Wednesday, June 10, 1987


(This post is going to be a little different. Alternatively titled "A moment- in the life of a "misunderstood" 10-year old boy." There are triggers, so heads up.)

Wakeys! I don’t even care that we didn't celebrate my birthday that coincided with the last day of school. Summer’s here! Schools out! Fucking AWESOME! I’m gonna call J., and we’re gonna go check out that mine tunnel we found a couple weekends ago. I bet there’s some good shit in there.
I've gotta get up and get some clothes on…what to wear... My eyes settle on the my value village jeans and that cool rainbow Yale shirt my friend C. got me last year as a “Not Birthday” present… She’s so cool. Cool’s a cool word. Cool cool cool cool. Ice is cool. Ice. Ice cream. Icing. FROSTING! Mom just made a cake last night! Mmm…chocolate. And she BOUGHT the frosting this time. None of that weird Crisco frosting she makes that leaves a greasy stickiness on the roof of my mouth. Thct. Thct. Gahhhh….ewww. REAL frosting. I wonder if anyone else is awake. I roll over and look under my bunk. M. is still sound asleep, splayed across his bed in his typical fashion. With MY comic book under his arm, all wrinkled, pages bent, cover askew. Little shit. He’ll pay for that. Later, though. Revenge is a dish best served unexpected. Heh. I drop to the floor, not using the ladder, and the thump reverberates through the house. Shit! Waiting, quietly, to see if it woke anyone. Nothing stirs. Sweet! I sneak out the door that I have been careful to WD-40 so it doesn't creak, and down the hall, making sure to stick to the wall that’s opposite the girls rooms so I don’t step on that spot that seems to groan as though the whole house is alive, past the girls room, past the OTHER girls room, careful not to step on that floorboard that creaks right outside the bathroom, past the other boys room, take a left and a quick right into the kitchen…There it is. Right there, on the counter, out in the open, unprotected, in its entire glorious splendor. A giant slab of chocolate heaven. It shall be MINE.
I look around, furtively, my heart pounding in my head. THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP…Ohhh, I’m gonna be in so much trouble… but the delicious…the delicious is calling…looks like someone’s already had a piece. Or a few pieces. PERFECT! All I have to do is trim just about a half an inch off along the edge where they cut last, and they’ll be none the wiser. I don’t even have to use a plate! Leave no evidence! I put the cake on a napkin and wash off the knife, putting it back in the drawer. Ahhh…cakey cake, how I love thee, I moan internally, as I taste the first bite of succulent deliciousness…
WHAM! Suddenly, searing pain shoots up my back and through my skull, and I hit the floor. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! The hurting doesn't let up for an instant, the pain incessant. What the HELL?!?! I turn my head to determine the source, already knowing who it is, to feel the slap and burn of leather across my face. CRACK! Again. Again. Again. I cower, wracked with pain, bits of cake mixed with my spittle pooling on the floor as I sob uncontrollably, feeling every lash. WHY?! WHAT THE FUCK?! It’s just fucking CAKE, man!
Eventually the whipping ceases, but the all consuming pain does not.  I hesitantly look out from under my arm thrown over my head in my semi-protected fetal position. I see Him, standing there, hair disheveled from having just woken up, half naked, wearing his green pants as always, chest sweaty and heaving from exertion. He doesn't speak, doesn't need to speak, the satisfaction mingled with disgust on his face saying it all. He turns and walks out of the kitchen, looping his belt back into his pants.The lesson is over.

I pull myself up to sitting, my arms wrapped around my legs, crying silently, rocking back and forth. My body is on fire, the pain pulsing through me, every nerve on end. What the fuck, man? Why why why why why?! Why can’t he just say “don’t do that”, or just send me to my room, or fucking talk to me? Sure, he’s said “don’t do that” before, and I didn't listen, but FUCK, man! Don’t fucking give up on me. Don't treat me like a fucking animal. Does anyone else have to deal with this shit? No, because I wouldn't have to fucking hide it if they did. Even Mom doesn't know. Mom. Mom is love. Warmth floods my body. I can’t let Mom know the man that she loves does this to me. It would fucking ruin her. She loves him so much. And I love HER so much. She’s the only one that’s been there my entire life. There have been plenty of Hims, but ever and always only one Mom.  I wipe the tears from my eyes, the snot from my nose, the cake and saliva from my face, get up and go to the bathroom to wash up. I am resolved now, not to destroy the happiness of the woman I love. I’ll find a reasonable explanation for the visible welts - I’m good at that, always so “accident prone” - and hide the rest.   Life goes on, and the wounds will fade. I’m sure of it. Besides - schools out, and I have a whole summer to look forward to. Man that cake was good…