Toxic

by A. C. Bextor

  “At that moment he knew what his mother was thinking, and that she loved him. But he knew, too, that to love someone means relatively little; or, rather, that love is never strong enough to find the words befitting it. Thus he and his mother would always love each other silently. And one day she--or he--would die, without ever, all their lives long, having gone farther than this by way of making their affection known.”

  -Albert Camus

  At seven o’clock in the morning I wake to find Mace already out of bed with Ryder cradled in her arms as she sits at the kitchen table, in her grey silk robe, appreciating the quiet room while enjoying her morning coffee.

  At the present time, my son is a morning person only because he likes to eat. She has his bottle in one hand, feeding him, and her cell phone in the other - most likely texting Sadey, Kegs, or Hem. Other than Ryder and me, they are her people.

  She drops her stare on the phone when she sees me walking towards her. She smiles blithely before saying, “Good morning, Shame. How did you sleep?”

  She’s in an abnormal morning mood. No one likes to talk to Mace before noon and this, most definitely, includes me. I’m well aware of her relationship with ‘Joe’ and have walked into this trap many times throughout the years. I’m so afraid she will voluntarily break it off with ‘him’ that often I refer to her coffee as a person just to keep ‘him’ in her life. Granted, this is the only ‘Joe’ I appreciate her having around. Mace being this cheery, though, says something is up.

  I walk to her slowly, fearing her intense stare as she looks me up and down. Leaning into my son first, rubbing his head and kissing his cheek, I turn my head to her, tasting her lips and kissing her good morning.

  “You’ve already showered?” It dawns on me that she’s been up for a while now. “You were up before Ryder?” I rub her still damp hair with my palm as she closes her eyes and relaxes into my gesture of comfort. “What’s going on in that head of yours, baby?”

  She frowns. “Nothing. I just wanted to get a jump on the day. You’re not supposed to see me on our wedding day, remember? It’s bad luck, isn’t it?”

  I stand in front of her, straightening my shoulders as an act of assurance. I’m trying to mask a calm that I’m not sure of, but the act itself is just an act. I’m not assured of anything involving our luck. “Sweetheart, haven’t we exceeded the standard of bad luck already? I think you’re worrying for no reason.” We both know she’s referring to the hell we went through the past year.

  Moving her eyes away from my stare again, she fidgets with nerves. “Please don’t say that. Please. I don’t want to invite trouble on my big day.”

  Now I smile down on her. She’s taking this day to be hers alone. She’s forgetting that I’ve loved her far longer than she believes I have and I, too, have waited for this as well. “Our big day, baby, remember?”

  “Yes, sorry, you’re right. It’s our big day.” Changing the subject, she starts in with orders. “You need to be at the church no later than three.”

  Three? What? No. “Woman, we aren’t getting hitched until seven o’clock, why the fuck do I gotta be there at three? Hem and I were...”

  Her eyes find fury and they’re directed at me. She moves the bottle from Ryder’s mouth as she situates him on her shoulder and continues her bossy behavior. “Oh no, you aren’t. You are going to be there at three. You and Hem aren’t doing anything today. I already covered that with him, and now, I’m covering it with you. You and Hem ‘playing’ today isn’t happening. The two of you together only catches trouble and we both know it.”

  “Playing? We aren’t fuckin’ ten, Mace. Are you gonna be this charming during the ceremony? ‘cause I gotta tell ya, babe, if that’s your plan I can take my ten year old ass and ball and head home.”

  I don’t mean this, I would marry her today if she showed up to the service as Medusa, but Hem and I are hanging out before the wedding and she’s not stopping that.

  Reading my mood she reaches out her hand to me, grabbing my wrist, so I bend to her and she kisses me softly. “Sorry, I’m stressed and I’m thinking about things that I know don’t lead anywhere. I don’t mean to take it out on you, Shame. I’m sorry.”

