by Julie Frayn
“Shut up and go to sleep!” the father yelled from somewhere upstairs.
When the door finally opened, the room was bright with morning sunlight. He squinted against it and stood to exit the closet. His pants were damp with urine, the floor wet.
“You stupid little shit!” The foster mother handed him paper towels and bleach. “Clean that up!”
He stood when he was finished. She yanked his shirt off over his head and spun him around to face her husband who grabbed him by the arms. The man’s eyes were filled with sinister smugness mixed with twisted enjoyment.
Excruciating pain seared across his back. He screamed and fell to his knees onto the cold tile and out of the man’s grip. He tried to crawl away, but a second strike sent fire from his shoulder blade down to his ass. His arms and legs quaked, useless in any attempted escape. Each new impact brought fresh agony and tortured wails. After countless hits, his cries grew fainter until they were just mumbled groans. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
She slammed the bottle of bleach down beside his head and tossed the roll of paper towels next to it. Then a metal yardstick, sticky with blood, clanged to the floor in front of him.
“Clean that off. The floor, too.” She watched as he did as he was told. “There’s some on that wall, wipe that down.”
He sobbed through the chore. He could think only of his mother. At that moment he missed her, confused by a longing for her presence. Why hadn’t he told those cops he’d burned himself? They would have left her alone. He would still be home.
When he finished cleaning, he stood on trembling legs, grabbed the counter for support and stared at the bitch he could no longer call any kind of mother.
“That’ll teach you how to behave in this house,” she spat.
Not long after the second Christmas, after more than a year in that house of horrors, after he’d endured four yardstick whippings, a different case worker from child services knocked on the door. His mother was clean. They were taking him home. Just like that.
The foster bitch reached out to hug him goodbye but he backed away before she could touch him.
“We’ll miss you, sweetie. He’s such a good boy.” She turned a fake smile on the case worker. “So, how soon can we get another child?”
Within the hour he was at the door to his mother’s apartment. When she opened it, he cried, threw himself into her bony frame and hugged her hard.
She didn’t say a thing. Just patted him on the shoulder with the hand that wasn’t holding a cigarette. She peeled him off and pointed in the general direction of the living room. “Go sit on the couch.”
The case worker reeled off what she had to do. Stay clean, send him to school, feed him. Said they’d be back to check up on him and ensure she complied. They never did come back.
When the case worker walked away, his mother clicked the door shut and leaned her forehead against it. She turned to look at him, her face cold, arms crossed.
He smiled, surprised by a warm feeling of genuine affection for her. He stepped toward her, holding out his arms, desperate for contact, for kindness. For love.
“I can’t believe you called the cops, you sorry little bastard!” He hadn’t even bridged half the short gap between them when she turned on him. Her body shivered, her sickly grey skin covered in goose bumps. “No one has come around to see me for months. I’m sick as a fucking dog thanks to you, you son of a bitch.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and bounced in place like a little kid needing to piss. “Gaaawwd, I need a hit.”
“B-but, Mom. I thought you got clean for me.”
“I got nothing! For nobody! But they said I was straight enough, said they’d bring you home.” She threw her hands up beside her face and shook them, palms forward, fingers splayed. “Yippee.” She turned her back to him, snatched another cigarette from the counter and lit it. Drawing in a deep wheeze of smoke, she looked at him over her shoulder. “Go to your room. Leave me alone,” she said on the exhale.
He stomped away, slammed his door, lay on his old bed and stared up at the stained ceiling. She knew he’d be home, but she couldn’t even put a sheet on the mattress for him. She didn’t give a shit if he was all right. Didn’t even notice he’d grown at least four inches. Probably wouldn’t care about the scars on his back. How could he think, even for a moment, that she cared about him?
Within an hour a series of sharp knocks startled him, then the door squeaked open and thudded shut. Muffled voices through his bedroom door spoke familiar words that filled him with dread. Then it flew open, and there stood Vincent. Could he smell him or something? It did no good to fight, he couldn’t stop it from happening. So he just gave in and got it over with. It hurt less that way. At least this time that prick didn’t butt a cigarette out on him. And nobody whipped him bloody.
