“Then why not?”
David stood and went to his dresser. Sliding a drawer open, he pulled out a piece of paper and came back to the couch. He handed it to me as he sat back down. “They left this, taped to the inside of my door.”
I read the page a couple of times, trying to comprehend why someone would want to hurt David, or myself for that matter. I glanced up at him, and he had that same scared look in his eyes that he had when we first met. It was affecting him on some deeper level than I understood.
“Who would do this?”
He inhaled, slow and steady, like he was bracing himself before he spoke. “My father.”
That, I was not expecting. I felt my eyebrows shoot up before I had the chance to control myself, pure reflex. David noticed, and winced. “I don’t get it. Why would your father be threatening you?”
He turned to me. “He blames me for going to prison.”
Surprise after surprise.
“I…David, I don’t understand.”
His eyes pinched closed tight. I knew the tactic, I had seen Ryan use it when we were younger and he had a particularly bad day at school, and all he wanted to do was cry, but he couldn’t bring himself to let it out. David was doing that, forcing himself not to let the pain out.
“David,” I whispered, “tell me.”
“It’ll mess everything up.”
I leaned into him, and kissed his cheek. “No, it won’t, baby. I’ll still be here.”
I could see the emotional war going on inside him. He wanted to let it out, all the years of pain, but he didn’t know how. He needed a nudge.
I took his arm in my hands and turned it forearm side up, and slid up his sleeve so the scar on his wrist was visible. His eyes went wide and a tear slid down his cheek.
“Tell me about this.” I nodded to the scar.
“You’ll leave. You don’t know what I’ve done.”
And there it was, the thing he was most frightened of. I could hear it in his voice as he said the words, and my heart cracked.
“Never. I couldn’t. I love you too much. Walking away from you would be like leaving a piece of my soul behind. I couldn’t bear it.”
I hadn’t intended to say it, at least not that way, but every word of it was true. That unnamed “thing” I had been feeling, that had been growing inside me for months, did have a name. I just didn’t know what it was until that very moment.
His eyes flew open in surprise. “You love me?”
“You have no idea how much. Let me help you.”
I took back his hand and covered it with my own.
The next breath was shaky as was the one after that, but each subsequent one was calmer as I sat and patiently waited. It was his story to tell, and I was going to listen, without interruption.
“My mother died when I was eleven,” he began. “An aggressive form of ovarian cancer. Dylan and I were too young to understand what was going on. All we knew was that our mommy was in the hospital one day and not coming home the next. I remember her funeral. Dylan stayed at my side the entire time, but our father was lost. He sat at the front of the viewing parlor and just stared at her casket. He wouldn’t move. People would walk up to him and offer their condolences, but he would just ignore them and stare at the casket. He was completely unreadable. I think he lost himself the day she was buried, and he never got it back.
“We tried to be a normal family afterwards, but it didn’t work. My father drank more and more. And when he drank, he got angry at the world. He would rage against the smallest thing; a dirty cup left in the sink or clothes left on the bedroom floor. Pretty soon his rages turned verbally abusive. He would call me names, telling me he wished I’d never been born, told me he wished I’d died instead of my mother.”
As David spoke, his voice took on an eerily calm tone, as if it were someone else doing the speaking.
“As time went on, the rages turned violent. I was thirteen the first time he hit me. That first one was a smack across the face because I wouldn’t eat my dinner. But then, it was like the floodgates opened, and he knew he could take that anger out on me. Dylan would run and hide in his bedroom closet while my father beat me, sometimes with his belt and sometimes with his bare hands. He never hit Dylan, and there was a part of me that was thankful, and a part that resented it. Why was I the target? Why was any of it happening? He’d lost his wife, but we lost our fucking mother, and he couldn’t see that. He couldn’t see past his own anger to see we were hurting too.
“The funny thing about Toledo is, you think it’s a bigger town than what it really is. Everyone in school knew what had happened with my mom and that my dad was a drunk because of it. I would get teased about it, mercilessly. I didn’t know how to fight back. I had too much to fight against. My dad’s drinking. The bullies at school. The beatings. I would walk through the school like a zombie or pretend like I was invisible. I couldn’t have friends because none of the parents wanted their kids around my dad, and none of the kids wanted to be around a freak like me. It got to the point where I felt like I was literally looking into my life from outside it. It couldn’t be real.
“Then one night, I think I was fourteen, I had left my shoes outside in the rain. My father was livid because the shoes were ruined. He sat on the couch, calm as could be, holding those soaked shoes, and told me to go into the closet of his bedroom and pick out a belt. I knew what it meant. I cried all the way down the hall and even as I picked the belt. I went back into the living room and handed him the belt, tears streaming down my face. But he didn’t seem to care. He grabbed me by the arm and shoved me toward the recliner, and told me to bend over and grab the arm of the chair. I tried arguing. I tried begging. I tried everything that I could think of, but nothing worked. So, I grabbed the arm of the chair and closed my eyes as tight as I could. Maybe if I didn’t see it, it wasn’t happening.
