Chapter 1: Home
I still don't understand it sometimes. I don't understand why Father treated me the way he did, or why Mother didn't seem to care. Even after nine years of trying, I still can't wrap my head around it. But when you're five, and those are the only real role models you have, it's not like you think very much about it.
I remember the halls of the house. Most of the time, they were filled with crying or screaming. Father was usually the cause of it. Of course, I thought nothing of it. He was just being a parent, wasn't he? He was just disciplining me, right? It was tough love, wasn't it? Yeah, the blood stains on the carpet? They were my fault. How about when he lost a Gym battle? That was my fault, too. His grunts failed to do anything productive? Yeah, that was me. It was always my fault. I was always such a failure.
Or, at least, that's what Father would say.
Oh, Father. He was the one who really made that house stand out. When he wasn't at work, he was beating me for whatever was putting him in a bad mood today. Did he lose his focus while training for the next big Gym battle? He'd get out the closest knife and slash up my arms, telling me that it was my fault for making them weak. Did Mother come in to argue about her salary again? After he was done with her, he'd move on to me. Did he get impatient when it came to his whole Project Andromeda? He'd find an excuse to beat on me to pass the time. But at five, what was Project Andromeda? Just something a child couldn't possibly understand, that's for sure.
Or, at least, that's what Father would think.
What makes a house a home? What separates the two? Could any mere house be a home? No, of course not. A house is just four walls and a roof. A house can have the best furnishings money can buy, but that can never, ever make it a home. Home is comfort, isn't it? Comforting, inviting, cozy. Home is a sanctuary, a refuge from the world.
A house full of fear, full of constant bloodshed, full of horror is not a home. A house where your live in terror of your father's next outburst, in anxiety of your mother's next visit, in despair that you can never leave is not a home. That house was not a home.
So, what do you do in that situation? Do you try and leave the only source of protection you had of the snow or rain? Do you stay, and risk another beating or lecture from your father? Death by nature, or death by your father's hand? No matter how you slice it, it's damned if you do, damned if you don't.
When you're five, you can't rationalize that kind of thing, though. There is no understanding of Project Andromeda or abuse or hypocrisy. There is no understanding of healthy and unhealthy relationships or that some people really just don't care about what you're going through. The only thing you understand is that every bad thing that happens is your fault. It's your fault that Father hits you, punches you, kicks you, cuts you, and strangles you. It's your fault that Mother doesn't care about your well-being. It's your fault that Project Andromeda is going too slow. It's your fault that Mother couldn't pay child support, and thus it's your fault that you're stuck with and abusive father. Everything is your fault.
Ah, those hallways. I think the bloodstains on the walls are still there, if that house is still even standing. Who moved in there? Who saw the scars of our lives plastered on the walls, stained on the carpet, echoing in the halls?
I just don't understand. I didn't then, and I still don't now. How could the failure of Project Andromeda be my fault? How could the failure of Father's subordinates be my fault? How could his need for complete control over others be my fault?
I still don't understand it sometimes. Even after nine years of trying, I still can't wrap my head around it...