Spoiler
I'm not quite sure I used 2nd person effectively, so I'd love some feedback on that. Any other critique is of course welcome!
Good Boy
You've always been a good boy.
--
When you were born, you didn't cry much. The doctors were worried at first, but after checking your vitals, they determined that you were just fine, and they handed you back to your mother. She held you languidly in her arms, a puzzled expression on her face. Claiming she was tired, she gave you back to a nurse. Your father stood beside the bed, hands trembling, and you could hear the metallic clang as the scissors fell to the floor.
You were carried away to be cleaned while your mother drifted off to sleep. As soon as she woke up, your mother asked to take a shower. Your parents didn't see you again until they were ready to leave.
They named you Jacob. If you were a girl, they were going to name you Vivian. They never told you this. You never asked.
--
When you were a baby, your mother never held you without reason. There was always a purpose—feeding you, burping you, carrying you up the stairs, picking you up to put you in your crib. Sometimes she looked at you on those rare occasions when you were cradled in her arms. That look was not of disdain or hatred. It was that of a woman looking at a nondescript object. Those eyes held no malice, and she took care of your basic needs without complaint.
Your hair had been brown when you were born, but it quickly darkened to a near-black color. You got your hair from your father. Your eyes remained blue, but they grew brighter—brighter than your mother's, whose eyes were a blue-gray. You liked to look at your mother's eyes. They would later remind you of the ocean—distant, frigid and unfathomable. Your mother found your fixation to be quite odd, but didn't stop you from staring at them, as long as you didn't reach out to touch her face.
--
When you were sixteen months old, you took your first steps on the living room carpet. Your father was the first one to see you. He shouted at your mother to get the camcorder while you waddled around crudely. The carpet was soft beneath your toes, and you relished the sudden height that standing up provided. Your mother was in the middle of a book, and she finished the page quickly before rushing to grab the camcorder. She recorded your first steps dutifully, while your father clapped appropriately in the background. Inevitably, you fell shortly after, but you didn't cry. You just smiled one last time for the camera.
The tape went missing years ago, after a heavy-duty spring cleaning. Your father expressed his disappointment for a few minutes, and then the matter was quietly forgotten.
--
When you were three and a half years old, your father repainted your room. It had been yellow before. Your parents had assumed, like most others, that yellow was a gender-neutral color. However, your father decided it was unfitting for a boy of your age. Your mother suggested blue. It was traditional. It was the color boys were supposed to like.
"What do you think, Jake?" your father asked, kneeling down to your level. His smile was like a doll's—stagnant and exaggerated—and he smelled like dirty machinery.
"What color?"
"Bwue," you said. You still had difficulties pronouncing 'L' properly. The neighbors cooed whenever you messed up.
"That's a good boy!" your father affirmed, ruffling your hair. Something in your chest soared, and wondered what the word for this feeling was.
--
When you were five years old, your mother stuck you in daycare. You got along well enough with other kids, though you always maintained a certain distance from them. Your unfamiliarity with physical contact unnerved some of them, but most got over it without a fuss. When the teacher told you to do something, you did it. The option to do otherwise never occurred to you.
One afternoon, just before the bell rang, your teacher told the class to pick up the crayons they had scattered around the room throughout the course of the afternoon. The rest of the kids ran out the door as soon as they heard the bell, but you stayed behind. Crouching down on the floor, you picked up as many crayons as you could see. From behind her desk, your teacher watched you, chuckling a bit.
"You're such a good boy, Jake!" she said, brown eyes aglow.
There it was again—that fluttering sensation. You wished it would last forever.
But it was interrupted by the arrival of your mother. She was a bit damp from the rain, and her hair was thoroughly windswept, but she had an air of dignity about her nonetheless. Once she saw you, she sighed in exasperation.
"There you are!" she exclaimed. The teacher looked at her expectantly, but your mother just grabbed you—gently—and led you out the door. On your way out, you grabbed the picture you had been working on. You looked back at the teacher and gave her a toothy grin.
When you got home, you presented your mother with the picture, blushing profusely. It was a rudimentary depiction of your family, and on the top, you had written, 'I love you, mommy and daddy!' in your illegible handwriting. Your teacher had helped with the spelling. The picture was bright and colorful and elaborate—you had spent most of the day working on it, while the other kids had gone on to create multiple pictures or just scribble mindlessly.
Your mother glanced at it and smiled. "That was very sweet of you, Jake," she said. "I'll put it on the fridge after your daddy gets home, okay?" Your eyes lit up in excitement, and you bounced around the house blissfully until your dad came home from work.
When he came through the door, your father was very quiet. His eyes had dark circles under them and his skin was paler than usual, but he spared a smile for you anyway.
The picture never went on the fridge. Your mother simply forgot. She had truly intended to put it up, but it just slipped her mind. You didn't remind her.
