At school I could almost believe that things were okay, that everything was fine, because that's how I acted. That's how I had to act. No one could know that things were a mess, and that I was a mess. I wasn't quite sure why, exactly, but it had to be this way. Things would all fall apart if anyone knew that things were pretty screwed up.
I walked through the halls, smiled, joked with people, saw the little flirty looks that Emma and Manny were giving me. They were a year younger than me, but they were kinda cute, especially Manny. And all I wanted them to think was that I was as normal as they were, nothing was wrong with me. I didn't go home and worry about what my father would say or do, or how his mood would be, or if he'd start being sarcastic and I'd see that look in his eyes and know that there was no escape.
After school I'd take pictures, but it was more than just taking pictures. It was this way of capturing stuff, of framing the world in a way I wanted it to look, of focusing on some things and excluding others. I could lose myself doing it
The light would fade and I'd be so wrapped up in what I was doing that I would hardly notice, and then I'd notice. The light. It was getting dark. I was supposed to be home at six and it was past that. I'd feel that feeling in the pit of my stomach, that twisting nervousness, that helpless fear. I'd run home, hoping my dad wasn't home for some reason, maybe he stayed late at work, or if he was home he wouldn't notice how late I was. He wouldn't notice that I didn't follow his rules and that I always screwed up, and that he worked all the time so I could have all the things I had and I couldn't even follow one simple rule. Maybe he wouldn't notice that.
The dread would all focus itself on the door to my house, and I'd stand outside it with my camera over my shoulder, the thick black strap digging into me. I could feel my heart beating too hard and I couldn't catch my breath. Things weren't fine, and standing outside that door with my heart beating out of my chest, I really knew it. It was all fake at school, the smiles and the laughing and the casual small talk. That was a lie. This was the truth, right here. The truth was I was going to open this door and get yelled at, get that dripping with sarcasm tone and the look in his eyes behind the black framed glasses, and I was going to get beat. There was no way around it.
I took a deep breath and felt all my muscles tense up, and I felt that sick feeling in my stomach, the waves of nausea. I swallowed hard over the dry lump in my throat. I opened the door, and the creak of the door alerted him that I was home.
"Craig!" My name said from some other side of the house, and in the way he said it I heard everything I needed to know. This wouldn't end well. I was sick. I didn't want to walk down the hall and into the kitchen and face him. I didn't want to try and cheerfully lie my way out of this. That never worked, but I always tried.
"Hey, dad," I said, my mouth dry. He was already glaring at me. I put my camera on the counter with shaking hands.
"Where in the hell were you?" he said, his voice quiet but filled with steel. I was late, I had no excuse. I just hung my head, too overwhelmed to lie.
"Huh?" he said, and now he stood up so fast. These were the moments before a beating, and there was no where to turn to, no way to get away. I looked at him, seeing the narrowed eyes, the flaring nostrils, his hands clenched into tight fists.
"Uh, I wh-I was-"
"You were just disregarding my rules, weren't you? You don't give a shit, do you?"
Sarcasm. I was shaking inside, my hands were shaking. The narrowed eyes, the sarcasm, all the signs. I was backed up against the counter, he was in front of me, I couldn't get away. I should have known, I should have made more of an effort to get home on time, I should have, I could have been better, I could haveā¦
"Do you?" he said, and it didn't matter if he yelled or if he spoke in that deadly quiet tone, it would all end the same. I just waited for the beginning.
