The Sin of the Father

I Chess

There was a moan downstairs. A thundering moan. A moan that shook the puddles on the hardwood floor.

I wanted to apologize to the flooding floorboards, but I couldn’t do it. Not because they were inhuman; all ground screams when it’s stepped on.

I didn’t want to hurt them again.

That’s why they were crying. The floorboards were crying because I stepped on them.

Like I stepped on my father’s cigarette that day…

Like I stepped on my late mother’s necklace that week…

Like I stepped on my brother’s head on that hour…

I assume that’s where the moaning was coming from. I can see him right now.

On the tile in the kitchen, covering his blood-stained head with his beaten arms, lost in breath, his dried tears serving as a shield. He’s always somewhere out of the real world. That’s what drinking does…it helps to escape.

One reason Father beat him.

The beatings were endless; it’s been ‘bout a couple years since my brother had his first beer. It was at a football game…it wasn’t even beer… it wasn’t even much of a root beer. Just a coke from the concession stand at our school.

It was only a can of soda. It wouldn’t hurt anyone, he said.

Father never believed him; Father never believed in drinking anything other than water. Too selfish, too sinful, a disregard of self-control. He accused his eldest son of lies.

I should had said something. It wouldn’t had hurt no one . . . other than me. Father didn’t accept protecting the guilty either.

Then, I saw every night after his whippings…my brother would drink the bottles of wine – flavor diluted, glass in a coat of dust – to dull the pain.

It became an addiction. Father caught him at midnight, passed out in a pool of cheap champagne. My brother’s punishment worsened….the whippings became an addiction for Father. I remembered there were traces of red in the see-through alcohol when Father demanded me to clean the crap up.

One then I learned then was that everyone lies. So, I don’t blame Father for believing no one. Just mostly out of fear.

Father came home at one in the morning. He grumbled something to himself and pulled off his belt before walking up the stairs. Even though I couldn’t see nor hear it, I just knew. It happened when he arrived late from work.

Always.

The first step he puts on the oak stair made a thump. The buckle of the belt swung wildly behind him a jingling noise.

Thump. Jingle. Thump. Jingle. THUMP. JINGLE.

Father mumbled something else when he reached the top. I saw him in front of my doorway. He stripped off his faded red coat, then a yellow dress shirt, and then some cocoa-colored slacks.

Three ice cream flavors Father loves: Strawberry, Vanilla, Chocolate.

He threw the belt on the end of my bed. It narrowly missed the sole of my foot.

As Father straightened the waistband of his boxers, I accidentally glance into the eyes of Father. My blood grew cold.

He had a bad day.

Deep brown. No matter his mood the facade of warmth in those eyes would attract anyone who didn’t know him. When I last saw them, they were deep black. He had dark circles. His eyelids sagged.

The gleam in his eyes were of pure detachment. Not like himself.

A dog’s eyes when it’s threatened . . . scared.

Father lumbered off to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. I already knew what to do.

I took the belt by its silver buckle and stepped outside to the hallway. Ignoring the clothes spread across the floor, I headed down the stairs.

There were no thumps, no jingles. Last thing I needed to do was to wake Father. Unless it was for the job I had to do.

My bother sat Indian-style – and eerily quiet – on the kitchen floor. He was already in what Father calls his “punishment garb”: a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else. The scars on his back cross over each other in lattice. Tic-tac-toe with a red Crayola marker.

It reminded me of a criminal during biblical times…before they were crucified.

“Make it go quick,” he whispered. Father said he was not allowed to talk before his punishment.

“You say that every time,” I replied. “But you know I have to time this.”

He nodded slightly, and our jaws clenched simultaneously. I picked up the timer on the kitchen counter.

Ten minutes. The silver buckle had never felt so cold.

I closed my eyes. I swung the belt. But I struck nothing.

Something hit me.

The first blow knocked me back, and I had to use the countertop as support. In order to keep me from being the victim. The second blow forced me to the tile, along with cracking the granite. The third blow incapacitated me.

I forgot that even though I was the meatier one, my brother had the advantage of speed, height, and age.