“He hit my ass first. I can still hear the sharp crack of the belt. I remember wincing but not crying out. I had become used to the abuse by that point, desensitized to it. I guess he didn’t get the reaction he wanted, so he hit me again. And again. And again. Every time he hit me, it was higher and higher on my back. He started at the small of my back, and slowly made his way up until he was whipping me across the shoulder blades. Every time he hit me, my resolve crumbled more and more until I couldn’t hold back anymore. Finally, he broke me, and I cried, sobbing into the arm of the recliner. At first, he was quiet as he did it, but as my crying got louder, he started yelling at me. He told me how worthless I was. How he wished I’d never been born. How he never wanted a faggot for a son.
“I don’t know how he knew I was gay. I hadn’t come to terms with it yet myself. I only had a small inkling, and had been fighting against it. I couldn’t be gay on top of everything else. How did he know?”
David stopped talking. I prayed he was done, that his tortured memories were at an end, but instinctively, I knew better. His forehead was creased and his eyebrows came together as he glanced at me. I felt his hand begin to shake, and somehow knew that the worst was coming.
I gave his hand a squeeze, and tried to pour as much of my strength through that connection as I could. I held that hand tight, linking him to me and letting him know that I was there while he was lost in his memories.
After a moment, he’d composed himself, and he continued.
“The next day, Dad actually went to work. To this day, I’m amazed he could function, but I guess he’d learned how to function through a haze of booze.
“So, he went to work. Dylan and I usually walked to school together. I was a freshman in high school by then and he was in the eighth grade. We’d left the house, and I made up a story to Dylan about leaving a textbook in my bedroom. I told him to head on without me and that I’d see him after school. I remember that I kissed him on the forehead and told him that I loved him, and he looked at me funny. I’d never done that before, so it was completely out of the ordinary, but I didn’t wait for him to respond. I t
urned around and headed back into the house.
“I knew what I planned to do. Hell, I’d been thinking about it for a while. But it wasn’t until the whipping the night before that I’d made the decision. I figured that if I wasn’t around anymore, Dad would finally be happy. He’d get what he wanted, and Dylan would finally have the father he deserved to have.
“I walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and stripped. Then I turned on the bathwater and plugged the tub. As the tub filled, I went looking in the medicine cabinet for a razor blade, and set it on the side of the tub. I remember climbing into the bathtub and thinking it was strange that the water was so hot that it was steaming up the mirror, but I couldn’t feel it.
“I let the water run until it came to my chin, then used my feet to turn it off.
“I just lay there and let my arms float. I practiced breathing, deep breath in, deep breath out.
“I didn’t think about it when I reached for the blade. It was like I was on autopilot or someone else was in control.
“I did my left arm first, and I remember feeling the burn as the blade cut through my skin. The blood from the cut ran like a river down my arm and dripped into the bathtub, and I watched it like I was hypnotized. It spread, mixing with the water until it finally disappeared. Then I did my right arm and felt that same burn.
“I laid my arms back into the water and let them float. I watched my blood drip into the water, turning it a dull pink. I wasn’t even scared. I was calm, like I knew I had made the right decision. I was convinced that I was the problem and that everyone would be better off without me. My dad would be happier and so would Dylan.
“I don’t know how long I lay there staring at the pink water, but eventually I started to feel tired. I remember closing my eyes and allowing myself to float. I don’t know if I was just floating in the water or the blood loss was causing hallucinations. All I know is that I was relaxed and at peace. Finally. I think more than I had been in years.
“I don’t know how long I was in that tub. I don’t even remember how I ended up in the hospital. All I know is that I woke up alone in a hospital bed, with an IV in my arm and both wrists bandaged.”
David stopped and looked at me curiously. “You’re crying.”
I hadn’t realized I was until he pointed it out. I had suspected he had endured a lot, but I couldn’t have known how much. My heart was breaking for the boy he’d been and the childhood he’d lost. I wished there was some way I could go back in time and beat his father or rescue him and take him away from all that pain. For the first time in my life, I was at a complete loss. I didn’t know what to do to help him. I couldn’t stop him from attempting suicide, I couldn’t take away the pain that led him to that decision, and I couldn’t beat his father to a pulp.
All I could do is sit there, holding his hand, and cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I shouldn’t be. I don’t have the right.”
“I call bullshit on that.”
I favored him with a small grin, but I didn’t feel it entirely. I was still processing everything he had just told me.
“Adam?” His voice was small and distant, dripping with fear as he said my name. That fear was mirrored in his eyes when I looked at him. “I’d understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Walking away.”
My brain was addled and I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. “Walking away? Who’s leaving?”
“I really wouldn’t blame you. I mean, after everything you just heard, I couldn’t. Really, why wouldn’t you?”
“Because, David. Didn’t you hear me before? I love you. I can’t walk away.”
“I don’t understand how or why.”
“You really don’t do you? I’ve told you all along, and you still don’t believe it. You’re strong. You were strong enough to survive what your father put you through as a kid. And fuck knows, no one should have to go through what you did. But you did, and you came out the other side stronger because of it. And more compassionate than you have a right to be. Jesus, David, I’m not going anywhere. Even if you wanted me to, I wouldn’t.”