  “Talk to me, Mace. You need to tell me what’s on your mind. I know it’s not about me seeing you before the wedding. You pretty much let me see every part of you last night and the clock had already struck midnight, baby.” I wink at her and she smiles briefly at my tactless comment before focusing on her own thoughts again.

  Avoiding my eyes, she removes Ryder from her shoulder and cradles him close to her, finding strength and comfort in his small form. “It’s stupid. I’m just feeling small for no reason. I have no one, other than Hem, coming in way of family. Mom, Dad, Doc; they’re all gone. I really miss my mom, Shame. I feel like I hardly knew her. She didn’t have the same relationship with me as she had with Hem.”

  I knew she’d be thinking about Lynda today. I’ve been thinking about her too. Mace didn’t know Doc, at all, other than his visits to her house when he would stop in to see her mom. Those visits were brief and no one knew until later what purpose they had served. I hope she’s not dwelling on Warren, fuckin’ bastard that he was. Her mom, though, she loved her mom as much as her mom would allow herself to be loved as she got older and lost herself in vodka and solitude.

  Mace is remembering times when her life was easy and simple. These memories are of her life before me. This makes me sad for her, but I don’t have memories like that. Hem, Sadey, and Mace are all I want to remember from my childhood. They were what I considered my family. There was never anyone else. Before they came into my life, it was empty.

  My own mother loved me once, I think. She was a weak woman and she never protected me from the monster of a man that lived under our roof, but when he was gone she would look at me gently. Even if it was always stained by the remorse in her eyes.

  I sit with Mace at the table. Waiting for her to continue talking, but she doesn’t. She’s allowing herself to remember better times. If I had those kind of memories to draw from now, I would.

  My chest tightens a bit as I recall a memory of my first ‘home’.

  Dad wasn’t having a good day. He was fired from work because he was drinking on the job. Dad always drank at work so that was never the actual problem, apparently he was a functioning alcoholic. It’s when he got caught swigging the flask; that’s when my life got turned inside out.

  Although I was just seven, I had mastered the art of blending in. Sometimes if I hid well enough he wouldn’t remember he had a son. That day, though, I made the mistake of acting on my hunger.

