The tingling sensation in my feet was
finally beginning to fade. Harvey hovered over my fallen form. I
could feel the heat of his anger pulsating off his skin, warming my
own chilled bones. I coughed slightly, afraid I might be the one to
puke on his shoes this time.
“It's all over for you now, Asshole. I'm
going to fucking kill you,” he said gruffly before quickly stomping
away.
“Fuck,” I mumbled as I made a second
attempt to stand. My face was burning with pain, as was my head. As
I lurched my body off the ground the thunderous nausea could no
longer be stifled. I leaned out the door heavily, painting Ma's
dying rose bushes with stale booze and half digested pizza. My
mouth now tasted of bile and rust. Not a good breakfast combo. I
wiped away the remnants with the edge of my sleeve, not caring that
I missed and it streaked across my fingers instead.
A slight smile began to creep across my
face despite the thick sickness boiling at my insides. I'm sure the
average observer would have thought I had gone mad, but in truth, I
smiled because I had won. I had completely destroyed any chance of
my brother being better than me. I got the girl, the Old Man and I
were on even terms, and I had finally decided to get my shit
straight. It wouldn't be long before the final curtain call on our
differences would soon be drawn now that she was truly mine. I
couldn't wait to hear the applause on this freak show finale.
*
My naive ambition that day was almost
admirable when I think about it now. I sure wish I could have
stayed unwittingly stupid to truth like I had been in that moment.
Harvey should have done more than just punch me.
25
The Old Man was a damn drunk and Ma was
addicted to prescriptions. I had such wonderful role models, don't
you think? Although the green happy pills didn't always do it for
me, I enjoyed the taste of thick whiskey as it burned my throat. I
can't deny that I enjoyed the overwhelming feeling of superiority
it gave me as well. Especially on nights when the Old Man had a few
too many also. To me, drinking put us on even terms when he got
into a mood. Although, in my mind, it ended up being more of a
contest to see who was the bigger asshole. “Anything you can do, I
can do better”, that sort of shit. Of course, after I started
thinking of it as a competition, I was always in the lead, even
when I wasn't.
*
I tipped the glass bottle just enough to
let the dark liquid saunter past my lips and tickle my tongue. I
gave a slight shudder of both repulsion and ease as fire erupted in
my insides. I licked the remnants off of my lips as I waited for
the drink to take effect. Another long swig followed, lightening
the weight of the bottle even more. Another followed quickly after
that. I watched the ticking clock in my claustrophobic bedroom as I
counted the hot steps to Idontgiveafuckville.
Tick, tick, tick.
Thirty minutes. Although I had a good buzz,
it wasn't quite the escape from reality that I was looking for. I
clutched the near empty bottle, willing it to fill up again.
“This sucks,” I mumbled, gulping down the
last bit of whiskey in one quick swallow. My head swirling more and
more with each tick tock.
I gazed up at the dark green clock that
hung crookedly on my blank wall. It looked strange sitting up there
all alone.
“You and me both, Clock,”
I said to the wall.
Strange and
alone.
I rocked my head from side
to side, the heaviness almost knocking me over, the dizziness
almost a relief from the constant pounding of thoughts in my head.
My bottle empty, the clock screaming at me, I stood up wearily and
reached for the door.
Perhaps I should
have paced myself?
I thought sadly. I
certainly couldn't face my demon like this. The door suddenly ran
away from me before I even had a chance to get close to it, while
the bed inched nearer. I raised a heavy arm up in front of me and
slapped myself hard across the face.
“Walk...wa..wake..wake the
fuck up,” I told myself. My body would not comply, nor would my
mind.
Shit.
I sat down, defeated by
my own arrogance. I started to giggle for no other reason than I
couldn't figure out what else to do.
Knock. Knock.
A faint sound crept into my mind, making my
thoughts cower in unknown fear, the giggling halting quickly. I
opened my mouth to answer, but couldn't remember what to say.
