Page 47 of Babalon

Nothing.

“Please Mama?”

I don’t like the silence; it’s always like this after daddy leaves.

I have to wait for her to wake up before I can leave my room and get a snack, I feel safer with her. I love snack time; it makes my tummy sound like a doggy. It makes grrr noises and feels weird, but I know that means it needs yummies. But I must wait, like a good boy.

Pushing away from mommy, I crawl over to my toy car that daddy kicked when he threw her in here with me. Sitting with my knees under me, I reach for it and start running the wheels across the brown carpet. Making vroom sounds while I picturedriving it fast down the road and over the hills so it can jump. If I ever grow up, I want a car like this one.

It is red with what daddy calls a ‘spoiler’ on the back. It looks like a big fish fin and reminds me of whales.

I like whales.

I play for a little while, but mommy still isn’t making sound. The sun outside has gotten dark, making the room hard to see in, but I can hear her breathe. She’s just sleeping, mommy is tired, always tired.

My tummy is starting to make the grrr sound again, but she isn’t awake yet and that makes me sad. Pushing up from the floor, I walk over to the mattress and drop down on it, hoping it shakes her enough to wake up, but when it doesn’t, I scowl.

“Mommy, wake up!”

Maybe if I am loud, she will open her eyes, and I can have food. Sometimes we go more than one sun and one moon before we have more food. My tummy hurts then, and I make myself sick when I eat so fast because I’m hungry.

I don’t know when daddy got home, but when my bedroom door slams open, light pours into the room, and I jump back away from her, looking over at his shadow. It’s scary—tall and fat—like it will gobble me up if it touches me.

“Daddy, she won’t wake up.”

“I know you dumb shit.”

He stomps over to us, then, leaning over, he grabs her by the arm and yanks her off the bed, and smacks his hand on her face. Sometimes that works, other times he pours water on her which gets my bed all wet and makes it cold to sleep on.

“Clara, wake up! You have a fucking child to take care of.”

Mommy groans just then; a little bit of life finally shown in her hand as her finger's wiggle.

“Mommy!”

“You worthless whore, up and at it. I’m not feeding this little leech. I suggest you get up and do it or he’s going to starve tonight.”

No, not again. I want noodles.

16 years old

It’s been a few years since mom passed away; we moved into a local church within a year of her death. Dad has been so focused on becoming a man of God that he pays me little to no attention, almost as if I ceased to exist. I doubt ignoring your son is part of the commandments, but what I do know is that ‘honor thy father’ is somewhere in our Christian teachings, so I force myself to remember that.

There are days where I wish I was part of another family, or in a family where at least one of my parents care about me enough to ask where I am going at random times, or how I am faring in school. But I’m not and no one at the church cares enough to inquire.

Truth is, school sucks.

Though he’s not the best parent, we haven’t moved in years, and I’ve been able to find some friends. And feel somewhat relieved that there are people who care about me in my life. I don’t get to spend much time with them outside of school, which is trash, so I make sure to get as much time with them while we are in class. I will say that they keep my sane but that would be a lie.

The church is also trying to help me out with a free counselor since dad is now leading the congregation. That’s where Isit now, slouching down on this pristine white couch in the counselor’s office. My hoodie, two sizes too big, blankets me in the only warmth I have ever known. The hood itself drapes over my head to shield my eyes from the glaring light, my untamed greasy black strands poke from the hem of it further blocking the rays. I wear a ripped band t-shirt underneath that I stole from a thrift store, a pair of holey jeans which have seen better days, and a pair of worn-out boots. This is what people usually find me in, and Father hates it, but it’s comfortable and allows me a little identity outside of being the ‘preacher’s son.’

“Lucien, the deal was you come in here to talk, not to brood.”

“I didn’t ask to be here, so why would I agree to those terms?”

“Because it is counseling in your home, the church, or you see a psychologist. Take your pick.”

“Will the church give me a ride, or do I have to walk? Because the way I see it, I’m here so you look good to my dad.”

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