Moonlight Beating

The music faded slowly, dying with the trickle of applause. It wasn't a big crowd, never was, but it was sizable. And doing well here, well, that opened the door to other bars, other acts. Maybe even your own show one day.

Backstage, the atmosphere was heavy with smoke; cigarettes and things that looked like cigarettes but didn't necessarily contain tobacco. The regulars were there, and as per usual they ignore me; I only perform on the weekends and most of them are somewhat uncomfortable with the fact that I'm still in school. At the end of the hallway I can see my friend Emilia waiting for me, smiling and waving as she always does. "Great show tonight Miz Anita Badman!" I can hear her voice just above the music blasting on the stage behind me.

I smile at Emilia, pulling off my long blonde wig to reveal my short, dark brown hair. "I dunno. Do you think the fake tits were too big tonight? I sort of wanted to try something new and, well, I'm not sure."

Emilia giggles. "Nah didn't notice them, to be honest." She takes my wig and began to play with the curls. "Now go get changed you silly queer and we'll go get something to eat."

"Hey," I say, pretending to me mildly upset. "I take offence to that."

She points to the door. "Not when I say it you don't. Now get changed, I'm hungry."

Smiling, I go through the door to the dressing room and begin to get changed, changing from Anita Badman to Andrew Napier as I remove the dress, the earrings, the bra, anything that could give me away to the outside world. After a couple of minutes Emilia comes back in, passing me my wig. "You really were great tonight Andrew. One of your best performances."

I smile at her in the mirror as I removed the last of the makeup. "Thanks hon, I try." Bending down over the sink, I quickly splash some water on my face. "Anyway, no time to dwell on it. We should get moving."

I stoop to pick up my backpack before following Emilia out of the dressing room and out to the alleyway behind the bar. The moonlight cast shadows onto the buildings surrounding us as we began to stroll towards the nearest train station. "How did the talk with your Dad go?" Emilia asks timidly, looking down at her feet as we walk along the deserted footpath. "What did you tell him?"

"Um, well it was difficult," I stop under a street light and roll up the sleeve of my jumper, revealing a mass of purple bruises. "Dad's not really one who takes that sort of thing well." I sigh. "Not that he takes anything well. But at least he didn't go for my face this time." I pull my sleeve down again, tenderly rubbing my bicep. "I started with 'You know I'm not straight' and, of course, it all went downhill from there. It's my own bloody fault. I shoulda known better. He never did let me get round to telling him 'bout my act."

Emilia gives me a quick hug. "Are you alright?" She asks, looking into my eyes. "Do you wanna crash at my place for a few days? Just til the heat cools off."

"Nah," I whisper. I start to walk again, staring off into the darkness. It's a weird night; just a feeling I get. "It'd just fester away. Plus, I don't think he's coming home tonight. There's a, er," I shrug my shoulders then readjust my backpack strap on my shoulder, "big plan or something on tonight. Dunno, don't care."

"Alright hon. Just… let me know if you need anything, 'kay?" She affectionately punches me on the shoulder. "I've gotta take care of you, now don't I?" I can't help but smile at her violent affection.

We walk in silence for a moment longer before I become aware of the sharp tap of footsteps on the concrete behind us. Emilia must have heard it about the same time I did because she instinctually begins to walk faster, trying to get away. I, on the other hand, slowed down to an almost complete stop. Emilia spins round when she realises that I'm not with her, coming back to stand in front of me. "Andrew," she hisses. "Come on! You don't need to do this here. Not now. Please, just come with me."

I ignore her, turning round to face my father. He was not impressed. Seeing him frown through his own makeup made me angry. "What?" I ask tersely. "What the hell do you want?" Emilia makes the small squeaking noise that she tends to make whenever she's scared. She grips my wrist, pulling lightly. I ignore her; the anger's built up inside me and I can't see anything else except for him, standing there, frowning at me. His hand's in his pocket and I just know he's gripping the handle of one of his knives. I wonder if he's going to use it, as a threat or otherwise. I wonder if maybe Emilia should get out of here, for her own safety. I can't let Dad hurt her.

"What were you doing?" Dad has this habit of speaking slowly when he's angry, emphasising random syllables or words. "Why aren't you at home?" He's using that voice now. I remember when I was a little kid, about the time when he got those scars, I did something wrong and he used that voice. It still scares me; it means he's contemplating extreme violence. Something that's going to leave more than just bruises. In a split moment, he snaps. "Give me a fucking answer!" He roars, spittle flying from his mouth. Emilia trembles.

I turn my head to face her. "Emilia," I whisper, "please go home."

She nods apprehensively, slowly letting go of my wrist. Her footsteps recede quickly; she's running away. A wise choice. Dad's really angry. I can't help but wonder how many people have seen him this angry and lived to talk about it. The thought makes me sigh, trying to let my anger out, trying to recapture my Zen, inner peace, some shit like that, I don't know. I just want to calm down. I close my eyes for a moment, collecting myself. "I was perform-"

I don't get the chance to open my eyes before he hits me. His fist collided with my cheek, sending me to the ground, my protective hand covering my face. I bet I'm gonna get a black eye. I open my eyes, looking up, seeing him standing over me, leering down, the red paint on the scars stretching his sadistic smile unnaturally wide. "You were parading around like a fucking faggot," he pauses, glaring down at me. I'm surprised how abnormally calm and slow his voice is. "That's what you were doing."

