Be Your Downfall

by Lizzie Fox

  She’d never say that, Archer, get a fucking grip, man.

  I knew she wouldn’t; still there was a little voice inside that was peeved that she’d accidentally shown me up. She was trying to do a nice thing, to get the guys off my back because she knew how nervous I was getting about performing at Summerfest. Now it was even worse, because I would sit there and think about how they liked the new songs better, and then I’d be angry at that, and resentful of the old ones because now they weren’t good enough.

  It was all so stupid. Who cared who wrote them? I should be happy—Jessie was talented. Jessie was my girl so of course I should want her to do well. I should be proud to sing her songs because she’s fucking amazing.

  But then there was the other side of the sword. It might not have been obvious to others, but it was clear a great deal of that material was about Blake. It was one thing to hear her talk about him; to accept that he was a big part of her life even now. It was another thing entirely to sing about him in front of a crowd. Not that anyone would know—but me.

  I was being really, really fucking stupid about it. The simple solution would be to write my own fucking songs. There was still quite a bit of time, all I had to do was get my head out of my fucking ass and get it done.

  But pressure and I never did well together. The only pressure I ever liked was on my cock, anything else could go straight to hell.

  I’d clearly hurt her feelings last night pulling away from her like I did. I didn’t even mean to do it, there was just something inside me that was screaming. It started as a low growl in the back of my mind earlier in the day and evolved into a raging scream.

  All she was trying to do was help, and you pulled away from her. You’re a fucking dick. I didn’t really even know why. There was nothing I loved more in the world than being next to her—except for being inside of her. I couldn’t even handle that right now.

  Not only did you pull away, you asshole, but you left her alone with her thoughts and now she probably hates you. I wouldn’t blame her one bit. Here I was, this mental fucking case anyway—I should be more than glad that she allowed me in her company after all that has happened to her. Her man blew his fucking brains out… and I hurt her by pulling away.

  She acted like nothing bothered her, and that it was no big deal, but the tears in her eyes told me otherwise. She didn’t let them fall—she was too tough for that—but they were there. And I put them there.

  The one thing I never wanted to do to anyone. Least of all, her.

  So what the fuck is my problem?

  I didn’t even remember coming into this room after taking a shower, hoping to clear my head. I sat down on the bed before I went to get dressed and woke up hours later, with a blanket covering me. But, I was alone.

  Of course you were alone. You’re supposed to be alone.

  I didn’t know how long I lay there by myself. Rolling over, I noticed another blanket rumpled and falling off the edge—one of Jessie’s. Come to think of it, this was her comforter I had over me. Why was that there? Did she sleep here last night, even after I snapped at her for no fucking reason? Because I was a dick? And where was she now, then? Did she finally come to her senses and decide to throw me out on my ass, skidding across the street like the piece of garbage that I am?

  “I don’t know who you think you are but get the fuck off my property!” I heard Jessie’s voice suddenly yell angrily from downstairs.

  Huh?

  Oh my god… it better not be. I flew up and out of bed immediately, about to storm downstairs in a fury of adrenaline.

  “Pants…need fucking pants…” I fell asleep naked. Naked and alone. Great.

  Quickly I found a pair of dirty jeans on the floor because I was a fucking slob, and pulled them on. I barely got them zipped and buttoned by the time I raced out of the bedroom and saw from the upstairs landing just who was at the fucking door, facing Jessalie’s ire.

  “You have no idea what you’re messing with, little girl.” The menacing sound of my father’s voice echoed throughout the tall walls of the house.

  From the stairs I could see both of the French doors were wide open and Jessie stood in front of my father, a hand on her hip. I couldn’t see her face, but her hair was up on top of her head, and her neck was bright red so the rest probably was too. I was about to storm down the stairs in a firey rage when Jeff’s eyes landed upon me. They were evil, serpent-like…and I froze.