I could see my words having an effect. Belief and understanding slowly emerged in his face, along with a trace of hope.
I leaned into him. I needed to taste him, to feel that he was alive to make me feel alive. I kissed him, and it was everything I had hoped it would be. I brushed his hair out of his face as I leaned back, retaking his hand just to feel his warmth.
“Adam, I love you too.”
The smile that came from me could have lit a thousand suns. I had suspected it, but hearing those words meant more to me than I could have ever imagined. There was weight behind them, and responsibility. Everyone that had ever loved David had disappointed him or hurt him in some way. I couldn’t and wouldn’t be another in that long line.
I brushed his hair out of his face as I sat back down, leaving my hand on his forehead just to feel its warmth.
“As much as I hate to bring this up, it still doesn’t explain why your father would do this to you,” I said, holding up the note.
“Because I’m the reason he went to prison. At least, that’s what he believes.”
“I don’t get it.”
David let out a soft sigh, and I could tell he was gathering his strength to continue.
“An investigation was opened while I was in the hospital. I guess the doctor who examined me found the bruises and cuts from the belt whipping and reported it to the authorities. Cops showed up in my room the day I woke up and questioned me, asked me how I got them.
“I tried to lie. That’s how terrified I was of my own father. I lied and told the cops that I had been beaten up at school. I knew even then that it was a lame excuse, but because that was the lie I gave them, they had no choice but to investigate it. They came up empty, of course, which brought them right back to me.
“I finally told them the truth. I remember I cried the entire time, and kept telling them not to let him hurt Dylan. I was the problem, I was the one that deserved to be punished, not him. I was the bad kid.
“The police gathered more statements from my teachers and the doctors, and put together a case. My father was arrested and charged with first degree child abuse and sent to prison.”
The way he spoke about it, detached and like it was something that happened to someone else, saddened me. I knew it was a coping mechanism. I’d seen it in the military, but it was never easy to watch. Guys often did it to separate themselves from their pain, as a way to move on. The problem was that the pain never went away because it was never dealt with to begin with. I wondered if David had ever dealt with his. He had told me about the nightmares he had, and at last I knew what caused them, years of torture and abuse, mixed with guilt.
“David, where’s Dylan?”
He didn’t speak for a long time, and I wondered if maybe I had crossed a line that I shouldn’t have in asking about his brother. I knew how I would feel if something happened to Ryan.
Finally, he whispered, “I don’t know.”
The depth of pain in those three little words ripped me apart. Ryan meant the world to me. I would be lost without him. We had grown up together, shared many of the same trials, and stood by each other’s side. To have him suddenly gone would have destroyed me. But that acknowledgement from David also proved the point that I had tried making to him earlier. He was stronger than he knew. I had Ryan, David had no one.
Until now.
“After my father went to prison,” he continued, “Dylan and I were put into foster care.”
Inwardly, I cringed. Foster care could be great for short periods. But kids needed roots and stability, a sense of home. Without that, I knew irrevocable damage could be done.
“Dylan and I were separated, and he was adopted by his foster family. I was put into another home. From what I was told, Dylan’s new family moved, and I never saw him again. I was seen as broken. No one wanted a broken kid with issues and
suicidal tendencies. They all wanted a perfect, young kid. No one wanted a damaged kid or one that tried killing himself, or one that sent his father to prison. No one wanted me. So, I bounced from family to family until I aged out of the system.”
Anxiety and sadness tinged every word he said. He truly felt unworthy of love. No one should ever feel unwanted, and that explained why he was so hesitant with me. If no one wanted him as a child, why would anyone want him as an adult? The lessons we learn as children have a tendency to stay with us, shape us, as adults. They shape our perception of ourselves. We can never forget them, regardless how hard we try.
David turned to me. “I’m fucked up, aren’t I?”
Anger curled in my gut. Not at David, but at his father. The one person that should have spent his life doing everything he could to build David up, instead had done everything he could to tear David down.
I knew it was a rhetorical question, something that he truly felt about himself. And yet, I saw someone else. “David, you’ve had to deal with things that no one ever should. But you have to believe that none of this is your fault.”
“How can you say that? I sent my dad to prison. I broke up my family. My brother left me, and is God knows where!”
“No! You didn’t do any of those things. Your father did. He should have protected you. Your father is the one responsible for all of it. He’s the one that did this to you. He’s the one that dove into the bottle and beat you. He’s the one that sent you and your brother into foster care. You never asked for any of it. He was the adult, you were the kid.”
“I wish I could believe you. My therapist has said the same thing once a month, and then refills my prescription.”
“I know you do. I wish you could too. I think, eventually, you will.”
“You can’t know that.”
“No, you’re right. I can’t. I can’t pretend to know what that felt like, but I can see what it’s doing to you now. And to be honest with you, it’s taking everything I have to stay in control and not hunt that fucker down for what he did to you, but I’m not going to. I have to believe that there’s justice for you and Dylan. I do believe in you.”
Looking In Page 18
