As
the sweat drips down his voluminous jowls, I can’t help but to
stare in partial disgust as I tap the end of my pencil to my chin.
How can he just let it accumulate like that? Has he no shame? The
clock ticks, all too loudly, penetrating my brain with every tock.
Tick.
Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick tock goes the clock. Tick. Tock.
“Are
you almost done, Oliver?” Dr. Samuels asks, leaning over my
desk and dripping his translucent perspiration on the edge of the
table. “It’s okay if you need more time.”
“Hm?”
I avoid meeting his steel-gray eyes. “Oh, yeah. Almost done.”
I stare back at the questionnaire and bite the eraser of my pencil.
Tick.
Tock.
I
pretend to scribble something on the paper, biting my lip for effect.
Dr. Samuels sighs and begins to write something down on the legal pad
he always has with him. I eye him with suspicion. “What are you
writing?” I ask.
“Are
you done with the questions yet?” Dr. Samuels asks instead.
I
frown. “No…” I continue scraping the tip of my
pencil against my paper lightly. I hate these questionnaires that he
gives me. They always say the same thing. “How are you? Are you
feeling better? Has anything in your life changed? Are you happy at
home?” In the beginning, I would always put the same thing on
these papers, so, after about three times, I stopped filling them
out. Dr. Samuels hates that, but I don’t really care. If he
wanted a different result, he would stop giving me these damn
surveys.
I
hand Dr. Samuels the sheet of paper and lean back in my seat,
brushing my dark hair out of my eyes. I arch my eyebrows at him as he
balls up the paper and tosses it in the trashcan. He mops his face
with a handkerchief. Finally.
“Do
you enjoy wasting my time, Oliver?”
“What?”
“Do
you enjoy wasting my time?” he repeats, his eyebrows knitting
together tightly.
“No.”
“It
seems like it. I can’t help you if you don’t cooperate
with me. I made the questionnaire so you can communicate with me
better.”
What
type of bullshit is that? We both know that he doesn’t want to
actually talk to me. It’s his job. That’s why he doesn’t
make an effort, not that I care. It’s not my fault that he’s
a lazy fuck.
“Oliver,
do you want to get better?”
I
don’t reply.
“Oliver.”
What
does he know about me anyway? Nothing. That’s what. He knows
nothing about me.
“Can
I leave? I want to go home.”
“No,
you still have,” he checks his watch, “thirty-five
minutes until our session is over.”
“Well,
I think I’m done.” I stand from my chair and head towards
the door.
“Your
choice. I’m still getting paid either way.”
Ass-hole.
I
walk out the door without a single glance back. My mom is sitting in
the waiting room, reading. She looks up as I walk towards her.
“Done
already?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer. I
leave around this time every week, without fail. I don’t know
why she even bothers bringing me anymore.
“Yeah.”
She closes her book, tucks it away in her purse, and stands up,
hoisting her bag over her shoulder. I follow her out the door,
stuffing my hands in my pockets and staring at the aglets of my
shoelaces as they flop at my ankles. Once in the car (an old, rusted
station wagon with tattered cloth seats and a disintegrating steering
wheel), I kick off my shoes and put my feet on the dash.
Mom
glances at me, opening her mouth in preparation to protest, but
thinks better of it. “Did you and Dr. Samuels have a good
talk?” she asks instead, starting the car engine. She winces
against the noise.
“The
greatest.” I lean against the window and close my eyes. The
coolness of the glass soothes my skin. “You know, you don’t
have to bring me anymore. I’m fine.”
“No,
you aren’t, Ollie. You know that as well as I do.” I put
my hands over my ears as she begins the “I’m doing this
for you” speech that she drags out of her ass every chance she
gets. How she works two jobs to pay for my therapy and medication.
How my younger brother Michael can’t play football and soccer
because I decided to have a nervous breakdown, and my hospitalization
put a strain on her finances. How she’s not going to stop
taking me to see Dr. Samuels until I get better.
