by Drew Sera
“Nothing, sorry.”
He reached over and stilled the package in my hands.
“There are no strings attached to these, Anthony. They are nothing more than a few gifts for you to open on our first Christmas. Nothing more and they’re not being used as leverage.”
He knew! He understood!
I nodded and tore open the first present. Quickly, the other gifts were all opened and I sat among a pile of paper and my treasures. I ended up with a new backpack, Nikes, a wallet, two really soft shirts and a knit beanie cap.
I pulled the beanie on and smiled. My dad tugged it down over my ears and gave the side of my head a gentle pat.
“I got this because you need to keep your head warm. You could have the warmest coat, but with a cold head, it doesn’t help much.”
“It’s not that cold here, Dad.”
“It’s a different kind of cold. A damp cold. I’ve been noticing you rub at your left ear a lot. Does it hurt?”
“No, not really. I mean, sometimes it aches but I don’t think it’s from the cold.” And before I could stop myself, I nodded when he asked me if I was ever hit in my ear or side of my head.
“After the holiday, I want an ENT doctor to take a look at it.”
“What’s an ENT?”
“Ear, nose and throat doctor.”
Oh, that made sense.
The rest of the day we spent watching Christmas movies and I played with my backpack taking note of all the pockets and pouches for things. I kept my beanie on because I liked how it felt over my ears. Maybe it was because of the cold, damp air or maybe it was just comfortable to be covered after so many years of being hit there.
Chapter Four
January 1991
I started school after the holiday break in January. My first day in my new school went well. It was the first time I had gone to school not self-conscious about what I was wearing or worried about what Connor would do. I wasn’t afraid to go home afterward either. My dad made sure I had money for lunch too, which was another first for me in high school. Back in Las Vegas, I never had the luxury of taking lunch or having money to buy lunch. Some of the guys on the baseball team sometimes didn’t want stuff in their lunch, and they’d give it to me.
My dad arranged to leave work early to pick me up from school. I told him I could walk, but he said that with my recent injuries, he didn’t want me walking and carrying a backpack full of books.
“How was school today?” My dad asked as I got into his car. I was tired again.
“Fine.”
“Do you have a lot of homework tonight?”
“Not too much. I finished stuff for my morning classes during lunch.”
“Did you eat lunch?”
“Yes.”
He tried starting conversations with me the entire way home. I just felt so out of it. Quickly though, my dad caught on.
“Are you feeling ok, Anthony? You look a little sluggish.”
“I think I feel ok, but I’m so tired. I don’t have any energy.”
My dad was quiet the rest of the way home, and as we pulled into the garage, he suggested that I take a nap for a little while. That sounded like a great idea. I went to my room, let my backpack slide off my shoulders to the floor, and flopped face first onto the bed. I could hear my dad picking up my backpack and setting it on my desk, and then I felt the bed dip. Out of habit, I started to sit up. Whenever I felt my bed dip back home, bad shit happened. It’s just a habit.
“Sorry,” I said and let my body fall back to the mattress.
“It’s alright, Anthony. I just want to feel your forehead, ok?”
“‘K,” I mumbled.
The warmth of his hand against my forehead felt really nice. He announced that I didn’t feel warm and he asked if I wanted to take off my jacket. I just want to sleep. I wrangled myself out of my jacket with his help and then felt the blanket being pulled up over me. When I was sure that he was gone, I pulled my plush football under the blanket and dozed off.
“Anthony, son...wake up, you need to eat some dinner,” my dad’s calm voice was pulling me from my sleep.
I didn’t want to get up. I wasn’t even hungry. I rolled over and faced away from him and tugged the blanket up over my head. Moments later the blanket was pulled down, and my eyes shot open.
My stepfather entered my thoughts, and I quickly sat up in bed. The look on my dad’s face was sympathetic, and I hated it when he looked at me like that.
“Sorry, I’m up. I’ll eat,” I said and held my hands up in defense. I looked at the clock on my nightstand in shock. “It’s 7:30! I’ve been asleep for over five hours!”
“Relax, Anthony. Your body is telling you that you need sleep. But, right now, I’m telling you that you need some food. Come downstairs long enough to eat.”
I nodded and followed him downstairs and took up what had become my spot at the table. He made sandwiches, and I scarfed it down before my dad had finished making his. I leaned back in the chair and let my eyes close for a few minutes.
“Anthony,” my dad said my name before I felt his hand on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes and looked at him.
“Son, why are you shaking?” I frowned because I didn’t think that I was. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
I felt an ache in my side and set my hand over my stomach. My stomach was quivering. Suddenly, I really wanted out of the kitchen.
“I’m tired, Dad.”
“Anthony, you don’t have to sit here. I just wanted you to eat. Let me help you back to bed.”
“I can manage.”
I took my plate to the dishwasher and then went to the cupboard for my pill before heading back upstairs. I quickly changed into my pajamas and crawled under the blankets with my football.