  “You’re such a worthless piece of shit. Crying at a fucking thunderstorm? A thunderstorm? How old are you now? Three?”

  I wasn’t three. I was twelve. It was ridiculous, but I couldn’t help it.

  I cowered in my bed, the covers pulled up to my neck as I shook, flinching first at every lightning flash or thunder boom, but now as my father stood angrily in my room with a belt snapping between his hands. He was hard to see because it was so dark, but every strike of lightning lit up his eyes—they were red, bloodshot and glassy, probably from too much bourbon but they still scared the shit out of me. They were soulless…lifeless…apathetic.

  Angry. Evil.

  Another crack of thunder rattled me to my bones. I flinched violently, instinctively pulling the blankets over my face and hiding under them.

  “Jesus Christ, what a fucking little wimp!” The blankets were yanked from me, and my father’s face was suddenly just inches away from mine. He had a severe jawline, high cheekbones, his evil eyes the same color as mine—the color of a foggy bottle of whiskey—and black hair. “You are the spitting image of your father!” Everyone said to me. That thought definitely did not help me now as he cracked the leather of that belt, and aimed to hit me. “Shut the fuck up already! I’m tryin to sleep! What are you trying to do, you—”

  “—stop it!”

  I sat up immediately, rushing for Lily who’d just flung herself into the fray.

  “The fuck is this shit?” My father spun around and with one of his stocky, thick arms, flung my fragile sister, Lily, off of him.

  Her scream was cut short by the thud of her body hitting the hard floor below.

  “Lily!” In a panic, I darted out from under him as he tried to pin me to the bed, not even acknowledging my sister. He was too drunk to care, not that he would anyway.

  Lily was crumpled to the floor, sprawled out amongst all my shit all over the floor, shaking like a leaf and clutching her arms around her legs, making unintelligible, garbled noises. Lily was always fragile, she couldn’t even kill a mosquito without feeling bad. She was too good for this household—too good for this world. “Lily—no!” Frantic, sobbing, I dropped to my knees, attempting to shake her out of her episode but she continued to shake and tremble; the look in her eyes vacant and faraway. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was really serious.

  “Oh knock it off, she’s faking!”

  And that was the moment I snapped. The quiet, afraid, demure Seth was gone. Slowly, I stood, the rage boiling inside me like a pressure cooker under too much weight. My skin felt like it tightened around my bones, making me uncomfortable, stifled, and I struggled to pull a breath out of my chest.

  “Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.” My voice raised in anger with each syllable I uttered. My fists were balled up at my sides. I wasn’t taller than him, but since the last time I stood next to him, I’d grown at least a foot, and I came up to his shoulders now. It wouldn’t be long before I’d tower over the bastard.

  My father, with his snakelike eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, smirking in amusement, the leather belt still at his side, clutched in a hand. “What are you going to do you fucking pussy?”

  What was I going to do? I’ll show you, bastard.

  Glancing around quickly, I found my backpack on the floor. It was torn, ripped, stained, and falling apart. But that didn’t matter. It contained the one thing that would mean my freedom.

  My father reached for me as I attempted to unzip and open it, but since he was drunk or at least close to it like always, he was slow. I
managed to reach in and pull out the thing I’d swiped from my friend’s old man’s nightstand: a loaded handgun.

  I had no idea what I was doing, really, but I’d seen enough video games to fake it and the fury boiling inside me urged me on. Before he could gather what I was doing, I spun around, cocked the safety, and with a resolute, determined calm, pointed the weapon directly between his eyes as they suddenly—finally—appeared to look a little nervous. Afraid.

  Afraid like I had so often been whenever I saw them.

  I cackled evilly. “How does it feel, asshole? How does it feel to be afraid? To fear for your fucking life? To have someone stand up to you?”

  The belt dropped to the ground, and my father raised his palms up in surrender, his eyes widening. “Seth… come on, I’m just—”

  “GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT, AND DON’T EVER FUCKING COME BACK!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. When he hesitated, I started to pull on the trigger.