Over the next months, the apartment became a revolving door of men. They alternated between fucking his mother and raping him. He wasn’t even sure if it was rape anymore. He had quit fighting. He didn’t want it. Didn’t like it. He just did it.
By summer his mother was so strung out she couldn’t even shoot herself up anymore. She asked him to do it for her. Vincent taught him how, step by step. The first time he stuck her with the needle, his hands shook so hard he missed the vein twice. Vincent was surprisingly patient. His mother just laughed.
One winter morning, late the following January, she woke him up and told him to come out of his room.
Bleary eyed, he plodded into the living room, rubbing his hands through his hair, and found good old Vincent sitting on the far end of the ratty couch. He groaned. “Come on man, gimme a break today.”
“Today? What’s so special about today?”
“It’s my birthday, man. Maybe my present could be that you don’t fuck me, huh?”
“Is that today?” His mother looked at him, her eyes dull and uninterested. “Which birthday is this?”
“Thirteen, Mom. Thanks for remembering. As usual.”
Vincent stood and extended his right hand. “Happy birthday, boy. Thirteen, hey? I guess I have to call you man now.”
“Really?” Did Vincent not see some kind of irony in that? “That’s what makes me a man?” He hesitated and then accepted the handshake with a limp hand.
“You bet it does.” Vincent tightened his grip and pulled him forward. He forced Reese onto the couch and then sat on his legs. “Done deal, I won’t fuck you today. But it’s time to give you wings, boy.”
“What? No! I don’t want that shit in me!” He pushed against Vincent’s thick shoulder, but the heavy man didn’t budge, just sat on his legs and cooked smack in that damn spoon.
His mother kneeled on the floor next to him and patted his arm. “Relax, baby. Lay back.” She pressed her hand against his chest and eased him back until he was lying flat on the couch, her face just inches from his. She stroked his hair and looked him right in the eye. “You’re going to love this. It’s the most perfect feeling. No pain, no worry. Just warmth and love. Trust me, baby.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The only time they touched was when he was smacking her arm or poking around, trying to find a vein he could inject her with heroin. He’d forgotten he had her eyes. That bluest of blue that, up close, still had a wisp of sparkle.
She brushed her thumb against his cheek and flashed a sweet smile while Vincent tied off his arm.
He should have objected. Should have stopped that man from poisoning his body, polluting his mind. Should have asked his mother why she was letting Vincent do this to her own child. But it was the most compassion she’d ever shown him. He was riveted, didn’t want to break the spell. She finally had something to share with him, something they could love together. He was connected to her for the first time in years.
A pinprick of pain was followed by a burning sensation, then a warm rush coursing through his veins. Something tugged at his throat and nausea rolled up his body. It ebbed in his chest, the bile subsiding. Warmth spr
ead through him, over his skin and up into his scalp until it rippled out through his hair. He was floating, painless. Happy. It was the best birthday present he’d ever gotten.
In the mornings that followed, his first waking thought was about that initial high, that peaceful feeling he had never known before. That perfect moment. He wanted that again. Within a week the craving occupied every moment of the day. He used to watch junkies shooting up in the alley out of curiosity – now he watched with envy. He knew what they were feeling – and he wanted to join in. But he didn’t trust any of them. And he refused to ask his mother for it. He didn’t want anything at all from her. Their connection had only lasted as long as that first high, then they were back where they started – resentful. And hating each other.
He struggled in the coming weeks, battling his craving for that perfect feeling heroin brought him. One morning, out of desperation to feel something – anything – he picked up his mother’s cigarettes and lit one, inhaling fast. A rush of blood to his head made him dizzy and he coughed the smoke out. His throat burned and a small surge of adrenaline flew through his body. A miniature high. It didn’t last much longer than the inhale, but it was worth doing again. He took another long drag. No coughing this time and the taste was intriguing. At least cigarettes wouldn’t kill him. Not as quickly, anyway.