I
watch the pedestrians walking past us when we pause at a stoplight.
Mom’s voice still drones on and on, but I ignore her words,
having memorized her usual phrases. My eyes settle on a father
carrying his son on his shoulders. The child hugs the father’s
head, smiling happily as he plants a kiss on his cheek. I look away.
The
next day, sitting on my bed at home, I put my hands on my knees,
curling the hem of my shorts underneath my fingers. I begin shaking
uncontrollably as the flood of images rapidly flashes in my brain.
Dad.
Dead. Dad. Dead. Dead. Dad. Dead.
I
was five when I found him. I wanted to play catch in the backyard,
and I was looking for him in the house. When I walked into my
parents’ room, there he was, swinging from the closet doorway.
His neck was rubbed raw from the rope, his hazel eyes glazed over and
lifeless against his pallid skin. I remember walking up to him and
shaking his leg, asking if he was ready to go play. When he didn’t
respond, I thought he was playing, like he always would. But, when
Mom came in from putting my then-toddler-aged brother down for a nap,
she screamed, running over to him and pulling him down from his
noose. I tottered over to her, still clutching my baseball glove, and
asked her what was wrong. What was wrong with my daddy?
She
didn’t answer right away. Instead, she sobbed uncontrollably,
cradling my father’s head against her chest. She cried and
cried. And cried. And cried. The alarm clock resting on Dad’s
side of the bed ticked on, marking every second. Tick.
Tock.
It didn’t fully register with me until I saw that there was no
way that my father was waking up again.
Dad
was dead.
Dad
was never coming back.
Dad
was dead.
Tick.
Tock.
Mom
was angry for a long time Angry at Dad. Angry at my brother and me
for not understanding. Angry at my father for killing himself and
leaving her with my brother and me, alone. She began to neglect me
and Mikey in favor of a bottle of vodka. Then, my grandmother came to
help for a long time. I don’t even remember when she came and
when she left. Mom cleaned up eventually, for the time being, and
there was no need for Nana to stay with us anymore. Years passed, and
we moved on. Mom recently started drinking again when the panic
attacks started becoming more frequent.
Baseball
was the one thing that made me feel close to him. He and I both loved
the sport, and he would always tell me that I was going to be the
best, that I was going to be the greatest there ever was. Of course,
now I know that those words really meant nothing, but, back then, I
believed him every time he said it. After he died, I played
religiously. I made Nana take me to the batting cages whenever she
could, and would hit balls for as long as she would let me. When I
could walk by myself, I would stay there for hours on end, returning
home when either I would run out of change or when the owners kicked
me out.
When
I started high school, I was more than excited to join the junior
varsity baseball team. I could finally connect with my father, whom I
hardly remembered. I was desperate to feel as though I could be close
to him, even though I didn’t know him that well. When I began
to forget what he was like, Mom—when she was sober—would
tell me stories about how kind he was, and how much he loved my
brother and me. He would take me to get ice cream every time after
going to the batting cages, and he would stay up at night reading and
singing to Mikey. I never understood how a man that was supposedly so
happy could commit suicide and leave his family behind. Mom was the
only one that read his suicide note, and she promptly ripped it up
afterwards out of a mixture of anger and sadness. I never asked her
why he did it, as much as I wanted to know. I figured I just wasn’t
supposed to.
Baseball
tryouts went well. I made the team. But, when it came time for the
first game, that’s when the flashbacks started. Dad giving me
baths. Dad parking in front of the house and not letting me get out
of the car. Dad touching me. This
is how to be a man, son. Dad
telling me not to tell Mom. This’ll
be our little secret, alright? Dad
swinging from the closet doorway. Dead.
Dad. Dead. Dad. Dad. Dead.
