Page 37 of Desire

Chapter 28

The young boy sat cross-legged on the living room floor playing his video game while he waited for his mother to finish cooking his favorite meal, spaghetti and meatballs. He had been riding his bike outside earlier and had removed his shirt due to the stifling heat and was wearing only shorts to help cool off.

He jumped when the crash of the backdoor slamming open sounded from the kitchen, followed by a gruff yell. “Goddamn it. You’re not done cooking yet, you stupid bitch?” He’d been conditioned to fear that voice. His heart rate spiked; his palms began to sweat, and tremors racked his body. There was no use hiding. It only made the punishments worse. Best to wait it out and “take it like a man” as he’d been told time and time again. Besides, if it wasn’t him, it would be his mother. And he would do whatever he could to protect her.

He’d started growing taller when he turned thirteen last month, but he was still skinny as a rail. Every few nights he would sneak downstairs and eat a little bit of everything. Not enough that someone would notice how much was missing, but enough that he took in more calories in an attempt to grow big and tall so he could protect his mother. But it was no use. No matter how much food he snuck when no one was looking, he was still too small and weak to do anything but survive.

It all started five years ago when his stepfather hurt himself on the job. He started drinking to ease the pain. Once he was healed he went back to work, but didn’t stop drinking. He lost job after job because he was drunk. The boy’s mother had always been a stay-at-home mom, even before his father died. She had no resources and no way to raise a child, so she said yes to the first man who offered to take care of her. The boy didn’t resent her for the choices she’d made.

At first, only his mother had been the recipient of his stepfather’s blows. A slap for dinner being late or his clothes not pressed to his liking. The boy, then only eight, tried to intervene, but was then also punished. It began escalating after that. His stepfather drank even more heavily at night and the tiniest infraction set him off. Soon, open-handed slaps turned into fists. Then belts and a few kicks here and there.

When things got really bad, punishments resulted in deep, jagged wounds from belt buckles, small burn scars from cigarettes that marred the boy’s chest and back, and striped marks from a switch wielded by a rage-driven hand. The boy never told anyone. Not teachers and not friends who had slowly stopped coming over to play. He was too ashamed and scared. His stepfather threatened to kill his mother if he told. The boy wasn’t willing to take that chance. He would do whatever it took to protect her, even accept punishments on her behalf. In the end, though, it hadn’t mattered.

Raised voices and then the crack of flesh against flesh sounded from the kitchen, along with a woman’s muffled cry. The boy jumped up and raced to the other room, fearful more for his mother than for himself. He skidded to a halt just inside the door. His mother cowered on the floor holding her face, the redness evident through her fingers.

“Leave her alone,” the boy yelled. His stepfather’s head snapped in his direction, and he could smell the alcohol in the air. The man laughed maniacally, sending chills down the boy’s spine.

“What are you going to do about it, boy?” The man taunted, stumbling drunkenly toward the boy. Something inside him snapped at that moment. He’d had enough. He charged the drunkard, ignoring the possible consequences, and head-butted him directly in the gut. The air escaped the man with on “oomph”, but caused no more damage than that. Unfortunately, it now left the boy vulnerable and within arms’ reach.

Fingernails dug deep into the boy’s biceps and he was thrown to the ground in front of the stove. A solid kick to the ribs caused him to cry out in pain. “You little fucker,” the man screamed, spittle spewing from his mouth. With the next kick came a cracking noise. The boy huddled in the fetal position cradling his body with his own scrawny arms that offered no protection.

An inhuman scream echoed and a resounding groan bellowed in the air, followed by the sounds of pounding on flesh. The boy looked up to see his mother’s useless fists punching the man’s back, screams of outrage pouring from her mouth. The man threw the woman off of him, turned, and backhanded her. She fell to the floor next to the broken boy.

The man towered over them, an inferno of hatred blazing from his eyes. “You’re both fucking useless,” he bellowed. “You,” he pointed to the crying, cowering woman, “can’t cook for shit. I’ve told you that dinner was to be ready before I got home, and you can’t even fucking get that right.”

In his rage, he grabbed the pot of boiling water on the stove and dumped it over the pair. They both wailed from the torturous pain that riddled their bodies. The boy received the worst of it and the smell of blistered and burnt flesh permeated the air.

I bolted upright in bed, gasping at the memory while the scars on my back burned. I blinked, slowly orienting myself to my surroundings while wiping the sweat out of my eyes. I glanced down at the sleeping woman next to me, hoping there would be no need to explain why I disturbed her slumber. As luck would have it, Bridget remained oblivious to the mental torment happening right next to her. I couldn’t believe she was really here.

God, my throat was dry. I quietly crept out of bed and into the attached bathroom. After running a washcloth under cold water, I wiped away the dried sweat on my face. My reflection stared back at me as I braced my hands on the sink, breathing in deep, calming breaths. Eventually, my heart rate decreased, but I knew there would be no more sleep for me tonight.

I turned out the bathroom light and made my way back to bed, carefully climbing back in, trying not to disturb Bridget. I put my hand under my head and stared at the ceiling still chasing the memories away. Bridget shifted next to me, and I held my breath, hoping she’d stay asleep. Apparently, luck wasn’t with me tonight as her eyes blinked open. She shifted closer to me and rested her arm across my chest. As she came more awake, a frown marred her face.

“Your heart is racing. What’s wrong?”

I immediately started to deny that anything was wrong, but after last night, I knew I needed to start being more open with her. Old habits were hard to break though.

“Just an old nightmare. It sneaks up on me once in a while. I’m sorry I woke you.” I turned onto my side so we were face-to-face, and brushed the hair out of her eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She caressed my chest, drawing tiny circles right above my heart. It felt strange to have skin-to-skin contact with someone, and I knew it would take a while before I got used to the sensation. Bridget leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on my lips that was a balm to my soul. “You don’t have to, you know. But I want to take away your pain and help ease your burdens. I want to be the person you rely on the most. And from the sounds of it, this nightmare is a burden. I’m not pushing you though. If you want to talk about it, I’m here for you, no matter what, Connor. Always. I love you.”

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