When he had smoked it down almost to the filter, he eyed the smoldering remains. He lifted his shirt and pressed the lit end to his ribs. Another rush of adrenaline ran through him as the ember seared his skin. When he pulled the cigarette away, the relief was immediate. The pain was intense and short-lived, his mind focused and clear. He was in control of the torture, in control of when it stopped. Just plain in control.
His body soon adapted to the new stimulants. The rush he got from nicotine lapsed into just another craving he had to feed. Even butting the cigarettes on his skin had lost the desired effect. His control was absolute, the pain fully anticipated. The release barely registered.
He awoke one day in March, shaking and agitated. The inescapable craving was intense – he had to feed it. In the kitchen he pulled the bag his mother kept her works in from above the fridge. No heroin. Just needles and tea lights and alcohol swabs and the spoon. He threw the bag back into the cupboard and swore. Stupid bitch used it all. That meant only one thing – someone was coming to visit today.
Maybe a stray baggie lay around somewhere, some residue or skiff of powder to take the edge off. His hands quaked. He rummaged in the drawers. He yanked one open, loose cutlery clattered against the wood. The blade of a paring knife caught the light of the bare bulb overhead. He stared at the knife and then picked it up, turning it side to side, watching the light glinting off its edge.
He held the blade flat against his arm a few inches above his wrist and pressed. The blade pushed against his skin, leaving a thin indent when he pulled it away. He angled the blade and touched it to his arm again, then slowly drew it across. When a trickle of blood left his veins and wet his skin it was sweet release, like the shit of his life left with it. He watched thick crimson drip from the shallow wound. His mind cleared, he was focused and alert.
He rinsed the knife under the kitchen tap, wiped it off on his jeans and put it back in the drawer. He let cool water run over his arm, intrigued as it mixed with his blood creating pink swirls that circled the drain. He held a paper towel to his arm until the blood clotted, then put on a jacket and left the apartment before Vincent or one of those other bastards descended on him.
For the rest of that month he alternated between releases. Fresh pink scars crisscrossed his forearm, each new cut a bit higher than the last. Sneaking his mother’s cigarettes one at a time wasn’t enough, so he just stole whole packs. She figured she had smoked them herself – he could dupe her into believing almost anything. And he shot up whenever he felt like it. It took a few tries to get used to doing it to himself, but he soon figured out how to overcome the awkward angle, the syringe gripped in his fist, his thumb on the plunger.
He abided by his mother’s increasing indifference and unresponsive daze. She never noticed the wounds on his arms, the burns on his ribs, the scars on his back from the foster mother’s yardstick whippings. He didn’t even bother to try to hide them from her. It was like she didn’t see him at all.
The drugs didn’t last long with him using too. He was sick of the men, sick of Vincent. But he needed them. He needed what they brought. He was tired of sharing with his mother what he paid dearly for. It was just wasted on her.
He learned from the junkies on the street to cut the heroin with talcum powder. The high wasn’t as intense and it burned more going in – but she never noticed. The best part was each baggie lasted twice as long, and the dealers didn’t come around as often.
In early May, three sharp raps a full second apart followed by two quick ones shook the apartment door. Vincent. Reese opened the door to this man that had become like a perverse father figure to him. A father in some twisted, parallel universe way, where it was acceptable for fathers to fuck their own kids.
“You bring my stuff?” his mother’s voice cracked from the living room.
“Yeah, of course I did. You’ll get it after, like always. Come on, boy.” Vincent grabbed Reese’s arm.
He yanked it away. “No fucking way, I’m done with that shit. Go fuck my mother. Better yet,” he growled, “go fuck yourself.” He’d grown so much he now looked Vincent in the eye. He glowered at the man he used to be so afraid of. Now he saw him for what he was. Just a pudgy, balding pusher. A bully – nothing more.