I
broke down at the first baseball game of the season, collapsing on
first base, shaking and holding my head as an influx of memories
bounced around my brain like ping pong balls. Apparently, this wasn’t
the first time this happened. I would get the visions in dreams when
I was eight, but, after they went away for a long time, I forgot
about them. No one knows why the memories come and go like this. It
was suggested by one psychiatrist that I repressed the memories so I
wouldn’t spoil the good image of my father I had built in my
mind. I don’t know what the right answer is, and I don’t
really care. I just want everything to stop. I want to be normal
again.
I
don’t want to be the kid whose child-molester father committed
suicide. I just want to go to school, graduate, and be normal.
I
press my fingers into my temples, gripping the bottoms of my cheeks
with shaking thumbs. The constant chattering going on in my head is
deafening; I don’t even notice Mikey walk in. Dad.
Dead. Touch. Dead. Dad. Rope. Dad. Touch. Dead. Tick. Tock. Dad.
Tick. Dead. Tock.
“Ollie?”
Mike says quietly. “Oliver?”
I
don’t respond, but close my eyes against the noise of my mind.
“Mom!”
Mikey shouts above the noise. I see him run out of the room in my
peripherals, but I don’t dare move. I don’t dare call
after him to come back. To tell him that I’m fine. To tell him
that I don’t need the medication. The tranquilizers. I
don’t need them. I don’t need them.
“Oliver!”
Mom appears, forcefully putting the pills in my mouth followed by
water. I fight against it, knocking the cup of water from her hands.
I spit the pills from my mouth and roll away. Mikey straddles me on
the ground, pinning me by the shoulders (although he’s two
years younger, he’s significantly bigger than I am, being about
five inches taller and weighing fifty pounds more).
“Calm
down, Ollie. It’s okay,” he says. I take deep breaths, my
chest heaving with every intake of oxygen. My vision becomes clearer,
my mind sharper. Mikey lets me sit up, his hands still on my
shoulders, while Mom hands me my medicine. I down the pills and water
and succumb to the effects of Valium.
Tick…Tock…
I
slip into a sleepy hazeafter
a few minutes, reduced into a sloppy heap on the floor while Mikey
mops up the water. Mom sits on the floor next to me, her arms curled
around her knees as she watches me closely. She’s saying
something to Mikey, but I can’t hear her. It sounds like she’s
underwater. She and Mikey look strange, all weird and fuzzy. Looking
at them makes me even sleepier. I close my eyes, tucking my arms
under my head and drifting into an easy slumber.
***
Ping.
Ping. I
hit the balls against the net as hard as I can, careful to maintain
form. The sound of the baseballs hitting my metal bat is music to my
otherwise deaf ears. The ill-fitting baseball helmet squeezes my head
so tightly that my vision is blurred, but I don’t care. I
needed to come here today.
Mom
is in another one of her moods. The ones when she spends her Saturday
in the bathtub with a few bottles of wine and a book she won’t
read. She gets like this whenever I have an episode, and it usually
leads to Mikey refusing to speak to her for a couple of days. He
doesn’t understand. I would be the same way if my son was
messed up like I am.
Ping.
Ping. The
balls stop coming, and I drop my bat against the hard concrete. It
clatters unceremoniously, and I immediately regret dropping it so
harshly. I lean it against the chain-linked fence and drag off my
helmet, trembling slightly as the blood rushes to my head. Mikey is
standing outside of the entrance/exit, holding the world’s
tiniest baseball bat in one hand and his old baseball helmet in the
other. When he was younger, before he discovered his love for
football and soccer, I would force him to play baseball and come to
the batting cages with me. When he became old enough to have
opinions, he demanded that I stop making him come.
“What
are you doing here? You hate baseball.”
“Thought
you would want some company.” He brushes past me into the cage
and drops a few quarters in the machine. He swaps his bat for mine
and stands on the plate. He puts on his child-sized helmet and hoists
his bat up to his shoulder. I pick up his bat, prop it between my
legs, and lean against the entryway.
“Still
fighting with Mom?” I ask, spinning my helmet in my hands. “You
gotta talk to her eventually.”
“I
don’t like the way she acts whenever you have an attack. She
has no right to do what she does.”