He tried to pry the belt from my hand, but I wouldn’t let him; however, I was weakening. I could hardly move, and I struggled to keep air in my lungs.

What if I wasted all my strength and he still got the belt?

Would I die?

As my moist fingers loosened around the buckle, I hollered for help.

I hollered out of fear. I hollered when he had the belt.

He swung for my mouth. My forearm caught the blow. I yelped and tried to roll to the living room.

He jumped on me anyway. I swore I felt something pop in my back.

My brother, or whatever the heck was attacking me, wrapped a towel across my face. I tasted pubic hair.

It would take more than a towel to muffle me.

“Screw you,” my brother hissed.

He squeezed my legs between his thighs. The whipping started.

Crack…crack…crack…crack…

The pain burned. I felt hot blood creeping down my back and onto the tile. My body wanted to curl up into a ball, and my eyes wanted to spring tears. I wished I had that shield.

But I wasn’t my brother. The desire – the instinct – to retaliate was far more powerful in my heart than imagining that it would be all better.

I wanted him to die. But I never wanted to hurt him in the first place.

The physical side of me didn’t care.

I kicked my feet up. I swung my arms wildly. I even tried to flip over on my stomach. Anything to get him off me so I could kill him.

I kicked him in his most vulnerable spot, and he writhed in pain, relieving his hold of my legs the slightest bit. It was enough to escape.

Reaching up to the shattered countertop, my fingers wrapped around the nearest object. My brother was beginning to stand and regain his surroundings.

Skinny, ribbed handle. Wide, smooth end. An empty bottle of beer.

I chucked it.

The bottle missed. Projectiles flew all over the kitchen, prickling his face and scraping my legs. I ran toward him and jabbed an elbow in his throat.

He choked on his spit. He also dropped the belt.

I had him. I swiftly took the belt with one finger, beckoning it to me. Then I swung.

And swung. . .

Crack . . . crack . . . crack . . . crack . . .

I heard the timer beep three minutes into my brother’s beating. I smiled and whipped harder. The smiling became giggling, and the giggling became mechanical laughter, and then that evolved into demonic howls. My brother’s regressed from anger to agony as fast as he progressed. Father wouldn’t approve.

So I kicked him in his face, and I jumped on his head. Twice.

Snap.

I heard a moan. A thundering moan. A moan that drowned the storm outside, and shook the puddles of blood on the kitchen tile.

It was Father. Eyes puffed up, nose clogged, and tears down his face in two long streams. His eyes narrowed down to my hands. Not of anger…but of woe. I knew they were stained of my brother’s blood.

I remembered running to my room.

II Chess

2 A.M. the blurred numbers on my alarm clock read. The moans had stopped, and the puddles on the hardwood floor had dried…my T-shirt soaked them all up.

And my shirt was redder than it was before.

Consciousness…I felt it draining from the scars on my back, the marks on my arms, the nicks on my knees. My physical side was too busy…too tired to control me. The mind was just as weary.

“You murdered your brother,” my mind said.

“It was to defend myself,” my soul also said.

“Father could have defended you,” the logic spat out.

“Brother could have killed Father,” the spirit defended.

“Father should have never let you hurt Brother.”

“I cannot disobey Father.”

“You would have disobeyed him either way.”

I was just stuck here. I couldn’t move or think functionally.

I was fighting myself…body versus brain…hardly had nothing to intervene.

Something rolled down my cheeks. Something hot. I could barely tell the difference between tears and blood.

I could barely remember my own name. They couldn’t remember neither.

“You will not live through this.”

One of the few things that Papa . . . my father recited for parental guidance that a physco’s insanity is more than just a messed-up mind.

Doing something over and over and expecting different results. I attempted to push myself up to stand. The nightstand was sturdy… but my arms were failing. Over. Over. My mind spoke to me, “It’s over.”

I am not an insane person, but I don’t give up easily. You guys can call it foolish if you want, but I consider the correct term: tenacious.

I clenched my hands into fists and gingerly rose to my feet. The mix of sweat and blood on the drawer’s top stumbled me a bit; in a blink, I rebalanced.

The scars burned, the muscles ached, and my vision was blurred…I didn’t care. I had won the war versus wit. But my soul was shattered.