Vincent raised one eyebrow. “Your mother? She’s a disgusting, used up skank. Nobody wants that hag. But you? Well, you got lots of use left in you. Now, come on, pretty boy. Let’s go.”
Reese threw a wild punch. His fist caught nothing but air. The force of the follow through sent him off balance and he stumbled to one side. He regained his footing and spun around.
Vincent’s thick fist cracked against the side of his head. In an instant, everything went black.
Reese opened his eyes, blinking to focus in the faint light. Sharp flashes streaked across his vision, the room a distorted haze. When the blur cleared, he was laying on the couch in nothing but his t-shirt and boxers, his mother asleep in her chair, oblivious as usual.
Vincent sat at his feet and glanced up at him, then tossed two baggies onto his lap. “Didn’t think you were going to wake up. There’s extra there, a little bonus for making me knock you out. Next time, don’t fight it.” He reached across, patted and then squeezed Reese’s leg just above the knee. “I like it better when you’re awake.” He winked.
Reese didn’t move a muscle, just stared. “Next time?” His voice was ice cold. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
Vincent burst out laughing. “Sure you will, kid.” He walked out of the apartment without another word and slammed the door behind him.
Reese grabbed his jeans from the floor and yanked them on. He stood over his mother and stared at her as she snored. Deep crevasses lined her sallow skin, framed her mouth, and crisscrossed her forehead, her thirty-two year-old face looking every bit like a grandmother in her seventies. Her body was emaciated, cheeks hollow, dark circles ringing her puffy eyes. That’s what she got when the high mattered and nothing else did. That bastard was right, she was a used up skank. Her hooker clothes barely covered her body, let alone the bright purple bruises that never healed, track marks down her thighs and up her left arm. That arm was worthless, a couple of blown veins made it impossible to find a good place to inject. Her right arm still took a poke though – lucky for her he knew how to shoot her up. She was useless with her left hand. Useless all around.
He slapped her cheeks. “Mom, wake up.”
Nothing.
He hit her arm hard with an open palm. “Get up you fucking bitch! I earned your shit for you. Again.”
She stirred and opened her eyes, then patted his arm with a limp, clammy hand. “You gonna fix me, baby?”
>
He went to the cupboard over the fridge and pulled out the bag, grabbed a dirty glass from the counter then splashed water into it from the tap. He sat on the arm of the couch next to her chair and emptied the bag onto the table at her knees. He filled the spoon with heroin, then drizzled water over the top. The flame from her lighter easily penetrated the metal, and the mixture soon bubbled into liquid.
“What a good boy. Takin’ care of me. Vinnie’s good to us, hey?”
“Yeah, Mom. He’s a real prince.”
He’d grown to hate her these past few years, but today his loathing climaxed. He was exhausted by it all, fed up with her, with the dealers. With this life. He absolved himself of any responsibility for her. He didn’t change the needle, didn’t clean the spoon. She didn’t even notice.
He tied off her arm just above the elbow with the shoelace from his old runners that had long ago replaced the filthy and deteriorated rubber tube she used to use. He filled the syringe, making sure to leave enough room for draw back. He was skilled at this – a thirteen year-old expert at shooting up.
He smacked her arm a few times, then poked at it with his index finger. He inserted the needle, drawing back until blood agitated the drugs. He released the shoelace with one hand, his other thumb depressing the plunger. He slowly pushed her true love inside her, and then withdrew.
She never came down any more. Her consistent scheduled hits sustained a level high. She would just lay there snoring and slobbering in her sleep, or grinning like an idiot if she had her eyes open. She never found that euphoria he still felt. Never showed any change at all. Her body and brain had adapted so well, it just kept the pain away, didn’t bring new happiness, no real release.
She stared at her skin where the needle had stuck her. Then her head rolled back and an orgasmic moan escaped her lips. “Oh, baby. That’s good shit.” She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes clearer than they’d been in weeks.