I
shrug. “I’d do the same thing if I was her. I can only
imagine how hard it is to deal with me.”
“It’s
not your fault, though.” Ping.
“Sure
it is. I could’ve kept myself from becoming this
fucked
up.” I touch my head to the fence, staring at the oncoming
baseballs as they approach Mikey’s bat. “I wish I could
be better for her, you know? She doesn’t need this.”
“It’s
not
your fault, Ollie. You didn’t do anything wrong.” The
balls stop coming, and he turns to look at me, dragging the helmet
off his head. “She has no right to drink herself into a stupor
because you’re ‘fucked up.’ That’s not what
mothers are supposed to do.”
I
look down at my shoes and bite my lip. “You don’t know
what’s going through her head. This is probably so painful for
her, especially since she had almost gotten over losing Dad. I-I
bring up bad memories.”
Mikey
rolls his eyes at me. “I think that’s just an excuse for
her to get drunk.” He puts a couple more quarters into the
machine and pulls the helmet back on.
“When
did you become so insensitive?” I ask with a sigh.
“Just being real, big brother.” Ping.
I
turn my face and look at the father and son in the cage next to us.
The father is coaching the boy, who is approximately seven or eight
years old, guiding him through the motions of hitting the baseball.
Pressing my cheek against the metal of the gate, I feel a stab of
envy. That kid will probably get more years of doing this with his
father. His dad will show up to his games, tell him the same, tired,
cheesy jokes, and buy him his first car. His dad will be there for
his graduation. His dad will be there for all of his milestones, and
what do I get? A miserable drunk of a mother and an overprotective
younger brother.
“C’mon,
Oliver. Let’s go get some lunch,” Mikey says. He puts his
hand on my shoulder and smiles. I don’t want his sympathy, but
I follow him anyway.
“What
is wrong
with
you?!” my mother screams at me, chucking her frying pan
straight at my head. It crashes to the ground loudly. “Why
can’t you be normal,
like Mikey?”
I
simply stare back at her in shock, while Mikey rushes to my defense.
“Don’t
talk to him like that! Why do you have to be such a heartless
bitch?!”
Mom recoils into herself. Her eyes glimmer for a moment, and she
takes a step back, the wine bottle in her hand dropping to the floor
and spilling its sanguine liquid onto the dark wood. She sways for a
moment before leaning against the kitchen counter. She reaches for
the bottle of scotch resting next to the stove. She never touches the
scotch; it was Dad’s. It was Dad’s favorite scotch. Dad.
Dead. Dead. Dad.
Tick.
Tock.
I
glance up at the clock positioned above the dining table, avoiding
the tension flaming in the room. I begin blinking rapidly, nausea
rattling my stomach.
“Why
are you behaving like this, Mikey? Why are you being so mean to your
Mommy?” Mom asks with a pout, unscrewing the top of the scotch
bottle.
“Because
you’re a drunk.” Mikey snatches the bottle from her hand
and screws the top back on tightly. “And, you’re a
terrible excuse for a mother.”
“Mike…”
I reach out to tug on his sleeve. The clock begins ticking louder and
louder, the cartoon chickens dancing in the background seeming to
laugh louder with each passing second.
“Not
now, Oliver. Let me handle this.”
Nausea
becomes replaced by rage. “I don’t want
you
to handle anything! I can take care of myself!”
“Ha!
You can’t do shit,”
Mom says, picking up her wine bottle and taking a long draught. She
continues laughing, sinking to the ground and taking more swallows of
alcohol. “You’re worthless.
I should’ve aborted you when I had the chance.” She
laughs again, the loudest, cruelest, most boisterous cackle that
slaps me right in the face and numbs by entire body.
Tick.
Tock.
Mike
begins shouting insults at our mother, his face purpling with anger
as it splotches on his face. Mom fights back. I kneel down to stare
into my dark reflection in the spilled red wine. I don’t like
what I see.
What
happened to me? I don’t recognize the face in the reflection.