Knock! Knock!
“Jacky!”
Oh, no.
This time, not only did my thoughts cower,
but my entire being wished to dig a deep trench and crawl into it
until the Old Man went away. I didn't want to face him right now. I
couldn't face him right now.
“Jacky?” the Old Man asked this time,
opening the door slowly. His dark peppered hair appearing first,
followed by blood shot blue eyes. I remained on my bed, unable to
move or speak. Even now, I still fear him.
“Jacky! I was calling you,” he said
hoarsely, the words mushing together as he forced them out.
I sat.
“Answer me, Boy!”
I looked up with the same blood shot eyes
as my father, his face revealing his distaste for my drinking.
His half smile turned into
a snarl as I stared at him. I knew he could smell the alcohol, so
swimmingly thick in my room, the bottle clearly empty on the desk.
In an instant, his hand raised and came down thunderously against
the side of my face. There was no slap or sting, just a straight up
punch to the face thump. I slammed hard against my bed, pushing
back the urge to throw up the whiskey from my otherwise empty
stomach.
I can't let him win this
one,
I thought.
Achingly, I sat back up, staring him down
again. The nausea beginning to diminish and fill will something
more angry. He reached back, fist ready, and struck me again.
Bubbles filled my vision as I hit the hard floor instead of the
soft bed. That good old need to puke soared back into my foggy
brain.
My knuckles crunched as my hand balled into
a tight fist. I pushed through the pain and the vomit rising in my
throat. Before the Old Man could get in another blow, I jabbed him
one right in the jaw, barely making him quiver. I almost laughed,
or cried, I couldn't quite tell which one. He shook his head
slightly as I swung at him again, making contact with his
temple.
Still, he stood. I felt stupid and unsure,
angry and agitated. We seethed in silence for several tense moments
before the Old Man finally chipped away his aggression.
“You really want to grow up like me, Boy?”
he asked out of the blue, almost tearful in his plea.
I answered before even
thinking, “Don't you get it,
Dad
, I am you.”
A wash of sadness filled his eyes, as we
both realized what I had just admitted. Unfortunately, it was true.
I was him. Disappointments and all. The part I left out was that,
no matter how much I was like him, I could never be as good as he
was.
The Old Man left the room with large welts
on his face. No doubt he headed for his “office”. I landed firmly
back on my bed, feeling the rush of blood to my own face
intensifying. With the door shut, and the whiskey gone, I cried in
shame until I passed out.
26
I had almost forgotten about that one. The
worst thing to admit sometimes is the truth.
Dad was a drunk.
I was a drunk.
Dad was abusive.
I was abusive.
Dad was a failure.
I was a failure.
I was my father.
The image in the reflection suddenly grew
even more disgusting to look at. All I could see now was the Old
Man staring back at me, laughing with that always disapproving
face. At least the Old Man has sense enough to stay alive all
theses years. I couldn't even manage to do that.
Where the fuck did it all
go wrong?
I tried to imagine back at the happy go
lucky moments of my childhood where Dad and I were pals, but all I
can see is a blank screen. Denied again.
I won't say it out loud, but sometimes,
just sometimes I think Harvey was right to kill me.
27
My stomach growled and
curdled all at the same time as the clock ticked away the seconds
before lunch. I was both famished and nauseous at the same time. I
would have to see them both at some point in the day. I honestly
wasn't sure if I was ready to confront that demon yet. I kept
watching the door, waiting for the police to bust it down and take
me to jail. This time too many people knew. Mike would surely keep
his mouth shut to save his own ass. The Old Man still had my back,
I hoped. I could easily trust them, but Jo had already told. Of
course she told
him.
Who knows who he told.
I imagined them sitting down at the police
department right now going over every gruesome detail. Most of
which I couldn't even recall, but was sure it wasn't anything
good.
How the hell did I get
myself into this mess?
I ask myself the most idiotic questions
sometimes, I tell you. I knew how I got here. I drank too much,
lied frequently, and couldn't take no for an answer.