--
When you were six years old, your parents enrolled you in kindergarten. Your mother waited with you at the bus stop on the first day. You were so nervous that your hands began to sweat. Instinctively, you reached for your mother's hand. She batted it away.
"Your hands are all sweaty, Jake," she reprimanded. It was funny how faraway her voice sounded, even when she was standing right next to you. "Don't hold my hand with those." You looked down at your hands accusingly, as if your piercing glare would sufficiently dry them. When the bus screeched in front of the driveway, you kissed your mother on the cheek. It was something you'd seen in a book at daycare. After a moment's hesitation, your mother patted your head and waved to you as you climbed aboard.
You learned a lot in kindergarten. Every day, the teacher read part of a story to the class. It was your favorite part of the day, because you loved hearing the teacher's voice. A lot of the stories involved parents. The mommy and daddy always loved their child dearly. They hugged and kissed and said they loved each other and went out for picnics and took trips to the zoo. And they were always smiling. You wondered why your parents didn't smile much.
During recess, you liked to swing as high as possible on the swing set, or run around the outskirts of the playground until your lungs felt like bursting out through your chest. When you were swinging or running, your mind was in a haze. You thought of nothing but the destination, and the pain.
--
When you were seven years old, you voiced your concerns. It wasn't a decision so much as a compulsion, words you couldn't restrain yourself from voicing.
"Why don't we smile?"
Your parents were sitting at the dinner table, and had been discussing their jobs before you asked your question. They stared at you blankly for a moment. Your father recovered faster, and smiled.
"Of course we smile, Jake!" he insisted, widening his smile. "Why would you think we don't?" You shrugged and looked down at your plate.
"Mrs. Dinalo was reading a book to us, and the mommy and daddy in it smiled all the time and took their son places like the park," you said quietly, wishing you hadn't said anything. Your house was always quiet, but it had never been this silent before. It scared you, and you curled into yourself a bit as the air thinned around you. Your mother glared down at her own plate, and your father clenched his fork, a pained expression on his face.
"But that's okay!" you said urgently, painting a smile on your face. "I know you love me very much!" At this, your father stood up, hands shaking just as they had when you were born. Frowning, your mother watched him leave. You turned to her, choking back tears. "Did I do a bad thing?"
"No," your mother said thoughtfully, impaling a piece of chicken with her fork. She looked straight at you. "You didn't do anything wrong, sweetie." A smile crept over the corners of her lips.
There was a twisting in your gut, a hollowness in your chest, a burning in your throat. You stared at your father's empty seat for a long time, saying nothing.
In the morning, you woke up with your face lying on the table. Your father was standing behind you, stroking your hair. He didn't say anything to you, so you just pretended to sleep until he left.
--
When you were eight years old, your father left. You only knew this because you never saw him again. He had left a letter, addressed to you, but your mother burned it before you could see it. At the time, you wondered why the smell of ashes lingered in the air, but the thought was quickly tossed aside once you caught sight of your mother.
She was sitting at the dinner table, staring intently at your father's chair. It was empty. This wasn't so unusual—it was Tuesday afternoon. But you knew something wasn't right the moment you laid eyes on her. She looked wrong—that was all you could think, at first. You were always commended for your advanced vocabulary at school, but that was rendered useless then. Your mother just looked wrong.
You stepped closer to her, lightening your steps. You had always been good at being invisible, and that trait was quite useful now. Hesitantly, you placed your backpack on the floor. Your mother didn't notice you, transfixed by her own fist.
She looked like someone had snapped her in half and left her breathing somehow. A faint burn was forming at the edge of her dainty fingertips, and she was clenching her fist around something. Not a single hair was out of place, her makeup was elegantly applied, and her expression would have given no cause for alarm to anyone other than you. But you knew your mother, and you knew immediately that this was what a broken person looked like. This is what their faces looked like, this is what their eyes looked like, this is what their lips looked like, and this is what their jaws looked like.
"Mom?" you ventured, approaching her tentatively. The silence that followed choked you. Your mother merely glanced at you before returning her gaze to her fist. Unclenching it, she let some residue fall gracelessly to the floor.
"Good afternoon, Jacob," she trilled. Her voice was disconcerting, chilling in the way only nursery rhymes can be. But you were a brave boy—always had been—so you stood beside her and enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug. You had been told that if you hugged someone who loved you, that person would feel better—happy, even. A good boy hugs his mommy when she is sad.
"Mommy, what's wrong?" you asked, as she stiffened under your hold. This wasn't how it was supposed to go; you loosened your grip and hung your arms awkwardly around her, before letting them fall to your sides. The taste of failure sauntered on your tongue.
"When you set the table for dinner tonight," she began evenly, "you only need to set it for two. Daddy's not coming home tonight."
