Quietus

First part of my collection of short stories.

I see him but he can’t see me anymore. His ashes are scattered in an urn, way too big for him. He doesn’t deserve something so beautiful. The sharply curved vase stands tall on top of the shelf above the fireplace, all by itself. It’s like people think he lived a life so well lived that he gets a place all by himself, but that’s what people do when someone dies, right? Even if they hated them when they were alive, they get a free pass. It’s like every bad thing you did while you were on this cruel Earth, fly out of the window once you die.

I was born in the fall of 1983. My mother was always a hard worker. She would tell me stories about when she was nine, she started working in her father’s store. By the time she was in high school, she was a restaurant manager. Then after high school, she met a man. She decided to become a mother instead of going off to college. I do not really blame her for her decision, I blame her for her choice.

After I was born, she stayed home every single day. Before me she would at least go to to the grocery store or the movies when she got bored but then I was there and she could not do anything she wanted. I always felt like a burden on my family. My mother was great, though. She took good care of me, at first. She did the best she could. That is really all you can ask as a kid, right? That your mother tries her best. Sometimes a person's best is not good enough.

When I was four, I was sent to preschool. I think my mother was just ready to get me out of the house so she sent me away. I do not blame her for that, either. I was a pretty bad kid. I remember running around yelling all day. No matter what it was about. I could yell about the weather or what time it was or I could just scream. When she had the chance to get me out of the house, she took it. I would have too.

School was hard for me. I never really got along with the kids and they picked on me a lot. I was short and kind of chubby so I was an easy target for most of my youth. It was not until fourth grade, when I made my first real friend. His name was Brian and the thing that drew me to him was how funny he was. His mind worked so quickly and he made jokes with such ease. It was nice to be out of the house and laugh with someone besides my mother.

My brother, Tommy was slowly growing up and it was hard to be at home. Most people adore babies but something about them I just hate to be around. The crying and the smells are tough to be around. I really do not understand how mothers do it. My mother wanted another baby so she had Tommy. I think she just missed having someone to take care of. He is six years younger than me.

When I made it to sixth grade, Tommy started preschool. His school was down the street from mine so I would drop him off and then walk the rest of the way to my school. I was scared to start middle school. I only had one friend and I thought since there was going to be more kids, Brian might forget about me. I had never really talked to girls and all of a sudden that is all the boys talked about. I felt like I did not fit in and I did not know how to change that.

One night I went to my mother and asked her what girls liked. She said “they like confidence and ... for guys to be nice but not too nice” as she got a big smile on her face. I did not really understand what she meant but she just looked so happy so I did not ask anything else. When she got up to check on dinner, she rolled up her sleeves and I noticed a big bruise on her forearm. I asked what happened but she quickly shut me down.

I expected she just bumped it around the house or something so I let it go. I thought it was weird how defensive she got over it but I was young and I could tell my mother did not want to talk about it so I let it go. I went up and gave her a hug before running off to my room, going to do some math homework.

A couple of months later, it was December. I had one more half day at school and then I had two weeks off for winter break. I was so excited for Christmas and New Years. I made plans with Brian, and Tommy wanted to go sledding. It was going to be a great couple of weeks. The clock ticked slowly as I sat in english. I used to hate writing, I never really had anything to write about. I remember we were assigned a paper that year, we had to write about a time we overcame adversity. At that point in my life, I never had to overcome anything.

When the day finally came to an end, I practically sprinted home. My stomach was empty and I wanted to get my break started. I ran through the snow, my boots were filled when I reached my front door. Our house stood tall, just outside of the city. It was a nice home if you looked at it while driving by or walking along the sidewalk in front.

My body bursted through the door and I sprang into the TV room. I called out for my mother but there was no answer. I was just looking for something to eat. I jogged into the kitchen and the first thing I remember seeing is his massive body. He was standing over my mother, looking down at her. She looked beneath him. She looked like she was worth less. I did not really understand what was going on but before I could speak, he hit her. His arm thrusted forward and connected directly with her cheek. Her entire body was affected.

She scooted back and her eyes were scanning the room, she was looking everywhere but at me. My eyes on the other hand, could not leave hers. I could see the fear settled in deeply. It was unimaginable what was right in front of me, in my own home. The place that I was supposed to feel secure and safe.

