It was around two in the morning when he returned from the nearest drugstore with his standard two packs of Marlboro red cigarettes. I sometimes had to wonder if he thought of his home as that grimy supermarket filled with skeeving cons and lethargic addicts. His boots hit the floor, his heavy feet fell on the broken steps, then he locked the door behind him. I didn’t expect mom to say a thing, she never said a damned thing.
On the dresser table next to me ashes fell from one of his discarded trays, this time a makeshift contraption using my now ruined jewelry box. The rocking of the floorboards would be a lulling presence if I did not have the knowledge of what they meant. My mother was quiet as always but I couldn’t stop from wondering if that silence was her choice or his. He had complete control here in his domain. The strong odor of tobacco spewing off his jacket wafted through the house marking his territory.
He didn’t worry about us retaliating because he made sure we wouldn’t. Much to my distress, it seemed that mother no longer was cautious of his disturbing actions. The gods had rebuked every one of my prayers so finally I just stopped; my steepled hands were replaced with balled fists scraping at the sheets. Ever so often I would catch a glimpse of her ghost. It would be absolutely ignorant to not notice the stark contrasts in her once manicured body: her skin was now paler than the moon that resided behind the shattered glass window.
I was so afraid of him at first. I was so scared not only for me but for my mother. Yet as the doors were locked more often and the pounding silence grew, I realized that I was not allowed to be weak. She was doing this for me, so I received a lesser blow - I had to be strong.
My hands scraped at the welts on my arms begging for relief that could only be given by my nightmare. Words can’t articulate the hell we have endured under him but the sad truth is that we need him. He has forced us to need him. Sometimes it seems impossible that I even exist currently. It feels as though he has hijacked my brain, my body, my thoughts. I know I love him. But why? Why do I love him? The tracts on my arms burned with need and the silence of the house was finally broken by my pained cries.
The creme lamp flickered with each movement upstairs and I had to close my eyes against all of the actions attacking my senses. It always got worse before it got better; his oppressive weight captured me and I waited for the sweet burning to suffocate me. I urged my eyes to faceforward, depriving them of their desire to recede from the scene. The light was now constant, that I know. Only when he comes in does it illuminate fully as if with the darkness the lies of the house find shelter. The blood roared through my ears and with a flash of silver and red the inner demons receded, leaving only him and me.
The scratchy fabric of his shirt clogged me with the putrid odor of whiskey and piss. His arms caged me in, yet I felt safe. I let him hold onto me, silently thanking him for easing the pain. I can’t now recall how long my arms have been filled with raised red marks but I do know it’s preferable to having nothing. He gave me a piece of solitude just for the price of a pinprick. The euphoric calm silenced my mother’s piercing cries; without it, the acknowledgement of her torture would tear my brain to shreds. He was saving me, he was saving me from himself.
His arms released me as the calmness took their place and I heard the distinct click of a lock but it was too far from me in this state. The walls continued their shaking and for a split second a ghost’s scream tore the house apart but was yet again lost in the silence of my brain. I don’t know when he will come back to take care of me but I hope it’s soon so I can stay like this forever.
“Thank you, Dad,” I whispered as my eyes closed against the blinking of the lamp.