She told you that every day for about a week before you understood.
--
You did a lot of running after that first week. Your mother bought you some running shoes after you bled through your regular ones. Sometimes you ran five miles in a single day after school. You liked the scorching in your legs and the burning in your lungs. It was a nice distraction. All that mattered was going one step farther, you kept telling yourself. Just one more step. It was like a prayer to a god you didn't believe in but desperately wanted to.
Your grades improved. The desperation for a viable diversion sharpened your focus. Teachers approached you to commend you for your efforts after class. Dozens of papers decorated with stickers littered the kitchen table, untouched by your mother. Your friends seemed pleased with your enhanced social activity and invited you to their houses often. Denying them was always an awkward experience, but you knew better than to ask your mother for a ride, and you didn't want to leave her alone for longer than what was necessary.
You took over the main responsibilities of the house without complaint. Cleaning and cooking came easily to you, but you struggled with the shopping. All those aisles were so intimidating and you never knew where to start. So many people asked you where your mother was, and the looks they gave you when you said she was at home made you want to break something.
Your mother walked around the house as if she were haunted by her own shadow. All the blinds were closed tight and the windows were locked. The air was suffocating, and when you walked down the halls, you could have sworn you saw the walls inching closer together. Most of the light was provided by the static on the TV screen, which your mother sat in front of most of the time, a stack of empty beer cans at her side. The perpetual crackling noise drove you mad, and you often retreated to your room when the sound overwhelmed you.
But the worst sound of all was that of your mother's sobs. She held nothing back when she cried, utterly unrestrained. The times she went to the bedroom were the worst. Her wailing became unbearably loud, and sometimes went on for hours. Every time she cried, a knife dug itself deeper into your chest, twisting and turning mercilessly.
You were surprised when you first crept into the bedroom after that morning—it was so empty and barren without him. It was as if he hadn't been there at all—every trace of him was gone. In the back of your mind, you wondered how he'd managed to get everything out without waking you. Dismissing this thought, you slowly crawled under her bed. Letting the knife creep in deeper, you listened to her cry until she fell asleep. If your mother noticed you, she didn't say anything.
One time, you attempted to console her. You sat beside her on the couch, trying to ignore the repugnant stench of the empty beer bottles. Upon acknowledging your presence, she glanced in your direction, looking puzzled. Shaking a bit, you leaned against her shoulder. You had seen this in one of the big kid's books. Since hugs and kisses hadn't helped, you assumed that maybe minimal contact would work. However, your mother merely returned her attention to the screen. The smell of defeat vacillated in the air, but you remained beside her.
"I'm sorry," your mother said. Jumping a bit, you looked at her. She was crying silently for once, not even bothering to brush away the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"For what?" you asked, your voice wavering a bit. You hated the sound of your voice—so juvenile and pathetic—but your mother didn't seem to mind it. She leaned over and kissed you on the lips for the first time, crushing you in her embrace.
"For not giving you what you deserve," she whispered softly against your neck. You felt like crying, but you didn't, because good boys don't cry.
--
When you were nine years old, your mother stopped breathing.
The day had begun without any fuss. Outside, your neighbors were taking down their holiday decorations, bundled up in their heavy winter coats. You stared out the window at the snow, wishing that your coat from last winter still fit you. Although your legs were itching to run, it was simply too cold to go out for extended periods without proper clothing. So you had settled for staring out the window every day, watching people while your mother watched static.
You were roused out of your daily trance by the sound of your mother falling to the floor. The noise wasn't really that loud, but you felt it augment into a clamorous crash as it echoed inside your head. Running over to her crumpled body in front of the couch, you sank to your knees and began to shake her. Her skin was clammy and cold, and she looked like one of those dead bodies on TV—the ones that had been washed up from the ocean. Her mouth was open and her eyes bored into you like daggers. You had forgotten how beautiful her eyes were until now, and were reduced to staring helplessly at them. She reached out to brush her hand against your cheek. Her slow, unsteady breaths caressed your neck.
"Mom, are you okay?" you asked, leaning into her touch. Her head lolled to the side as she closed her eyes, and the hand pressed against your cheek drifted down to the ground quietly. You wanted to see her beautiful eyes again, so you tried to shake her awake.
"Mommy, please wake up," you pleaded. "Mommy, you need to wake up. Please, wake up." Looking around, you saw the stacks of beer cans and wondered if she'd drank all of them in one day.
You kept shaking her and calling out her name, over and over again. However, the throbbing in your knees and the scratching in your throat compelled you to stand up an hour later. You watched her chest not-rise and not-fall, and wondered when it had stopped.
You didn't notice that you were crying until the TV flickered off and all you could hear were your own sobs.
--
You've always been a good boy.