The permanent dark rings beneath my eyes. The oily mop of hair
plastered against my acne-riddled forehead. The sunken-in cheeks
turned sallow from the combination of malnutrition and medication.
Tick.
Tock.
I
am worthless.
All
I ever do is cause her grief. What have I done to help lately? I
can’t get a job because of the panic attacks. I lost all of the
people I care about because I went off the wall. I lost my friends,
most of my family, my girlfriend. And, when Mom’s not drunk,
she’s working, working hard to pay for my mistake. She makes
Mikey play community sports, because, when he’s not playing, he
wants to work to take care of us. I told him not to bother, because I
need him to make sure that I’m okay.
Is
that selfish of me? I shouldn’t be holding him back. I should
be making sure that he goes to practice, that he has his uniforms
ready. I should be out in the backyard, practicing with him. I should
be talking to him about his girlfriend, who he refuses to bring to
the house on account Mom and me being batshit crazy.
Tick.
Tock.
While
Mom and Mikey continue exchanging insults and banter, I stand up and
back out of the kitchen. I trudge up the stairs, my heart pounding in
my chest, and I lock myself in my room.
Tick.
Tock.
It’s
Dad’s fault. It’s all
Dad’s fault. Dad’s fault. He did this to me. It’s
Dad’s fault.
TICK!
TOCK! TICK! TOCK!
Why is it mocking me? The clock I have against my wall? What did I
ever do to it?
TICK!
TOCK!
My
bottom lip trembles, but I bite it to keep it still. I miss those
distant days when my mother was happy. I miss the days before that
first attack, when I was Mikey’s caretaker, shielding him from
Mom and the effects of the bottle.
Dad’s
fault.
I
hate him for turning me into this. I hate him for leaving me. I hate
him for leaving my family. For turning my mom into a drunk. For
turning Mikey into the older brother, when it should be me. I hate
him for molesting me. For damaging me. For driving me insane. For
ruining my life. I hate him. It’s all his fault.
Tick.
Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tickticktickticktickticktick.
Hot
tears burn my eyes, and I shut my lids against the pain. The hot
liquid seeps between my closed eyelids, running down my face. Make
it stop, make it stop. I
curl up in a fetal position, my knees tight against my chest. I
teeter upwards and begin to rock back and forth. I choke on my sobs
as they come, begging for the memories to cease as they flood my
brain. I begin to shake. Desperate gasps escape from my lips as I
squeeze my eyes shut.
Dead.
Dad. Dead. Dad. Dad. Dead. Tick. Tock.
His
bulging eyes. The redness around his neck from the stress of the
rope. Asphyxiated blue face. Crisp, navy church suit stained with the
blood from his wrists and neck.
Someone
make them stop.
I
sit up, and with a trembling hand, I reach for my anxiety medication.
I pour out the rest and stare down at the little blue pills, tears
continuing to well in my eyes. I’ll
show him. He can’t make me miserable for the rest of my life.
I’ll show him.
I
scarf down the tablets, every last one, and wait. Wait for death to
grip me. Wait to be released from this hell of a life that I’ve
been living. Wait to be free.
I slide down onto the floor and
wait. The images in my mind slow to a stop, and my eyes begin to
droop. I’m so overcome with tiredness that I tip over, my head
banging against the floor, although I barely feel the impact. I give
a shuddering sigh. Then, I seize. I’m shaking and trembling on
the ground as my head rattles against the floor.But,
I can’t help but to smile. I’m finally getting the
reprieve I want. I’m going to be free from this horror that is
my life.
Pain
shoots up my spine, a sharp, stabbing pain that rests in the base of
my neck and spreads through my skull. I blink, my vision becoming
more blurry with each tremble. A calming darkness floods my vision,
and the last thing I hear is the door being kicked down as my brother
stumbles into the room. I smile at the darkness. I’m ready to
go. For the first time, the clock ticking in my head chimes,
signaling a new hour.
Points: 561
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