My mother was a frigid bitch, my father an abusive drunk. They had a hateful marriage, which is probably why I am unwilling or unable to perform a long term, committed relationship of my own. The fact that I drink like a fish, abuse drugs, and have more or less redefined promiscuous sex doesn't help, much. As a result, I've lost the two people in my life that mean the most to me.
My mother came home every night with a different man for ten years of my life. She'd come home around midnight while I was trying to get to sleep on the couch. Sometimes she'd ignore me and simply stagger into her bedroom with her one-night-boyfriend, and I'd hear moans and cries from her room all night. Other times, she'd stare at me with bloodshot eyes and scream, "GET YOUR ASS OFF THE FUCKING COUCH!" Then I'd wait until she disappeared into her room before daring to climb back onto the ratty couch.
During the day, she could look like an old hag or a beautiful whore, depending on her mood. On bad days, she'd exit her room with no makeup on, tangled hair, and blotchy skin. Those were days I learned to stay out of her way. Once, I accidentally bumped into her in the hall. I didn't even notice I had until she turned to glare at me frostily. I muttered, "Sorry," but she kept giving me that freezing look as she stepped close to me. Never taking her eyes from my face, she raised her hand and slapped me hard. Now let me tell you, for a small bitch like her, you'd think she'd be pretty weak. You'd be wrong. She knocked me right off my feet and I crashed into the wall.
There I was, her only son, lying there with blood lining my cheek in four stripes where her fingernails had raked my cheek and fighting back tears from the angle my arm had met the wall. Any other mother would have at least helped me up, but oh no, the fucking bitch flipped me off and walked away. The entire day my arm throbbed and I couldn't even pick up a fork to eat the takeout Chinese food. My mother finally had the sense to call our family doctor over, who, when he arrived, informed me that my arm was broken. Mom sat there the whole time with her cigarette, giving a little smirk.
On other days, she'd come out with rouge and powder all over her face and her hair combed and a nice dress on. That morning, I'd breathe a sigh of relief and go about my business. If I bumped into her or something, she'd simply raise her head high, flick an imaginary piece of dust off her dress, and walk past me.
My father was worse than my mother in some respects. I wouldn't see him most of the time except when he came home in the evenings. By then, my mother would be gone to god-knows-where. God knew where, but he never told me. "Where's your mother?" my father would ask. I would, truthfully, say, "I don't know," and bam! stars would be flickering before my eyes.
The school I went to never seemed to notice the bruises of various shades adorning my face or the cigarette burns on my arms and chest. I would say my father had bribed the school officials, except I know better. He wouldn't have bribed them, he'd have threatened them.
I have no idea what my father did for a living. Well, I do know he supposedly works as an accountant, but there is no way that he can have time to work and come home buzzed in the same day. Money must come from somewhere though. How else could my mother afford her nightly trips and my father his daily supply of drinks?
Not often, but still more than I'd like them to, my mother would still be home when my father returned or she'd return home before my father went to bed. Whenever I heard the footsteps announcing one or the other's arrival while the other was in the house, I dove for the safety of my room. I had learned my lesson once when I was young. Never interfere when Mommy and Daddy are mad at each other. I went to school the next day after my interference with a black eye amongst other things I'd rather not describe in detail. I'm positive our neighbors hid under their beds whenever they heard my mother and father encounter each other in the house. Things would get smashed, blows exchanged, and the no one would get a wink of sleep all night.
I finally left the house at the age of sixteen. I hitched a ride to New York and survived by telling people I was eighteen. That, and by doing certain favors for people in the seedier areas of Alphabet City. It seems not all men in the city like girls and breasts. When I turned seventeen, I met Collins and moved in with him and his roommates. I dated Maureen for a while, starting about two weeks after I met her and lasting five months. Yes, that Maureen. She moved on to someone else, probably got tired of me, or me of her subconsciously, and after that someone, onto the next victim and the next. I loved Maureen, but I guess with me, relationships don't last.
Fucking was part of my life. Other than doing the occasional favor for people, at night, when everyone else was crashed, I'd slip out of the loft and to some nearby clubs. I could always nearly find someone that was willing to fuck with me there. Boys, girls, it didn't matter. As long as I didn't need to think for the better part of the night, I was fine. I never got caught, or so I hope. Collins has been eying me for quite a while, or maybe I'm just paranoid.
Having both an alcoholic mom and dad, I naturally took to drinking like a bird to flying. Thanks a lot, parents. I was careful not to let it show; the last place I wanted to go was to AA or some other rehab. I limited my excessive drinking to parties or special events. When we all played 'I Never,' I'd lie about events I'd never done before just to take a sip of alcohol. When people asked, I just made up a story. By the end, I was usually the most buzzed. Out of all my bad habits, I hated this one the most. I was becoming my mother and father; I was following in their footsteps. But then, I'd drown my conscious in drinking.
I never told any of the gang that I had, not only shot up but also done other drugs before. After what had happened to so many of my friends, I never mentioned it. Between arriving in New York and my meeting the gang, I had shot up for quite a while. For some reason, I never got completely addicted to it. I would shoot up to not have to care about the world for about a week straight. Then, I was able to stop for another week without major consequence. To experiment, I tried different kinds of drugs: coke, pot, and a few times, meth. I never got addicted; I was always able to stop. I tried for months at a time and was still able to stop with little problem. The catch was that my highs never lasted as long or felt as good as others have described them to be. They felt…fake, dull. Maybe that's why I can never resist sex. When I'm coming, it feels like forever before I come down.
I actually was doing pretty well, a little excess drinking, some occasional one night stands, and I'd been clean for a month already, when she called. I don't know how she found me or why she was calling, but she did. I knew what she going to be like. False and cheery and heaven forbid, my dad would be all caring and jolly. Merry fucking Christmas.
"Mark. Are you there? Are you screening your calls? It's Mom."
I rested my head on my hands and looked at Roger. He was giving a little smirk and I gave a wry smile. How little did he know… I felt like I had lost him in the past months, not literally, but he would never know and I could never tell him my true life. We'll never communicate truthfully and he may not know it, but I will.
My mother was a loving woman, my father a caring dad. They had a loving marriage, which is probably why I have such a wonderful relationship right now. In my dreams.