It was agony to pull myself out of bed when the alarm clock went off. I didn’t wake up from any bad dreams, but I don’t feel like I got any rest. I went through the motions of taking a shower, brushing my teeth and getting dressed. With my backpack over one shoulder, I walked into the kitchen. I set my bag on the chair as my dad greeted me.
“Morning, Anthony.”
“Hey,” I said.
When I flopped down at the table, I pulled my American Literature book from my backpack and began skimming the assignment from yesterday.
“How do you feel this morning?”
“Tired.”
I devoured breakfast and tried concentrating on the assignment, but I just kept reading the same thing over and over. Nothing was sinking in. I made it through school, and as soon as I got home, I went to bed again.
Around 10:30, I woke up from a nightmare and had to get away from my bed. I went downstairs and turned the TV on and curled up on the couch. It wasn’t very long before my dad came downstairs. It’s like he has radar on me.
“Hey, you doing ok, son?” he asked and sat down next to my feet.
I nodded and sat up, but pulled my legs up on the couch.
“Nightmare or are you not feeling well?”
“Nightmare woke me up,” I said and put my hand under my shirt. “Dad, am I going to have a scar?” He was quiet, so I prompted him again. “From the knife,” I added as if he had no idea what I was talking about.
He exhaled loudly and wrapped his arm around me.
“I won’t lie to you, Anthony, but yes. You will have that mark with you for life.”
Deep down, I think I probably knew that. But when he confirmed that, I felt so angry and just started crying. He pulled me against him and encouraged me to cry.
No, I wasn’t going to cry about this. I took a deep breath and went back to staring at the TV.
Chapter Five
January 1991
The medication is starting to take its toll on him. He’s relaxing some. While that’s a good thing, I also see the signs of the medication numbing him.
Often when I look at him during the past few weeks, I can see the vacant expression on his face. Then as
the medicine wears off, he’s a wreck until he takes the next dose.
I’ve caught him a few times just staring at the TV. Half the time I don’t even think he’s aware of what’s on. The medicine isn’t helping him.
He’s even made comments about how out of it he feels sometimes. I hate seeing him struggle, but I don’t like what the medication is doing to him either.
I’m concerned and am going to talk with his doctors.
Chapter Six
January 1991
I was enjoying my new school a lot because I no longer feared being called out of class. I had clothes that fit, and I seemed to blend in well with other kids. None of the teachers knew anything about me either, which also was a good thing. I went to school with food in my stomach, and I wasn’t afraid to go home either.
Things were going well, but I was bothered by the fact that I was having a hard time in class with the work. I don’t think it was more difficult than it was in Las Vegas, but my level of concentration was suddenly much different, and I didn’t understand why. The things I feared so much for all of my life up to this point were now removed.
I signed up for an extra study session each week for my physics class because I couldn’t seem to grasp everything that I thought I needed to during the regular daily class. I had always done well in school, I think mainly because I knew it was going to be my only way out from Bruce and my mom. Despite the extra help each week, I wasn’t feeling any improvement, and on test day, everything appeared to be a foreign language to me.
I was nearly sick over the test as I took it. I learned fairly early what happened if I got less than perfect grades. I got a “C” in a subject in elementary school, and Connor pulled me out of class to show me the importance of good grades. My experience with a report card grade that was less than an “A” came in middle school…and I never earned anything less than an “A” on my report card ever again. Panic started setting in as I watched the minutes tick by. At the end of class, I was sweating and felt like I was burning up with a fever.
My dad knew that I had been getting extra help after school in preparation for the big test, and when he picked me up, it was the first thing he asked me.
“So, how do you think you did on the physics test?”
“Hard to say. I think I passed.”
“You doing ok? You look a little flushed.”
“I think I worked myself up over this test. I’m fine. Maybe we should switch my pill time to before school instead of at night,” I suggested.
“Anthony, we can explore that as an option, but nighttime is when you have the most difficulty with relaxing.”
He was right. I just hated feeling like I did today at school.
“Why, Anthony? What’s got you thinking you need it before school?”
I shrugged and suddenly grew very agitated.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you feeling tense, or stressed?”
“I DON’T KNOW!”
“Anthony, calm down. Maybe instead of switching the pills around, we should spend another day each week with David.”
The fucking counselor. He wants me to sit in there a blab about shit.
“I don’t want to see David any more than what you’re already forcing me to see him.”
“It will help you, son.”
“Yeah? When the hell is it going to start helping? Huh? I’ve been seeing him since the second day I arrived here and guess what? HE’S NOT HELPING ME!”
“It will take time, Anthony. Things don’t happen overnight. Son, you lived through seventeen years of abuse in all forms—”
“I love how you have to keep bringing that up.”
“Anthony—”
“Why didn’t you ever come see me?” Tears started to fall and it pissed me off. Why did I seem to cry all of the fucking time in front of him? I know it just proved him right and that I really was a mess. “I had seventeen years’ worth because my dad didn’t give a shit.”
The car was quiet for a few minutes. My head was throbbing now, and I felt terrible for saying that. I was just happy that he came for me that day.