He turned his body towards me but kept his eyes looking at my mother. I froze because I thought I was next. He cracked his knuckles but it was not my turn, he was not finished with her. He was never finished with her. When his hand reached her soft skin again, tears started to pour from my eyes before I could ever realize it. I tried to stop but it only made them worse.

My mind flashed back to the bruises on her arm.

How could I not have pieced it together?

I was only 11 years old, so I continued to cry.

The thought that my mother could be broken, hurt me. I was brought up to think that she was the toughest, hardest, best there was. After that day, I never saw her the same. I still loved her and would go to the end of the Earth for my mother but she was not the woman that raised me anymore. She was damaged. Not in the way that she was not good enough or that since she was not “perfect” anymore, she deserved to lose my respect. She lost my respect because she could have done something but her choice was to do nothing.

She put my brother and I in danger because she did not have the strength to leave him. As I aged, I looked at that as she loved him more than she loved Tommy and me. If she cared about us the way she said, the way she acted, then she would have done what is best for us.

God knows what is best for is, was not in that environment.

I hit a growth spirt before my freshman year in high school. My mother always said it was because I ate my vegetables and drank my milk but it is because we have height in our family. My mother’s father was just over 6’5. I knew at some point I would hit the lottery, it just happened to be before the biggest school year of my life. I shot up to just under six feet tall. Tommy did not like it because I towered over him. My mother was proud, she would say I was finally becoming a man. I did not think of myself as a man for a few more years.

He on the other hand saw it as some type of threat, I believe. The rest of that summer and for part of the school year, he would pick fights with me. I would be doing the dishes with Tommy after we ate dinner. My mother would be making all of our lunches for the following day, while he would plop down in the TV room.

I would hear my name groaned from his low voice and know that it was time. Every damn night he would find something that I messed up. Then he would punish me, or at least that is what he called it.

I called it bullying.

I call it abuse.

I recall one night, in extreme detail. I do not really know why this night in particular has been unable to escape my brain all of these year later. It was a Thursday night, in the summer of 1997 and my mother made chicken and potatoes for dinner. I can hear him say “mhmm my favorite” while gently rubbing his enormous stomach. I had a headache so I was not paying a lot of attention to everyone else. I could still hear my mother asking Tommy how his day was, though. All three of them went back and forth explaining their day but no one asked me. I told my mother before dinner that I did not feel good so I think she was trying to give me some peace. I played around with my potatoes before plumping one into my mouth.

My mother was always a good cook. She made dinner every single night for our family. She would mix it up, but it was always well put together and tasted fine. I heard my mother calling my name and my head shot up. My eyes glanced to the right and he was staring straight at me. His face was turning red and his nostrils flaring like he was taking deep breaths. I looked back at my mother and she whispered “he kept calling your name” as her head fell.

“You think you are just going to get away with ignoring me? I am an adult that you should respect. You should respect me enough to know when I am talking to you. If I ask you to do something then you do it. I ask for you to pass the salt, you pass it with no questions asked. You do what I say, you will never ignore me again. You will respect me.”

I start to open my mouth so I can explain that I was just zoned out but I realize that it will change nothing. He will call it “back talk” and the beating will be that much worse. Instead I kept my head high as I walked into the other room. He would never hit me in front of Tommy or my mother. I do not really know why, I think it is because he hit me the hardest and he knew they would protest if they saw what he was doing to me.

My mother should have protested anyways.

She was supposed to take care of us.

I could hear the belt slide off of his jeans. The leather slapping against the loops before finally coming free. I used to always cry when he would do it and usually I would cry myself to sleep that night. Now it has become so familiar that not only do I not cry but sometimes I can not even feel it. I wonder if my mother can feel anything.

The belt connected with my backside and sent shocks through my body. The noise echoed through the house and I could hear my mother let out a short scream before starting to cry. I do not know where Tommy was but I always wished we could somehow get away. If my mother was not strong enough then maybe I could be.

Luckily, I did not have to be.

Author's Note

This is my first post so just tell me what you think and pass along some advice.