I had just killed my brother. The one I wanted to protect. What would Father think?

Thump. Jingle. Thump. Jingle. THUMP. JINGLE.

Two hands wrapped around my entire waist, and I was lifted high into the air. I would’ve compared myself to a bird of how it graciously soars across the sky . . . it would be a lie.

Father flopped me over his shoulder while we lumbered downstairs. I saw he was wearing the same clothes he left sprawled around the hallway, and the belt I left beside my brother.

My head bumped against the railing of the staircase. Father didn’t mind the groan I let out. He instead opened the door to the downstairs bathroom.

What I saw was a toilet, sink, and a tub without a faucet. Most of the antique floor tile was covered by a towel. Two fresh bars of soap laid on a washcloth near the sink’s edge. Our reflection was distorted by a cloudy mirror.

Father patted the arms around his neck, and I slid down his back onto the towel. He opened the cabinet up above us, pulling out a sponge and some peroxide.

“Start washing off while I fix up your back a little,” he said in a soft voice. Although his cadence was sweet-sounding and comfortable, his tone darkened and tensed up. “You’ll have to fill the sink with water and go from there. Like a bird bath.”

Hmm…how convenient, I thought. Another comparison to a bird.

I pulled off my shirt and turned the faucet with both my hands. I washed my hands in the running water while Father applied a wet sponge to my back; it stung, but at least it didn’t burn.

I stared at the mirror the whole time I attempted to clean my upper body. It looked so awkward. I felt so awkward.

I’m short, but to my friends I’m sturdy. Linebacker-ish, ya know. The only thing I approve of myself is my face. It was marked with a black eye and a welt on my forehead at the time.

Father used to be handsome, too. At the moment, he was just tall and dark.

“Almost done,” Father says.

Together in the mirror, Father was twice my size. Only our eyes were the same. How can we be related?

As I finish scrubbing my underarms, Father throws the sponge into the tub.

“Hurry, Chess.”

I nod, but don’t speak. He called me by name.

Father goes to start the truck while I finish washing up. Good. It gives me slight peace.

He left me fresh clothes, sunglasses, and a green travel hat outside the bathroom to cover my wounds. I should be at a hospital. I need more food, more rest, and more blood.

Wait…I killed my brother. Going to the hospital would be a bad idea.

Another question: where’s my brother? The pool of blood was still in the kitchen, but vacant. Except for the beer bottle debris. I guess it would be smart enough to let it go.

My soul was not as shattered. I feel like a mirror with only half the glass in its frame…slowly setting itself back together. Soon, I will see the reflection of my true self.

An insane, homicidal juvenile who killed his brother heartlessly….

Or

A selfless youth who protected the lives of him and his father…

I finish pulling on a pair of long, black socks, and I stuff my feet into a pair of old tennis shoes. But my feet were still cold.

My heart could have been just be as just as cold.

III Chess

We drove from the house at 3 A.M. And the sky was pitch black. No stars, and barely a moon.

Father and I have nothing to say in the truck. I forced myself to gaze out the window, but there was nothing I could pretend to stare at. Nothing but auburn-colored light emitted from the streetlamps.

His fingers danced on the steering wheel to the beat of a rap song, and he was smiling slightly. He hated rap . . . too immoral. His façade was fading.

I had the perfect words to start off a conversation with Father, but out of exhaustion I said the first thing on my mind.

“Were you mad at me for what happened?”

His fingers paused and his face straightened. He did not look from the road.

“It was an accident.”

Lie.

“I didn’t mean it.”

Lies.

Father nodded his head while he comprehended my honesty. He’s tensed up, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

When he exhaled, his whole body relaxed.

“You know…Papa,” I resumed. ”I only did it out of defense. I never wanted to kill him, but–“

A tear choked me up, but Father giggled.

“I haven’t heard ‘Papa’ in a long time,” he said.

He stretched a finger to wipe the single tear off my cheek.

“Ok.”

The vehicle became silent. Even the radio faded for a little bit.

Father broke the silence. “What I don’t understand, though, is why you never call me Papa like you used to.”

