Page 44 of Bone Dust

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he assures.

I muster the courage to flick a glance in his direction. A faint, assuming smile bends my lips. “Trust me on this.”

His new jeans swoosh against the chair as impatience makes him fidget. “I’m gonna be pissed if you don’t stop pussy footin’ around. Say what’s on your mind, Ian. We got work to do.”

I suck in a lungful of air. “I’ve got some things to say, Sam, and I need you to listen to me all the way through.” I steal a glance and he nods. “Good. First things first; I’m no good. Never have been. Never will be. Been cursed since the day I was born. My mother loved me. My father hated me. I was collateral damage from her death as far as he was concerned.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and threading my fingers together in a tight grip. “When I was five years old, he taught me one thing; how to use a can opener. I’ve fended for myself ever since. Chef Boyardee™ was the dinner of choice. He washed his down with whiskey, while I drank water from the tap. He never bought milk. I got that in school. By the third grade, I got sick of drinking water. I also had trouble sleeping. I waited until my old man was asleep and drank as much as I could from his bottle while leaving just enough swigs so he thought it was him who drank it. I always put the bottle back within fingertip reach then showered and brushed my teeth before I stumbled into bed so he wouldn’t smell it on me and give me a beating. I hated the taste at first but, it worked. I slept. Then the nightmares started. They stuck with me and made me anxious, so I got someone to buy me liquor, and I drank during the day. I’d get a carton of orange juice in school and put vodka in it.” I look up. “I know I’m boring you but, I promise, there’s a point to all this.”

“I’m not bored.” He leans forward on his elbows. “I know some of this but you’re telling me more than I remember.”

“Yeah. Probably all the shit I wish I could forget.”

“We’ve done a lot of talking, especially when you were over in New Life Rehab, but it seems you got more to say, and I’m listening.”

“See, that’s it. You and me—we talk. Me and my old man never did. I learned about women through magazines he either shoved under the bed or left in the bathroom. One night I heard him making a noise, so I peeked into his bedroom. I thought he was dying. He was jerking off. I watched. I learned two things from watching my old man; how to feel something, and how to feel nothing. We never talked.”

“Never? Not even about school?”

“The day they put my momma in the ground, I learned to keep my mouth shut. Driving home from her burial I felt bad for him because tears were rolling down his face. No sound. Just tears. I was just a kid—a stupid kid. I said, ‘Don’t cry, Daddy. Momma’s with the angels.’ He swiped his hand over his face, and then he punched me.”

“The blow caused the back of my head to hit the window, hard. I remember seeing sparkles in front of my eyes as the coppery taste of blood ran down the back of my throat and hit my tongue. He threw his handkerchief at me. ‘Your momma committed a mortal sin and she’s in hell where she belongs, boy—and you damn well better not get blood on my seat!’”

“Jesus Christ.” Rage contorts Sam’s face, his skin flushing red as his eyes narrow.

“We spoke when my hormones started raging. My voice changed and so did I. Everything I did got on his nerves. In rehab counseling, I learned it was unconscious but intentional. When I got into trouble, I got his attention. I just wanted to get to a point where I could hurt him back and not feel a thing. One day we’d both had enough. I was bigger and stronger by then and I gave as good as I got. He never hit me again—and he never again cut me by using my mother’s death as a knife.”

“So, she didn’t die the way you told me?”

I spit out a laugh. “She was giving Rock n Rye to a three-year-old. Sadness took my mother. I was Gigi’s age when she made our ‘special tea’.”

“But why lie to me about her? Did you think I’d judge her?”

I answer him with a look and he fills in the blanks. “You did.”

I look away.

Disapproval shakes Sam’s head as his chin drops to his chest. A few seconds later, he looks up and stakes me dead in the eye. “I got one question: why’d you try to do yourself in?”

I look into his eyes and see nothing but genuine concern. “I don’t know. All I know is that my insides were hollow from scraping away the hurt.”

“What hurt?”

“Dash dying, I guess. He was my friend.”

“And you loved him.”

“I guess. I don’t know. I know that I hurt. That every day ripped through me.”

“Because you loved Dash.”

“Stop.” I shake my head and look away.

“Say it, Ian. You loved Dash.”

“Stop.”

“God damn it, Ian! Dash died and left you alone. Just like your mom?—"

“Oh, for fucks sake, yes! Happy? Everyone I ever loved left me. I hated them for leaving me—and I hated myself for being so goddamn self-centered that I couldn’t feel sorry that they died. Asshole Ian. Only thinking of himself. Total self-centered prick.” Ghoulish pain rises from a neatly stored, compartmentalized grave. “I couldn’t live with myself.”

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