Page 12 of Capturing Perfection

"Forget the adult terms for a moment; paint a picture of your childhood—what did it look like, feel like, smell like, sound like?"

"I can't remember the first time he hit me. The bruises were always just … there. If they faded and my flesh became less tender, it almost felt as though something was missing. The sound of screams through the walls would bleed into my dreams. The stench of rum still makes me gag. I've tried for years to forget the sound of his voice, and sometimes I think I've succeeded, but the words are branded into my brain."

"What words?"

"Cocksucker. Faggot. Retard. Worthless. One of his favorite phrases was 'out of my entire load I shot that night, I can't believe you were the one that landed.'"

"And your mother? What was her response when your father would use those words?"

"She had a Guinness Book level of selective hearing. When he acted human, she'd praise him for how loving and involved he was in our everyday lives, but when he'd spiral out of control, she put blinders on and disappear into a bottle. I know now that he had mental health issues, but as a child I didn't understand why one minute my father would hug me and the next I'd be ducking and dodging the baseball bat he kept in the closet."

"Of course you didn't. Having to navigate his mood swings must have been exhausting. Did you ever confide in a friend at school or teacher about what was happening at home?"

Logan scoffed. "Sure. Then I got sent to the principal's office for spreading lies about such a great man. A pillar of the community. I was acting out, seeking attention, jealous of his popularity because I was a reclusive kid with no friends. The first time DFC was called, I was seven. I'd been squirming in my seat at school because a scab on my back itched like crazy and the teacher caught sight of a bruise. They'd shown up at the house and it was a good day. He explained away the bruises as boyhood clumsiness. My mom played the Stepford Wife and even sprinkled in a few tears, admonishing the nosy educator when clearly I had two loving parents at home. That … that night he… he said if I wasn't smart enough to figure out how to hide the bruises on the outside, then he'd just have to put them on the inside. I din't know what he meant. Until I did."

"That's when the sexual abuse started?"

"Not immediately. In fact, we went through months where nothing happened. He didn't yell. He didn't hit either one of us. He'd go to work every morning and be at the dinner table every night. I still don't know if the change in his behavior was a tactic to lull us into a false sense of security or if he really got better for a while. But while he seemed to stabilize, my mom lost herself."

"What do you mean?"

Logan got up and paced Matt's office. "She'd always walked this line between loving and distant. But after DFC came to the house and nothing came of the visit, she crossed it completely. The casual motherly touches stopped. She never looked me in the eye anymore."

Logan tried to recall his mother's face, but she'd become this ghost. A wispy image without form in the recesses of his mind. He thought she used a coconut scented body wash and somekind of flowery shampoo, but even that could be something he made up over the years when he'd still tried to fill the gaps after she left him. He heard some low pitch mumbling and realized Matt was talking. Logan turned and glanced at the tablet to catch up on the conversation.

"Sorry, can you say that again?"

"I asked if you think the change in her behavior was driven by guilt."

Logan shrugged. "Guilt or apathy. Couldn't tell you which. I remember the last time she said the words 'I love you'." Matt gestured for him to continue and Logan sat back in the chair. "I was about to leave the house to get on the bus for school, and she hugged me as I went to open the door. I stiffened. It was so out of character at that point, I didn't know how to respond. She just said the words, then pushed me out the door. I went through the school day in an almost zombie-like awareness."

"What happened when you got home from school? Was she still affectionate or had she retreated again?"

"She was dead. I found her in a blood filled bathtub. The kitchen knife laid on the tiled floor. I picked it up and kept looking down at the knife and back at her. I leaned over the tub, and that's when my father walked in."

"I'm sorry, Logan. That's the kind of traumatic experience that shapes a young mind for the rest of their life."

"At least she escaped him. When she was there, even when she wasn't really present, she provided a … I don't know how to explain it. Energy in the house. After she was gone, there was just the two of us, and he … that's when it started."

"The rapes?"

Logan nodded. "It started out as him forcing himself into my mouth, but eventually … he would hold me down and, well, let's just say he made his promise come true. I bruised and bled on the inside more than the outside going forward."

"How did it come to an end?"

"I was twelve. It had been happening for four years, and one night I responded."

"In what way? Did you fight back?"

Logan shook his head. "I got hard. I mean, it had been happening spontaneously for a while, but that was the first time it happened because of stimulation. I snuck a hand down there and he lost his shit. He pulled out so fast that it startled me and before I could blink, his fist slammed into my face. He broke my cheekbone, two ribs, and my right arm that night. I wasn't supposed to have pleasure from what he did. He was delivering punishment. When he stopped, I heard him say 'Well shit'. I couldn't actually see him because my eyes had swelled shut, but he dragged me out of bed, threw me in the car and dumped me at the entrance to the ER."

"That's when they placed you in foster care?"

"Never saw him again."

"And when you met Clay?"

"Eventually. Spent some time in a children's facility because I was pretty fucked up. Had some trust issues." He smiled. "This isn't my first stint in therapy. Spent a couple of years talking and not talking about my feelings. With the help of the staff psychiatrist, I got to a point where they deemed me stable enough to be placed in a foster home. That's where I met Clay."

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