  “You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

  That was the last thing I heard before my father darted out of the house, stopping only to grab the keys to his crappy truck. The rumble of the engine was satisfying as he tore out of the driveway.

  Satisfied he wasn’t coming back, I gasped, terrified at what I’d just done, when I remembered Lily laying listlessly on the floor. I quickly stashed the gun, ran for the only phone we had in the kitchen and dialed 9-1-1, hoping I wasn’t too late; that they could get to Lily before she retreated so far into her mind she couldn’t be pulled back.

  But she was already gone. Alive, but gone.

  That was the night everything changed; when I looked at those eyes. When I looked into those eyes and felt anger, instead of fear.

  And now those eyes were staring me down, twenty-some years later, while my girlfriend screamed at him.

  I stood in a brief panic, that frightened and intimidated twelve-year-old the night of the thunderstorm. The same night my father left, and my sister did too.

  “So help me god if you do not get the fuck out of my house, I will call the cops. And if you try to fucking come back, asshole, I will blow your brains out! I will be armed, so get the—”

  I snapped back to reality, my fear for my own life replaced for the fear for Jessie’s, as I watched Jeff’s hand on her shoulder, trying to push her aside to get inside, or to me.

  Oh hell fucking no.

  “Get your fucking hand off of her!” I flew down the stairs like a bat out of hell, roughly pushing Jessie aside, and shoving at Jeff violently. He stumbled briefly before righting himself.

  “You heard her. Get the fuck out of here.” I didn’t yell. I didn’t even point, or shake a finger. My voice was completely calm, like the eye of a storm before the worst hit. “Get out. Or I will kill you. I should have done it all those years ago. But I will not let you hurt me, or anyone else I love ever again. Is that clear?”

  Jeff’s mouth slid into a slippery smile. “You’re both insane. You’re perfect for each other. Is she just as batshit nuts as you? Or is she just a good, quick fuck?” There was a leer in his eyes as they roamed the length of her body.

  That. Was. It.

  I flew forward, fist raised by my jaw ready to let loose, when soft hands clutched my waist, pulling me backward. I shifted suddenly, looking into the pleading green eyes of Jessie.

  “Don’t, Seth. He’s not worth it.” She gently abated me by stroking the flat expanse of my stomach, before she turned to glare around me. “You hear that? You’re not worth it! Now get the fuck out of here before the cops show up! I’m betting you have a big record and they’d just love to throw you in the slammer you fucking asshole!” She produced a cell phone from the pocket of her—wait those were mine—black pants, and lifted it pointedly as she began to dial the number.

  My father just laughed evilly. “Fuck the both of you. Have fun with that bag of crazy, honey. And you—you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. You can’t keep Lily from me, you’re a fucking nothing, you hear me?”

  “Piss off, you psychopath! He’s everything, and you just have no idea!” Jessie slammed the doors shut, locking them, and once again I heard the roar of an engine as my father streaked out of the driveway, and out of my life. Again. “Dammit! Ugh!” Jessie stomped a foot, and raked her hands over her messy hair before turning to me. “Are you okay?”

  “Am I—” I stuttered, replaying the scene in my mind.

  She was yelling at him. She was just inches from him. He touched her. He put his hands on her. It doesn’t matter how, he put his hands on her.

  He could have hurt her.

  She’s fighting more of your battles for you, you piece of shit.

  “Seth?” I felt her hand on my arm tentatively.

  I flinched, the sudden touch on my skin feeling foreign. A sour, weighted feeling sank in the pit of my stomach that seeped into my pores, making me feel clammy and uncomfortable in my own skin. “You shouldn’t have confronted him. He’s—” I stopped short, balling up my fists and turning away from her so she couldn’t see the rage on my face. The rage that looked too much like him. I didn’t want to scare her like that; I didn’t want her to be scared of me like I was of him. Was, but no longer.