“I’m sorry, Anthony. That is a mistake that I have to live with. And believe me, I’ve thought about it nearly every minute since I arrived in that emergency room and saw you in December. Nothing will ever take that pain away. Knowing what happened to you because I wasn’t around, is a terrible feeling. I can tell you that I screwed up and that I’m sorry, but it’s not going to make you feel any better, and it’s not going to help you. It’s not going to take any of the bruises or welts away, or heal the physical wounds. It’s not going to soothe the heartache either. But I’m going to do everything that I can to help you recover from this.”
I closed my eyes and tried calming down because my heart was racing again.
“I’m sorry for throwing that at you. It’s not your fault. I just don’t want to see David. I hate talking about all the crap he asks me. It’s hard talking about.”
“I understand that, Anthony. But we need to try.”
I nodded and took a deep breath. When we got home, I busied myself with homework, even though I couldn’t concentrate on it.
I couldn’t sleep at all due to my worries of seeing the grade tomorrow. This was also a first for me; loss of sleep due to worries about grades. After dinner, I took my anti-anxiety pill, and I felt a little better by the time I went to bed, but not great.
I sluggishly moved through my morning routine. When I sat down in my physics class,
I nearly passed out when I got my test back.
F.
F as in failed.
F as in fuck.
In horror, I checked the name at the top of the paper...Anthony Graves. Nope, no chance it was someone else’s. This fucking shit was all mine. What was worse, was a phrase that nearly made me throw up: “See me, please.”
I felt sick. There was no chance that I’d be able to pay any attention to anything going on in class today. Not with the fucking “F” staring at me. Students were filing out when I realized that class was over.
I quickly shoved my book and lab manual in my backpack and carried my shameful “F” paper to the teacher’s desk. My teacher gave me a sympathetic smile as I approached her desk.
“Anthony. What happened with you and this test?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know. I swallowed, hoping to get some moisture back in my mouth.
“I know you’re a recent transfer here, but the adjustment period should be over.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re a senior, Anthony. You have a few months left before graduation. You’re going to need to dig deep and work hard to turn this grade around.”
“I know. I will. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know what else to say to her. I was disgusted in myself.
“Anthony, I saw your transfer grades. You were an honor student in Las Vegas. Are you having a difficult time adjusting to California?”
I shook my head.
“No, I’m fine. I seem to be having a hard time with these lessons. I’ll examine the questions that I missed tonight.”
“Anthony,” she said and took the stapled papers from my hand and flipped through pointing out a few different pages. “It’s not that the answers were incorrect, but you didn’t even answer, or attempt to answer some of them.”
She handed me back my papers and excused me. I hurried to my last class of the day feeling horrible. Even though I knew it wasn’t going to happen, I still kept my eye on the door to the classroom. Sometimes Connor would pull me out of class to mess with me.
As my math teacher roamed around the front of the class, all I could think about was the time in middle school when I got the “C” on my report card.
My teacher was talking to another student who had just walked into our class with a slip of paper in their hand. I knew it was going to be for me. She nodded and looked up at me.
“Anthony,” she called and motioned for me.
I nodded and gathered my books.
“Anthony, the principal would like to speak with you.”
I accepted the hall pass and headed slowly to his office. The office lady gave me a stern look as I approached her desk and handed her my pass.
“I honestly don’t know how you get yourself into so much trouble. All of the teachers say you’re a delightful young man.”
I shrugged and took my seat. I looked at the clock and sighed. I just wanted him to hurry up so I could go to lunch. While I was studying a new found hole by my big toe on my shoes, I heard his door open, and then he appeared.
“Mr. Graves.”
His tone told me he was furious and suddenly I grew terrified. I slowly stood and followed him to his office, and the second he shut the door, his hand gripped the back of my neck tightly, and he guided me to his desk.
“Don’t even bother sitting down. A ‘C,’ Anthony? That’s all the better you can do is a ‘C’? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but an education is your only hope in life. Your parents have nothing saved for your education. They blow it on drugs and booze.”
“Bruce isn’t my father.”
Connor slapped me hard across my face. I brought my hand up to rub my cheek.
“The last time I checked, you don’t have one. You truly are a little bastard. You are nothing more than an accidental shot of cum.”
I hated hearing that. I did have a dad. He sent me a bear when I was little, and he called me on Christmas and a few times during the school year. I have a dad.
Connor had already turned the blinds closed that covered the big window that overlooks the courtyard of the school. He moved to his credenza and took out the wooden pointer used in classrooms. I sighed inwardly as he swung it in the air before he pointed to the right side of his desk. It had already been cleared for me.
“You know the drill, Anthony. Don’t make a sound.”
I knew the drill and knew it well. I unbuttoned and unzipped my pants as I moved toward the desk. Bending over the desk, I reached out and took hold of the edge. Connor yanked my pants and underwear down, and then the beating started. I think that I was hit twenty times before I heard his belt being unbuckled, followed by the unmistakable sound of a zipper.