“I remember when you were little,” he continues. ”…you called both your ma and me Papa. ‘Papa! Papa! Papa!’ That’s all you said until you were almost five.”

I smiled slightly. Ma.

“What happened to Ma, Papa?” I asked. His name was becoming feels more comfortable on my tongue. ”You never explained it.”

“Hmm…” he trailed off. His brow furrowed.

“Stop talking,” my mind said.

“I need to know,” my soul also said.

I did want closure…I needed closure. Just not now, I thought. Father and I have too much nostalgia for the ones we lost. Heck, one of the deaths was caused on my part.

Why hadn’t I been punished yet? Murder is immoral…Father shouldn’t had approve. Father shouldn’t had believe me. Father believed no one.

But why was I whipping my brother in the first place? I shouldn’t had the burden of punishing kin. It’s his fault even till today.

“Stop thinking,” my mind said.

My soul agreed by not uttering a single opinion.

While my mind deactivated itself, Father tilted his head up towards the mirror over our heads.

“I want some ice cream,” Father murmured. “I think we both need ice cream.”

I stare bewildered in the rear-view mirror.

Father sharply turned off into the Plaza. I was too busy in thoughts to realize we were on End Street. I laid my head on the window.

The last thing I saw before I began to doze off was a hole-in-the-wall ice cream parlor across from the elementary school. The drive-through was empty. Their sign, falling apart with the times, read:

DAIRY, SWEE S & MOR

Real ice kream!

Best in FALL TOWN, AL

3 Mini-cones for only 99

I awakened up to a bump that night.

3:40 A.M. We were on a dirt road, trees somehow darkening the black sky.

Father opened his door and lumbered to the back of the truck. In the cup holder, I saw three cone nubs and a penny. They swam in melted ice cream: chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla swirled into one dairy solution.

I was too tired to turn around, and my back was still hurt. So, I closed my eyes and focused my ears.

Audible sounds of something rustling…was it a trash bag? Father murmured a frustrated blend of grunts, growls, and curse words – the same nonsense he made when he came home late from work.

Something metal slammed into the truck so hard that wobbled it from side to side. Whatever it was, it sounded cartoonish, like the anvils that randomly spawn from the sky on T.V. Father shut the truck after throwing the metal object inside.

He stepped into the driver’s side and cranked the key. The overhead lights turned on; pale yellow rays poured down on the both of us. He took three fingers and a thumb and pressed gently on the back of my neck…something Papa used to do before I went to sleep…when Ma was alive, and when I was real young.

“Something’s off,” my mind said.

“I feel it, too,” my soul also said.

Everything faded to black: from the blur of trees through the window to the memories of what happened the last few hours.

IV Chess

Memories see the light with a shovel to the head.

Heavy rain had drenched the six-foot pit into a mud trap. Mud. It soaked through my clothes and painted my body in a bitter film. I was stiff in the hole that persistently sunk me down to drown; like a terracotta warrior in a lahar.

I reached up to the only escape, to Papa. Shovel in both hands, brow furrowed, and his sweat falls in great beads on his face. His eyes were deep black…were deep black.

He stabbed the shovel into the ground and picked up a trash bag. There was warmth in his eyes for a brief moment…they glistened as if tears could flee from them. Would I myself be able to flee from this mudhole?

The moment ended when he dangled the bag over the pit.

An object slammed face first into the mud as if it hit concrete. Open wounds and dried scars sliced across themselves till they form a scarlet grid…more than any tic-tac-toe drawing. A tall, naked object with long limbs and lengthier appendages on the opposite end began its journey… sinking motionlessly to the bottom of the pit. I barely can keep my own head from going under, so I just watched in horror.

There was a pain in my heart. My brother was unrecognizable. He doesn’t even resemble a human, but more like a giant mesh of red, white, and blue Play-Doh.

The mud loosened to a bath within minutes, but Papa…

My father…

My killer…

Kept piling dirt into the pit. I needed to find something to keep myself above the water and get out. Easier said than done, huh.

I pushed myself down till my feet touch the base of the pit. I opened my eyes. They burned like heck from all the floating dirt and debris, but it was better than being attacked by a gardening tool.

