Things were fucked up. I knew that now. That's what I was thinking when I was kneeling in front of my mom's gravestone, reaching out to touch the letters of her name. I needed her so bad, like a little kid standing at the door, staring out at the street she just drove down. I needed her, but that need had nowhere to go, nowhere to focus itself on except for this gravestone and the bones beneath it.
My ribs were aching on that one side because my dad had kicked them and probably broke a few, and the pain had subsided to a dull ache that would flare up every once in a while into this sharp pain that made me wince. Why? What had I done? I couldn't even remember now, not for that time or all the times before it, and what I didn't block out I guess I could remember. I remembered being lifted up, his hands circling my wrists and squeezing. I remembered that look on his face, that sharpened angry look that was all focused on me. Then parts of those memories go black, grow hazy, and I can't remember all of it.
I was gonna leave, that was it. I didn't care where I went, either, just as long as I was gone. It wouldn't change, that much was clear, whether I could remember it all or not, I remembered enough to know that I had to get out.
I was lost, just staring at her grave, not hearing anything going on, not seeing the car drive up in the distance. If I had I could have run, I could have got away, but before I noticed anything he was right behind me.
"Craig," I whipped my head around at the voice, the familiar voice. It was my dad. I stood up and stared at him. He didn't really look mad, just sort of scared beneath a tired patience, and the fear I felt was wrapped up in a sort of gladness that he had bothered to come for me at all. But I wouldn't go with him, he hurt me all the time, he made me want to kill myself. I was bruised all up and down my stomach and chest because of him, everywhere he kicked me had this awful dark black and blue.
I stared at him a moment before I took off, but he was faster and grabbed me around the waist. I kicked and struggled in his grasp but he wouldn't let go, and he dragged me to the car. I might have been yelling no, and I couldn't see because of the tears, but it didn't matter.
He locked the car doors, and there was this control switch on the driver's side that let only the driver control the locks, so I was locked in. I leaned my head against the glass and wondered what would happen at home. Maybe he'd beat me again, he probably would, but I didn't care anymore. What did it matter now? I'd tried to get away and failed, clearly there was no escape. Fine. I wouldn't care. I tried to shut down, to curl up deep inside of myself where nothing could hurt me.
He pulled into the driveway and the house loomed down on us. I sighed, waiting for him to unlock the doors, thinking I might run again, but he got out and came around to my door. Clever. But what did I expect? He was a surgeon, after all. He couldn't be that dumb. I was the dumb one. He held my arm lightly, but I knew he'd tighten up the minute I tried to get away, so I didn't even try. I just walked with him to the house, but I felt that nervous twisting feeling inside my stomach, that feeling that came before every beating.
Inside the house, the lights dim, everything neat and in its place. I just stood there, waiting to be hit. It would happen and I couldn't stop it, so what did it matter? Did running to my room matter when he would just chase after me and catch me again? Did apologizing now for whatever it was, and I couldn't even think anymore, would that matter? I knew it wouldn't. So I just waited. I had run away, I talked to Joey and Angela, I was late, I disobeyed. There were plenty of reasons for him to beat the shit out of me. I should just let him. Maybe he was right and I deserved it.
"Craig, go into the kitchen," he said, and I didn't hear that sharp anger in his voice and maybe I dared to hope. Maybe he wouldn't hurt me tonight.
In the kitchen with the lights on, glaring down on everything, I sat slumped at the kitchen table. He was at the sink, running the water, washing his hands. I licked my lips, wanting to get away, to go to my room, but I didn't dare.
He came toward me and I flinched violently away from him, and it was completely involuntary. I did that all the time, at school, after school if I was hanging out with people, all the time. It was a reflex I couldn't control, and I felt so stupid when I did it, and sometimes people would look at me like there was something wrong with me, for a second they'd have that look.
He saw it, I know he did, and for that second he looked really sad. He knew what was wrong with me. He sat down in the chair opposite of me, and I just looked at him, sighed again. It didn't look like I would be getting another beating tonight, but I would in the days or weeks ahead, because it always happened and it wasn't going to stop. That's what living here meant for me, and I knew it now.
"Craig, I'm, uh, I'm sorry for what happened today," he said, and he meant it. I swallowed hard. He's apologized before, but not like this, not so deliberately. But it didn't matter. I knew it didn't.
"Yeah," I said, not wanting to say more. I didn't know what to say. I didn't forgive him. I was so angry beneath my fear of him, I was angry because of the fear. It was too confusing. He was my father and I loved him, of course I did, but…there was so much more to our relationship besides love. All I knew was that my ribs were aching constantly and I wanted a pain pill, one of his good ones, and maybe if I showed him the bruises and told him about the pain he'd give me one, then I could float away and not care for one stupid minute.