Tick. Tick.
Move faster, you fucking
clock!
I needed to get out of
this room with its ever closing walls and suffocating air. I could
feel my chest tighten as my brain began to swell with worry. It
felt like everyone was staring at me, like they all knew what I had
done. I could hear the faint whispers coming from the left side of
the room as a group of girls no doubt were slandering my name at
the thought of me hurting one of their own.
Ring!
My seat made a loud scraping sound as I
jumped from the echoing bell. I opened my eyes wide, shifting them
around the room. The lights were blinding. Everyone else had
already begun to vacate the room. Only I was left. No one was
watching. No one was whispering. The open door suddenly became my
savior as I bolted for the lunchroom.
The cool gust of fresh air from the hallway
filled my lungs and calmed my mind. I pushed aside the growing
feelings of shame, gathered myself, and prepared to meet my kingly
court of jesters. I walked through the already noisy door, easing
as I saw Mike and John at our usual table. Both were staring at me
with a mixture of sadness and comfort as I approached. I had
forgotten about John. Had he told?
“Hey, Fellas!” I high-fived each of them,
playing James Dean cool while my insides screamed.
John nodded his head, eyes fixed on the
scratches down my neck. The sting suddenly became present in his
sight. I touched it gingerly as the crowd around me went on with
their mundane normal lives.
My thoughts reverted back
to the handgun in the Old Man's “office”. It looked more and more
appealing these days. I shook my head, scaring away the pain, for
now. As I plopped myself down on the edge of the table, a scrawny
wide eyed freshman approached. He had stringy blond hair and a
mouth full of braces. I watched him shakily pass a note to Cheryle,
the cheerleader to my left. I chuckled slightly, running my fingers
through my hair, and almost wished I was like him. Just a random
nobody with enough balls to ask out the head cheerleader in front
of everyone.
As I laughed, the room grew eerily silent.
Even the thump thump of my heart slowed to nearly a stop. A harsh
scream emerged from one of the girls near the door.
“Oh, shit!” I whispered as Harvey Carter,
gun in hand, came to fulfill his promise.
He looked angry and sad as the shiny metal
glinted in the bright lights. I panicked, not knowing whether to
run or face my crime. Everyone else started bolting for the doors
and hallways, not ready to die today. Harvey aimed straight at me,
his finger hovering over the trigger, but his eyes were shut tight.
The dreamy freshman kid, too scared to move, stood directly between
us.
I need redemption before I
die!
I shouted at myself as I shoved the
kid away from me.
Bang!
The shot pounded loudly in my ears, making
them ring in high pitched operatic form. I fell hard to floor, not
sure if I had been shot yet or not. I crawled ungracefully under
the table, patting myself up and down, waiting to find the bullet
wound. I couldn't tell if there was blood through my red letterman
jacket. I suddenly hated the color red.
My heart eased when I realized I hadn't
been hit. I peeked out from the table, Harvey approaching with a
look of horrified fear and disbelief. I wondered if he was
regretting this act of vigilante justice or just distraught that he
hadn't succeeded.
Mike began to scream and cry out like a
dying cat not far from me. His loud blubbering was next to
unbearable as I followed his mournful gaze.
My everything sank straight to the pits of
Hell as I peered at the dreamy kid's body just a few feet next to
me. He was still. At first, I hoped maybe he was just playing
possum, smart kids seem to know how to get out of tricky
situations, you know, but as I watched the dark river of blood seep
out from under him, I knew he wasn't playing. I didn't understand.
How did this happen? I pushed him out of the way! He was supposed
to be my redemption!!
“Why'd you push him, Man? Why?” Mike's
shrill hysterical voice blubbered at me. I had no response. I was
utterly frozen as my best friend threw me under the bus with one
sweaty, fat, accusatory finger. I was angry and overwrought with
disbelief. How did he not see I was trying to save the kid's
life?!