There was hardly any light, and more and more dirt plagued the water, but I was able to pick up a few items. I returned to the surface to get knocked in the face with a shovel.

Ah, crap.

Through my blurred vision, I saw three yellow bones and a wedding ring. I recognized the skeleton of what used to be a hand. The ring became harder to decipher as the water rose.

Ma’s necklace and the wedding ring had the same eloquent style of springtime: carved-in flowers, diamond encrusted everywhere but around one large amethyst, and calligraphy written with the smallest tip on the inside. I remembered the sparkling blend of violet and white that compliment Ma’s soft, inviting hands. Oh, Ma.

To Elaine,

The one who relinquished her heart to me…

-Peter Greene

Peter Greene. Elaine Greene. Chess Greene.

I squinted my eyes, but no tears come.

“They don’t need to come,” my mind said.

“They don’t need to fall and accumulate with the rising rainwater leveled with my collarbone,” my soul added.

I had let go off my mother’s fingers; they crumbled and dissolved into the grave soup like sea salt. The ring I kept.

The ring was the only weapon we had.

V

“And then what happened?”

Two middle-aged men, one in a black suit and the other in blue, bent over the interrogated witness Chess Greene, their faces creased in bamboozled expressions. The third man dressed in brown sat straightforward, unimpressed by his brothers’ intimidating poses.

“Cut the crap out, Frank,” the man in brown said. “The boy doesn’t know anything more. This stuff happened two and a half years ago, and I’m surprised that he actually made it this far without---“

“Well I need to know, Mike!” the man in black named Frank snapped. “One of these kids has to know something.”

“There’s more than the boy?” the man in blue responded, his eyebrows furrowed.

Frank wiped the sweat off his forehead without a reply.

“You’ve done some dangerous shit, man. If they escape, we’re destined for doom. The whole town is.”

“I’ll make sure they won’t, Henry. They are essential at the moment, but we’ll dispose of them once the truth IVs become antiquated for our need.”

“Wow, Frank,” Henry snickered. “I’m amazed you know big words like antiquated.”

Frank clenched his teeth and flung off his suit jacket. His eyes were on the boy, his gaze sharpening like the pain in his arm.

The two men leaned close enough that their breath made Chess’s eyelashes rise.

“And then what happened . . .” Frank whispered coarsely.

“I remember only blurs in my mind,” Chess answered. “. . . I was so tired and I was struggling to live. And it was so, so long ago. Wait a minute, in a couple months, it will be the anniversary of my brother’s death. What–“

Frank immediately pulled up his shirt sleeve, and the tattoo on his forearm glowed a bright, deadly blue.

He slapped the boy; the boy and the chair fell to the floor. Electricity and the scent of burnt skin dissipated into the air.

“Where I am, and where are my friends? Please somebody—“

Frank struck him again, hard enough for Henry to intervene.

“Frank! Frank!”

“He won’t tell me nothing! What does this little boy think he’s fooling with!”

“The mind control is done, Frank! It just wore off.”

“Well, let’s kill him!”

Mike clasped his hands together and placed them on the table. The room was dark and dingy, and the color scale ranged in shades of gray. Only a swinging celling light provided one dim beam centered on the boy, his eldest brother, and youngest brother recovering from his convulsions. It was cold . . . maybe he needed a cigarette.

On the other side of the room, Frank slumped against the wall. Blood from his arm soaked through his shirt.

“You know you can’t use your abilities like that,” Henry hissed. “Especially now that the children can hear every word, every sound that comes from these little interrogations you want so bad.

Henry reached for his brother’s collar band snatched it.

With a threatening grip, Henry whispered, “Whatever plans you may have, Frank, you better be taking caution. I’ll swears to kill you ma’self if you slip again.”

Mike was waiting for a response from his shrew a brother Frank. After a moment of silence, Frank issued an absolute “Fine.”

He held the unconscious boy by his shoulders while Henry pushed the metal door open. In front of the doorway was a brunette girl with the greenest eyes: two jade-hued cat eyes wide with fear.

Frank shoved the boy out with one hand; his other hand pointed an accusing finger at the girl.

“You’re next.”