It all happens in slow motion as I watch his foot swing into my stomach, leaving me rolling on the ground in agony as his shoe collides with a healing gash. He kicks me again, getting a different spot. My mind wanders, numbly absorbing the pain as tears seep from the corners of my eyes. It's not easy, you know. Telling your father that you're gay. When he's got anger management issues, when he ends up locked in Arkham Asylum at least nine months of the year, when you don't even know his name, when all you can call him is Dad or the Joker… It makes it all that much harder.

He's stopped now, crouching down, a purple leather glove on my cheek. He smells musty, a strange combination of mothballs and smoke. I haven't noticed that sort of thing about him in a long time. The concrete is hard and cool in comparison to his warm, almost affectionate touch. I'm almost fooled. Almost. He wipes a tear off my cheek with his thumb. "You… disappoint me, Andrew." I can hear the pop of his mouth as he sucks his teeth, one of his many revolting habits. "I had such hope for you." It's bullshit. All of it. Always has been. He does this occasionally; tries to win me over, tries to make me, well, less gay. I don't know why he bothers. No one knows I exist anyway. It's not like they can link us.

And as swiftly as he appeared, he stands and begins to leave. I stay on the ground, curled in the foetal position, listening to his footsteps on the concrete. They stop for a moment as I hear his voice waft over me. "Get home." Then he starts walking again. No goodbye, no 'I love you'; the story of my life. It's always been this way. Never a kind word, never a term of endearment, never a display of affection. Maybe, when I was younger… But I can't remember. And I'm sure he can't either.

I can't hear his footsteps any more; that's when I get up. Never before. It's too dangerous. It's like he sees my getting to my feet as a challenge, a threat to his dominance. He's somewhat animalistic, my father. Cruel, sadistic, all those words that the media pins on him, they have no relevance, no meaning unless you have to live with him. Then you learn the meaning of sadism. That's when he's there, that is. When he's not there, you have no idea when he's going to turn up, 5 minutes from now or 5 months from now. It's scary. Like living your life with someone threatening always lurking in the shadows, so you never know when they're watching or not. It's like there are these eyes, they're always watching but you never knew when they're going to catch you out. It's like that.

Stooping, I pick my backpack off the ground and swing it onto my shoulder. I hurt all over. The guys at school, they've got nothing on Dad's beatings. He's got a way of making you hurt in places he didn't even attack. I guess fear can do that to you. Fear of pain to come. Cause he's unpredictable like that. You don't know what's going to come next. Sometimes I can guess, but that's largely cause I know his mannerisms.

I growl when pain shoots through my abdomen as I take a step. Bastard.

It's funny, you know. He never used to take an interest in my life. I was just his kid, an attachment to his life with no real consequence. Just a stupid mistake. Jumped my mum, shotgun wedding, baby. Now my mother's dead and I don't know or remember why. My father's insane and I'm not even sure if he was ever any different. I vaguely remember… He didn't always have his scars. That I am sure about. They came sometime during my lifetime. Probably just another thing he'd blame on me. But, you know, the minute he found out I was gay, suddenly he's everywhere. Spying on me, threatening me. It's my own damn fault for wanting him to take an interest in my life. For wanting a real father figure.

I hobble a few steps more before I realise the futility of my attempts and sit down heavily in the gutter. I take my backpack off again and put it between my feet. I rest my elbows on my knees, resting my head on my hands. It was comfortable, sitting here like this. I'd say like a normal teenager but that's a joke. Even now, during this façade of normality, I have a black eye and a backpack holding a dress, heels and blonde wig. Normality is not something that I'm going to get any time soon.

Rolling my eyes skyward, I scan the clouds for the Batman spotlight. I haven't seen it for a long time. Years and years. I guess maybe something's happened to it. Either way, I wouldn't know; I haven't seen the news in years. I've never read a newspaper. Not that it really matters to me anyway. I get enough info from Dad's rantings. Batman this, Dent that, Gordon here there and everywhere. Although Batman doesn't come up all that much anymore and I know Dent's dead. Besides, when your father is front page news for all the wrong reasons, you begin to lose interest in the news pretty quickly. I hate hearing about the stuff he's done.

Maybe I should get moving; you know, head home. He might not come home tonight, but if he does and I'm not there, I'm sure to be in for it. Not that that's anything unusual. I'm a stuff-up, an embarrassment to humanity, a fucking faggot and the embodiment of everything that's wrong with the world. Well, that's only if primitive assholes who would have trouble telling their dicks apart from a turnip can be believed. Course, that's just my opinion. I happen to know of a lot of people who would disagree with my point of view. Ditzy cheerleaders, obsessive girlfriends, supportive 'bros' and, would you believe it? Fangirls. I kid you not, my father has fangirls. Admittedly, they are usually of the Goth/Emo persuasion, however, I have heard it said that my father is, and I quote, 'completely rape-able.' You wanna talk about traumatising moments; I've got them in spades.

And slowly I rise, willing the pain to vanish. It does, to an extent. Course it's still there, Dad does too good a job to just get over it quickly, but it's tolerable now. Again, I stoop to get my backpack, swing it over my shoulder and slowly turn for home. The thought of going to Emilia's crosses my mind and then leaves as abruptly as it entered. There's no point getting her in trouble; plus, her parents would ask too many questions. I'm not a good liar.

It's a full moon tonight. Just something I observed on the walk home.