  My stomach was shaky and I was getting light headed. I knew he was home. I heard him yelling at my mom because she’d burned his dinner. I braved it, though, hoping food, in any form, was about to be available to me.

  ~~~~~

  I follow the bellowing voice, which is my father, into the kitchen. “Fuck woman, I work all day and come home to this shit?”

  “I’m sorry, Gary. Time just got away from me.” Her eyes are pleading with him to let this go. Seeing this many times before, I brace myself against the door jamb willing that to happen.

  My dad pulls her hair by the root so she’s forced to stand with him in order to avoid further pain. “Time just got away from you?”

  I continue to watch from the door as he pushes her face into the table where, until just a few minutes ago, she was getting high. When her face slams onto it her nose bloodies instantly. “No, what got away from you was the ability to budget. You’re in my stash, you fuckin’ crack whore.”

  She’s snorting the paraphernalia without a choice now. She’s already high, but with him pushing her face into the kitchen table she has no choice but to continue to ingest the remainder of powder.

  “Now, I have no fuckin’ dinner. How very fuckin’ smart of you.” He releases her for a moment, only to use his hand to draw back and knock her in the back of the head with as much force as his dru
nken body can muster.

  Finally, she spots me at the door and our eyes lock, but I see no emotion in them. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do so I stay rooted in my spot, waiting for what’s coming. I can’t defend her against his evil. I’ve tried before and to this day my rib still hurts when winter sets. Even at my young age, I know something isn’t right with that.

  “Let’s see what else we got here.” Dad opens the freezer and starts taking out the frozen meals that remain in there; it’s all we have left after mom burned the main course.

  His anger continues to erupt as he throws the frozen meals against the wall one at a time; each dropping to the floor with equal force. My shoulders jump at every sound. Before I can turn to run back to my room, forgetting all about my own hunger, I see him turn his body towards Mom again. As she sits up staring at the table full of residue in front of her, she’s met with a frozen block to the side of her face.

  She grabs her cheek and bursts into tears while moaning with pain. “I said I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

  Before she can finish her apology, dad grabs her by the throat and lifts her, pinning her body against the wall behind the table. His fingers are cutting off her circulation and her face is turning red as tears continue to stream down her cheeks. I’m standing just five feet from this and I’m completely helpless.

  “Tell the boy I want dinner. Don’t care how he gets it, but I get my dinner. Don’t care if you eat, he eats, or the fuckin’ rats in this dump eat. I want my food, bitch.” He drops her and she falls to the floor, now clutching her face with one hand and her neck with the other.

  He stalks toward me with malice heavily fastened in his eyes. “Did you hear me? Move, son. Get on it. You’ve only got an hour. I want my meal in the living room. The fuckin’ game’s on and I’m missing it having to deal with all this bullshit.” He knocks me upside the head as he walks past me making his point clear; as if I needed the not so subtle reminder.

  The game. That’s my dad’s biggest concern right now. I’m seven and because I was hungry I came out of my room and walked into this, I’m now responsible to be sure he gets fed. A seven year old shouldn’t understand the meaning of irony already, but I do.

  “Neil, come here.” Mom’s up on her feet and she’s glaring at me as if I were the one that caused all this. When she’s high she always looks at me like that.

  Apparently, I don’t move fast enough, so using her anger as energy, she marches to me. She bends down to my level and I see the vein in her right eye has popped and her cheek is left bloody from the frozen box he threw at her. I no longer have any feeling towards this, this is just another day in paradise.

  “Go to Bag and Go, and pick us up some hamburger meat. Remember to wear your jacket.”

  I know these words. This translates into, ‘Wear a jacket so you don’t get caught, and get hamburger meat because it’s easiest to steal without anyone noticing the bulk in your clothes.’

  “Mama, I’m scared.” I am scared. I’m actually terrified. Not of getting caught and taken into custody because that would be easier. I’m terrified of living through this if I fail to muster the courage to steal what she’s asking, only to come home empty handed.

  She grabs my arm and wipes the excess blow from her face onto my shirt. I swear she does this for a no other reason than to scare me further. “Go, and don’t come back if you don’t get what your father asked. Because if you walk in here empty handed, I’m telling him you ate his last bit of rice.”

  The rice I ate for breakfast … yesterday. It was the last morsel of food I digested, and now I’m being made to feel bad for that.

  As my eyes fill with tears, I answer. “Okay, Mama.”

  I run to my room passing my dad, who is sitting on the couch cursing under his breath, hoping not to interrupt his game. I get my jacket and head out the door to walk the mile to the store.

  I’m shaking now only because I’m scared of running out of time.

  ~~~~~

  Looking back at my son and Mace as they sit there together, peacefully, at the kitchen table. My heart is troubled.

  What if the trigger has already been set and I’m going to wake up one day and realize I’m my parent’s son in their way of evil? The thought sickens me. I’m no good without Mace. I never have been. She’s the one person in my life I would refuse to live without. If I ever treated her and Ryder like my father treated my mother and me, it would make for an easy decision. I would kill myself.

  It wouldn’t be the first time in my life I’d thought of suicide.

  Chapter Two

  “Man is always prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them.”

  -Albert Camus

  Mace told me that I don’t get to ‘play’ with Hem today. Fuck that. Hem is my best friend, my brother, and today he’s standing up with me as my best man. By now, she's used to me defying her orders and this, is actually for good reason. I can’t say that’s always the case.

  After kissing her and Ryder goodbye a few minutes ago, knowing I wouldn’t see her until seven tonight, I make my way to the truck. I stop before starting it as a chill runs up my back. I’m realizing that I’m thinking back to childhood memories that I haven’t thought of in fuckin’ years. I don’t need to be recreating any of this shit again. I lived through it; I won. End of story.

  In the past, being alone in my own head had never worked out well for me. Before Mace and I finally fuckin’ got together I had too much time on my hands. I used it to reflect on my shitty life and in doing so never freed myself long enough to look at how different the future could be. My past was a dark place, during a dark time.

