As I lie here, tormented by my inability to sleep, my inability to let go of the pain even for a few hours, my hands shake. My mouth is dry and palms moist. I feel old beyond my tender thirteen years. I've seen more than the average young teenager. I have suffered. I'm not vengeful, but rather plagued by a constant feeling of helplessness. It's as though my own ineptitude has led to my current situation. I haven't told anyone. Tomorrow, I think, I will. Tonight, however, offers no solace from the harsh reality in which I live. Even my own bed, adorned with cartoon emblazoned sheets, cannot act as a sanctum from my misery. I hear my father pad softly into the room.
“Son, are you awake?” I don't answer and he creeps closer, the stench of alcohol belying his true intentions. I know he won't just go away. Stirring slightly, I pretend he roused me.
“What time is it, Dad?”
“It's late, kid. Slide over a bit.” I do. He slithers into my twin bed beside me, already shirtless. I know what is to come and I know I can't stop it-I have the scars to prove that. I try to pretend he's there to read me a story and tuck me in, but it is fruitless. My mind tries to block out his rough hands sliding over my naked chest. Instead of doing so with visions of friends and school, I can only think of my mother.
The last time I saw my mother was two years ago. She was dressed in a thin hospital gown and connected to this world only by the tubes protruding from various spots on her now frail and inert body. I didn't cry when the doctors said she wasn't doing well.
When I was very young, my mother would take me to the park. We would play in the grass and frolic in the fountain, after which we would lie in the sun until all but our underwear was dry. I can remember her bright smile and intoxicating laugh. Life was good then. Occasionally my father would come. We were a family-a happy one, too.
Then, slowly, things changed. Sometimes my mother would take me to the park and, instead of basking in the sunshine, she would stay only a few minutes, all the while seeming distant and uninterested. After a short time, she'd tell me to stay out of trouble and that she'd be right back. My mother would leave and come back tired.
“Let's go home,” she would say, obviously exhausted.
One time, I decided to follow her. I watched from the green grass as she walked back to the car and retrieved a small handbag from the trunk. She walked around the perimeter of the park and crossed the street. Looking around, she approached a small blue house. The house was dark. It had no flowers in front, as the other houses on the street had. The windows were always covered and cars seemed to come and go often. The grass was unkempt; paper and trash were strewn about. My mother ascended the porch and knocked at the door. After a moment, a small man answered and quickly pulled my mother inside. I watched the house until she came out. Blinking as if to try to convince the sun to go elsewhere, she walked unsteadily down the steps and off the porch. I thought I was well hidden behind my tree, but my mother saw me. My back still bares scars from where she beat me that night.
“Don't you ever follow me,” my mother screamed as she hit me again and again with a yardstick. My back was sticky with blood.
The next day, I refused to go to the park. My mother went by herself.
Eventually, I missed being at the park and the sunshine and went again when my mother offered. This time, however, we drove past the park. As we pulled up in front of the blue house, I cried.
“Mommy, I want to go to the park,” I sobbed.
“Just stay here a few minutes. We'll go to the park soon,” she cooed. I cried louder.
“Fine, you little brat,” she said, her tone changing, “come with me. Don't say anything.” Retrieving her small bag from the trunk, my mother led the way up to the dilapidated porch littered with dirty lawn chairs. She knocked and the same small man answered.
“Who the hell is this?” he questioned, motioning to me.
“My son, Brett,” said my mother defensively.
The man opened the door slowly and showed us into the small foyer. A lady with disheveled hair and dark eyes lay motionless on the couch, a large bruise on her arm.