  Every time I looked in the mirror I saw him. Those eyes. That leer. I couldn’t escape it.

  “I’m a big girl, Seth.” I could even picture her in my mind, hands on hips, glaring at me with those eyes that bore straight through me, down to my soul.

  I spun around before I really realized what I was doing. I took her forearms in my hands, pulling her towards me. “He’s insane, Jess! He nearly killed my sister! He nearly killed me! He could have hurt you! I—” A wash of fear slid over her face briefly. I quickly released her, taking a handful of steps back. “Oh my fucking god…I about did it. I—I’m him. I…”

  “Seth?”

  Shaking my head, I stalked away from her. “No—I… just no. Stay away…” I darted off for the only room nearby that could lock: the nearest bathroom.

  “Seth? Seth!” She called after me, but I was inside, with the door locked.

  I slid down the wall to my ass, shuddering violently.

  I was him.

  That look in her face—exactly the look I knew I had when he would hit me.

  That same look on Lily’s face before she was slammed into the wall; the last expression she ever wore on her face besides dull. It was fear.

  She was afraid because she was standing up. For me.

  Jessie did the same. And now she feared me too. And why shouldn’t she? I’m insane. I have the meds for it after all—right? I’m a fucking lunatic.

  Just like I’m a lunatic for getting pissed because she helped me with a few songs. Because I couldn’t do it myself. Because I was a failure. Because I failed at everything I touched.

  I would fail her, too. Eventually. How could I not?

  Clutching at the roots of my hair I pulled, silently screaming, willing the self-loathing inside my head to stop. Just…stop.

  I couldn’t care for Lily. I can’t care for her either. I should just… run. I should run far, far away.

  Stop it. It’s just the bipolar. It’s just the depression. Stop thinking this way.

  She wouldn’t have done those things for you if she didn’t care.

  But why should she? She should have someone doing things for her, and not having to worry if this latest meltdown would be my last… that she’d come home some night much like she did so many years ago, and find her man dead on the ground. Find me dead on the ground.

  She. Didn’t. Deserve. This. I didn’t deserve her.

  “Fuck!” I slammed my fists in my lap, crying out loudly. There was a knock on the door, and I heard Jessie’s voice but it was little more than an echo beneath the loud chaos of darkness and negativity that was invading my mind.

  His face. Those eyes. My fear.

  Wanting to kill him. Needing to kill him. I should have blown him away, but I was too chicken.

/>   Just like I’m too fucking chicken to stand up in front of thirty-thousand people and sing songs. My songs, and that’s why I can’t write them.

  So my girlfriend had to bail me out.

  So—

  “Goddammit!” I opened and closed my fists repeatedly and rolled my head back and forth on my shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension in my body, but nothing worked when my skin felt like it was three sizes too small.

  The sensation of bile rising in my throat was enough to choke, and I nearly gagged. Before I lost everything in my stomach to the sickening feeling deep inside I stood and quickly held myself over the sink, turning on the faucet, splashing my face with cold water before I lost it. I breathed heavily, raspy, barely able to catch a breath, my pores feeling stifled and suffocated.

  When I looked upward, I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror, and I glared.

  His jawline.

  His rotten smile.

  His nose.

  His hair.

  His eyes.

  “You are the spitting image of your father!” I can’t say how many times I heard it growing up. Either from my mother, or from neighbors or whoever. “Especially the eyes. You definitely have his eyes.”

  They had no idea what that did to me. Looking into the mirror, day after day after day, seeing the same face of the person who scared the shit out of you daily. Who beat you with belts. Who drank and smelled like alcohol and shit when he’d go on benders, pull you out of bed in the middle of the night to scream at me just because he could.

  The same eyes that used to instill fear in me, in my sister, in my mother when he’d beat the crap out of her.

  They looked back at me every damn day.

  I glared at my reflection in the mirror. At his reflection. It was torture, looking in the mirror every day at myself and seeing…him.