t want it anymore. No one else would want it now either. It was ruined. Just like me.