  I need a drink, fuck even just one, to help calm my nerves. It’s only eight o’clock in the morning, but its five o’clock somewhere, damn it.

  Taking a detour that I know is not a good idea, I head down my old street. Bad memories are already shattering my insides today so it won’t hurt to find out how the house in the old neighborhood is doing.

  Pulling up outside the compound I spent time in, I cringe. There was never any happiness for me here. My parents were cruel and inhumane. I don’t remember ever being loved the way a parent should love a child. If I did, I pushed it away to be lost like any other memory I have, but they all are surfacing today and fuck if I have any idea how to stop their mindful assault.

  I kill the engine, trying to think of one good memory that came from this chaos of a childhood that I partially spent here. I draw nothing except a recollection that almost turned out good.

  ~~~~~

  “That’s for me?” I’m completely shocked at what’s sitting in front of me in the driveway. So shocked, I stumble on my way towards it. My dad grabs the collar of my shirt and yanks me and holds me in his grip until I’m stable on my feet. I repeat my question because he has yet to answer. “That’s mine?”

  “Well who the fuck you think it’s for? I’m not fuckin’ ridin’ it.” He’s angry at me even as he’s giving me a present.

  Typical.

  My mom is standing outside the door to our house wrapped in her usual blue velvet robe that has seen many days. She doesn’t leave the house much anymore, so I suppose there’s no reason to get dressed. I’m too enthralled with my present to dwell on her nonexistent life.

  My dad takes a drag from the cigarette he just lit, and as he spits the unwanted piece of tobacco from his dry bottom lip, he asks. “Think you can ride it without fuckin’ it up like you do everything else around here?”

  Nice, Dad, thanks.

  I look at the bike. It’s been well used. I can see this considering the scratches on its frame and the front tire’s low pressure. Although I’m nine, I’m not an idiot. I don’t care though. This bike will give me more freedom from the clutches of hell that await me behind the red door to the house that sits on the corner of this street.

  “I’ve never ridden a bike, Dad, but I think I can manage.” I’m trying to sound cool and unaffected s
o he doesn’t take this away from me. If he even thinks I like it, at all, it’s as good as gone.

  “Good thing then ‘cause you’re gonna be puttin’ the damn thing to good use.”

  I’m so captivated with the sight of my gift that his statement about putting it to good use doesn’t sink in right away. After all these years of watchin’ the other boys in the neighborhood ride past my window, I have my own to ride now. This has to be the best present I’ve gotten from them, if not the only one.

  Most Christmas’s I only got the necessities. My stocking was filled with food, which I ate quickly to avoid my father taking it back. My presents were boxes full of second hand clothes, which I cherished because that meant for the next year I had clothes that fit. I didn’t care if they didn’t fit right away either, because eventually I would grow into them so I made due.

  Finally his words hit me. I look to him puzzled, wondering what his comment meant for me in the way of ‘puttin’ it to good use.’

  At that moment, as if by design, I see a couple of kids from school coming down the street riding on their bikes. My stomach twists with anticipation of belonging to a group of riders.

  Mistake number one: I move towards the bike to get on and get started, leaving my dad’s side to do so. Immediately, he pulls me back with no gentleness displayed in his touch.

  Mistake number two: I turn to meet his eyes. They are glazed over in utter disgust for me and I hear the unmistakable low growl coming from his chest.

  Mistake three: I ask the dumbest fuckin’ question I can muster because I’m that stupid to believe this generous gift was for me to enjoy. “Can I go ridin’ with them, maybe just around the block? Then I’ll come home and finish cleaning your room. I promise.”

  Three mistakes. I wish I could take them all back. He drops the truth at my feet without regard to how I felt about the present in the first place.

  He glances to my mother, who is still standing at the door looking at us with greed. Fuck, it’s now that I realize the bike isn’t for me, per se. It’s for me to ride, but not to enjoy as any other nine year old kid would.