This chapter is when the M rating really comes into play. You have been forewarned a long time ago.
7
Rockets and Dim Blue Light
Memories:
A child runs into his yard. The yard is filled with tangled, brown grass. A shed lingers in the far back, against a fence, with its wood cracked and a rusted shovel limply hanging against one side. Sharps things litter the grass, but the child knows better than to go near it.
He picks his way through the tangles. Inside the house a radio blazes and a pone rings. The woman inside is on the couch, unresponsive and giggling vaguely at something she must have found funny.
The child knew better than to stay near her. Before she became this way she would approach him and with haggard breath and broken lips whisper something into his ear. Her fingers dig into his shoulder. Fear prickles through his skin. His secondhand, cheap toys hang from his hands.
"Alfred, go outside."
He does not understand what exactly she would do, but it's scary and sometimes she hurt him. He has a bruise from when she threw her shoe at him, on his left shoulder.
But she loves him.
Right?
Regardless, the boy goes into the yard and lifts a tarpaulin next to the shed. Sticky fingers roam the neighborhood around them. It's best to hide his precious belongings. Alfred picks up the cardboard a sits down on the grass.
He sets them by each other, slowly but surely building a cardboard rocket.
For a while he would do this. Whenever his mother's rotten breath curled up his nostrils, carrying the sound of her order, he would go outside and build his rocket.
As he grew older the rocket matured. He understood what his mother was doing, he saw the needles and smoke, and instead of feeling fear his heart burned with rage. He tried to relax by building complex structures or reading anything from the library he could find (he had sapped the house's ten book personal library several times already) and it all still was't enough.
He grew to be a hateful, angry man.
More memories:
This child grew up in a rented apartment in bustling London.
With sounds he hated keeping him up all night, and a miserable mother to give him half-cooked eggs and bacon for breakfast. And then to hear her weep during the day.
One evening, she returned and, before entering, tapped on the door to his room thrice. He perked up, tearing away from his beloved Vernes, and understood what she meant. He reluctantly set away the book and shut the lamp. He wasn't to make a sound: or else they wouldn't have anything to eat the next day.
why mama
men don't like guilt
She left it at that and Arthur new better than to press her for more information. Her hair was falling out then. She tucked it away and kissed his forehead.
Now, Arthur checked the time. It was nearly nine, just about time. He crawled under the covers, shielding his head. That didn't stop the noises.
First, grunts, soft talking. Tonight the man was silent. His trousers rustled and something hard—a wallet—fell to the ground. The bed croaked glumly. Arthur peeked out, checking to see that his door was locked. He could risk reading now… In an attempt to distract himself, he pulled the book back open and flicked a secondhand flashlight on, creating a tent. He paused, making sure there were no footsteps, and tried to read.
He couldn't.
Professor Ahhh ahhh ohhhh noooo hahah nooo (grunts) ahhhh scholarly expeditions ooooooooohhhhhh you like that? no you dumb bitch groan but shut the fuck up gaahhhhh (the bed screaming for mercy under the incessant rocking) (howls) ahhhhhh ahhhhh hhhhuuuuuuuu gggguuuuuuuuhhhhhh shhhhiiiiiittttffffff (a smack) (a yelp) (a cruel laugh painted red with agony) you bitch mmmmmmmm what? I SAID SHUT UP DIDN'T I? ( a whimper of assertion) (a lashing of a belt) (a yelp) (silence) (silence) (silence) ahhhhhhhhhnnnnn (a woman's muted cry) nun….
Arthur snapped his book shut. He couldn't read. What had he been thinking? He restrained the urge to vomit and put the book away, softly, quickly. He tried not to listen, knowing that what he had heard would be repeated a couple times, two, three. And then the man would, in his guilt, stand up and force his clothes back on. Then he would put the crumpled bills on the bed and walk out, slamming the door behind him.
Then the laments would follow. A woman's woeful cries. Then silence. Sleep would wash over her. Arthur would only then be able to sleep peacefully. He would go to school each day, exhausted, and still somehow make passable grades. His mother made money her own way, her dirty blonde hair often streaked with a substance Arthur didn't ask the origins of. He would tell her to wash. She wouldn't, not until that evening. Then she would clean up nicely and get dressed, leave, and the processes would begin anew. Over and over. Arthur's heart would break each time.
Arthur would learn to be a kind man, striving to protect the dignities and futures of his students.