head throbbing with pain, warm blood trickling down his face. Just get it over with.
He lay there pretending to be unconscious, which was only half-truth, listening to Nate moving about the room, opening and closing dresser drawers, raising the slamming the lid on the washing machine, mumbling to himself the whole time. Tommy knew he was looking for other booze he might have hidden on himself. Through his mumblings, Tommy caught the familiar words, “whore”, and “faggot.”
At last the door closed again and the truck tore out of the drive. Slowly, painfully, Tommy drew himself to his feet, his mouth and throat tasting of stale whiskey, bile and blood. He forced himself to take several deep breaths through his nose, determined not to puke his guts up right here on the floor. He’d cleaned up after his father too many times to let that happen.
Putting his stomach on uneasy hold, Tommy made it the bathroom just in time, and dropped to his knees before the toilet bowl.
When there was nothing left to bring up, he gripped the edge of the sink, and in a cold sweat and shaking, spasms of pain shooting through his ribs, he struggled to his feet. He turned the tap on full and splashed his face with handfuls of the icy water, until his head cleared enough to let him think.
Tommy caught his reflection in the small cracked mirror above the sink. The skin in front of his ear was split and bleeding, the flesh surrounding it already raising even as he looked at it, turning red.
Tearing a strip of tissue from the roll on the rusting toilet tank, he wadded it up and held it gingerly to the cut, wincing with the pain. The ringing in his ears had settled to a low whine. The imprint of his father’s huge hand blazed on his otherwise ashen face.
It was a face inherited from his mothera male version of herslight brown eyes, full mouth, straight nose, not pugged like Nate’s. He even had that same weak nerve that, when he smiled, tugged the right corner of his mouth down ever-so-slightly. He’d always been self-conscious about it, until Heather told him she thought it was sexy.
An image of her lying dead filled the screen of his mind. He blocked it out, thought instead, of his mother. Funny, he’d been thinking about her a lot lately.
You knew what he was like better than anyone, Mom. How could you leave me with him? Why, Mom?
He’d been called ‘nothing’ and ‘fag’ so often, that in some deep part of himself, he almost believed it was true. He’d begun to feel differently with Heather. But Heather was gone now.
Tommy went into his father’s bedroom. He lifted the .32 special rifle down from the crudely made gun rack above the bed, gasping from the knife-sharp pain that stabbed his right side, forcing him to remain very still until it eased. It was agony just to breathe, and he wondered if the old man had managed to crack a rib or two.
A memory of Nate holding the gun to his mother’s head came unbidden. She was crying, her hands covering her head. “Oh, no, Nate, please, don’t. Please. Don’t shoot me.” Nate laughing his ugly, mocking laugh at her terror, her helplessness.
Strange how he’d forgotten about that, tucked it into some small compartment of his brain and closed the door. The door was open now, revealing its ugly contents. Now he saw the small boy he had been, screaming in the background. “Don’t kill Mommy. Don’t kill Mommy, Daddy.” He’d buried that memory, buried it deep. But the terror of it had echoed inside him all these years.
No more, damn you! No more.
Easing himself back down on the cot, breathing his shallow, cutting breaths, Tommy positioned himself with his back against the wall, the rifle raised. He took careful aim at the door with its peeling shit-brindle paint.
And waited for it to open again.
The ringing phone jarred Peter out of a fitful sleep. He flicked off the remote and picked up the
He lay there pretending to be unconscious, which was only half-truth, listening to Nate moving about the room, opening and closing dresser drawers, raising the slamming the lid on the washing machine, mumbling to himself the whole time. Tommy knew he was looking for other booze he might have hidden on himself. Through his mumblings, Tommy caught the familiar words, “whore”, and “faggot.”
At last the door closed again and the truck tore out of the drive. Slowly, painfully, Tommy drew himself to his feet, his mouth and throat tasting of stale whiskey, bile and blood. He forced himself to take several deep breaths through his nose, determined not to puke his guts up right here on the floor. He’d cleaned up after his father too many times to let that happen.
Putting his stomach on uneasy hold, Tommy made it the bathroom just in time, and dropped to his knees before the toilet bowl.
When there was nothing left to bring up, he gripped the edge of the sink, and in a cold sweat and shaking, spasms of pain shooting through his ribs, he struggled to his feet. He turned the tap on full and splashed his face with handfuls of the icy water, until his head cleared enough to let him think.
Tommy caught his reflection in the small cracked mirror above the sink. The skin in front of his ear was split and bleeding, the flesh surrounding it already raising even as he looked at it, turning red.
Tearing a strip of tissue from the roll on the rusting toilet tank, he wadded it up and held it gingerly to the cut, wincing with the pain. The ringing in his ears had settled to a low whine. The imprint of his father’s huge hand blazed on his otherwise ashen face.
It was a face inherited from his mothera male version of herslight brown eyes, full mouth, straight nose, not pugged like Nate’s. He even had that same weak nerve that, when he smiled, tugged the right corner of his mouth down ever-so-slightly. He’d always been self-conscious about it, until Heather told him she thought it was sexy.
An image of her lying dead filled the screen of his mind. He blocked it out, thought instead, of his mother. Funny, he’d been thinking about her a lot lately.
You knew what he was like better than anyone, Mom. How could you leave me with him? Why, Mom?
He’d been called ‘nothing’ and ‘fag’ so often, that in some deep part of himself, he almost believed it was true. He’d begun to feel differently with Heather. But Heather was gone now.
Tommy went into his father’s bedroom. He lifted the .32 special rifle down from the crudely made gun rack above the bed, gasping from the knife-sharp pain that stabbed his right side, forcing him to remain very still until it eased. It was agony just to breathe, and he wondered if the old man had managed to crack a rib or two.
A memory of Nate holding the gun to his mother’s head came unbidden. She was crying, her hands covering her head. “Oh, no, Nate, please, don’t. Please. Don’t shoot me.” Nate laughing his ugly, mocking laugh at her terror, her helplessness.
Strange how he’d forgotten about that, tucked it into some small compartment of his brain and closed the door. The door was open now, revealing its ugly contents. Now he saw the small boy he had been, screaming in the background. “Don’t kill Mommy. Don’t kill Mommy, Daddy.” He’d buried that memory, buried it deep. But the terror of it had echoed inside him all these years.
No more, damn you! No more.
Easing himself back down on the cot, breathing his shallow, cutting breaths, Tommy positioned himself with his back against the wall, the rifle raised. He took careful aim at the door with its peeling shit-brindle paint.
And waited for it to open again.
The ringing phone jarred Peter out of a fitful sleep. He flicked off the remote and picked up the
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