I might have passed out. I didn't know. When I came to it was like I couldn't remember anything, everything was blank. I was just aware of sensory perceptions. The cold floor against my cheek, the sharp pain in my side and stomach, the pain that caused me to curl up and not be able to breath right. I had to take these shallow breaths or it would hurt worse. The silence. There were no sounds, but then I heard the hum of the heaters, the rumble of the furnace. My eyes were closed and I didn't want to open them, and I wasn't sure why. Then I passed out again.
Some time later I woke up again and I could still feel the cold floor against my cheek, but the sharp pain I had felt had diminished, had become dull aches along my rib cage and in the pit of my stomach. This time I opened my eyes and saw the basement darkroom, saw all the tables and pictures and picture supplies jumbled over the floor, things overturned. I knew what had happened. It was my dad. I made him angry.
Slowly I got up, and the dull pain became sharp again, and I swore at him under my breath and then felt afraid that he was close by and would hear me and hurt me again. I looked around, quick glances like scared little animals do, like rabbits and squirrels. He wasn't down here. That didn't mean anything. He could be down here, he could be right at the top of the stairs. He could be anywhere.
Up the stairs one by one, each step hurting. Maybe my ribs were broken. Maybe I had a concussion. I could feel the headache behind my eyes, at the back of my skull. I couldn't remember what I had done this time. How effective were these punishments when I couldn't remember the offense? I was just left with the dull taste of fear in my mouth and the sense that I was a terrible kid.
The house was quiet, and I looked into the living room and the kitchen and didn't see him. Maybe he left. Maybe he went to work. I hoped he did, I hoped he wasn't here. I didn't want to see him or talk to him, and then I felt the anger. How could he do this to me? Didn't he love me? He didn't. That was my conclusion. You didn't do things like this to people you loved. Or maybe I was wrong. He was my father, after all. Maybe I was just rotten and had to be taught lesson after lesson, and it would never sink into my thick skull.
I'd tried to run away before. I packed up a bag and ran, but he caught me. He glared at me in the car all the way home and once we got home he cornered me in the living room, lifted me up by my wrists until our noses touched, and then he shoved me away from him and into the wall. I didn't run away anymore.
When I came home this day dad was sitting at the kitchen table, and I could see in his eyes he was pissed. Maybe I was late. Maybe the school called and told him I was falling asleep in class again, or told him I was failing science. Maybe my room wasn't neat enough or I left the juice glass out on the hardwood table and left a ring on the tabletop. I started to breath faster, tried to get him to talk to me but he wouldn't, only terse one word replies. I gave up being hopeful. I was in for it. Again. I saw it building like storm clouds on the horizon. There was no escape. I went up to my room to wait. I couldn't do anything, couldn't think. Couldn't concentrate. I almost wanted him to come upstairs and do whatever it was, yell at me, hit me, punch me, kick me, strap me. Anything would be better than this waiting.
I heard his steps on the stairs, and I felt light headed. Started a little prayer to my mom and to God, "please…" and then my door slammed open.
"Craig," he said, his voice quiet, deadly.
"Dad, I'm, uh, I'm sorry…" I didn't know what I was apologizing for. I saw the belt in his hands, saw it rise into the air and arc down, and I tried not to flinch as it struck me over and over.
School was not going well. I was sullen and moody all day, if I wasn't falling asleep. I couldn't sleep at night. I didn't want to talk to anybody. I couldn't pay attention in class because it was so important that I do well, and I couldn't focus on what any of the teachers were saying. I wasn't comfortable in the hard chairs. They hurt my back because of the welts from the belt, they hurt my butt and the back of my thighs from the belt and the kicks and the punches, all the bruises that never went away. They just faded to sickly yellow and then new ones came, the dark black and purple that would slowly fade to yellow and green.
It seemed like every day he was mad at me, he was pissed, and I could just see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He didn't beat me everyday. Not every day. Sometimes he just didn't talk to me at all. Sometimes he yelled at me, and I heard the words over and over, "Craig, you are so goddamn lazy, you're just like your mother," When he said that I knew it was bad, it was bad for me to be just like my mother and not be like him. "Craig, I've told you and told you not to be late, to do well in school, but you are so worthless…so fucking worthless, you son of a bitch,"
When I saw the belt in his hand my skin would crawl. It hurt so much, so much. There was no where to go, no where to run to. I'd tried locking all the locks on my bedroom door but he found them and took them all off, broke the doorknob so the door would barely even close. No place was safe. I just hoped he'd be in a good mood once in awhile, and once in awhile he was. He'd buy me expensive things and say how sorry he was and how he had never meant to hurt me and I'd blink and try to sound like I was telling the truth when I said it was okay.