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Sixteen-years-old
What’s that saying? There isn’t a love like a mother’s love? It’s true. My mom will do anything for me, but there’s one thing I’ll never be able to tell her. If I do, Dad will make me pay. And I have to make sure his abuse stays directed at me so I can protect Mom. She doesn’t know his ways or his harshness.
I have the scars to prove it, wounds that I’ve hidden from her for years. We pretend to hold hands at the table, say grace, and laugh. Dad tells us about his day at the hospital and all the lives he saved because he’s a surgeon.
And he practices his techniques on me.
Like right now.
I can’t stop the tears that drip down my face. My entire body hurts so bad. I can’t handle the pain. My skin is raw, cut open, and I know the evening is just starting.
“You were a bad boy today, Eric.” The surgical tray clinks when he picks up another scalpel, one that’s probably sharper so it can cut through my skin like butter.
I shake my head and do my best to hold in my emotion. The more I cry, the more he cuts me. Boys don’t cry. We aren’t allowed to show emotion. This is supposed to make me stronger. “I wasn’t. I wasn’t bad; I promise, Dad. I made all A’s—” My explanation dies when the tip of the scalpel digs into an open wound. I bury my face into the mattress and scream.
“You’re lying. I know you are because your teacher called me today and told me you made a B on a test. No son of mine is going to be anything less than great, Eric. Do you understand me? I won’t have an embarrassment for a child.” He slides the scalpel down my back, and I roar my agony into the pillow-top mattress. I grip the sheets with my fists until my knuckles pop.
I’m going to vomit.
No, I can’t. He’ll punish me more if I do.
“Yes, sir,” I say, blinking away the sweat stinging my eyes.
“You say that every time, and you continue to disappoint me. How are you going to be a doctor if you can’t make an A? How can I count on you to carry on the legacy? You’re weak. You’re pathetic. You’re a baby!” He stabs the scalpel into the meat of my shoulder, and a murderous blood-curdling scream leaves my throat. He’s never stabbed me before.
“Dad, please,” I beg him to stop. “It’s too much. It hurts. Please, stop!” I cry, unable to stop the flow of teardrops that seep into the mattress. On reflex, I yank against the restraints, but it only causes the scalpel to dig deeper. I bite the sheets and swallow the scream until it’s nothing but a vibration of needles in the back of my throat.
“Does it hurt? Good,” he taunts. He releases the handle of the scalpel. My flesh burns, and the pain explodes into something more, something unbearable.
It hurts so much I can’t feel anything at all.
My body is numb.
The slide of another scalpel leaving the metal tray has my body shivering. “How I raised a son like you is beyond me.” The cold tip of the blade meets my neck, and he drags it along my side. “I bet you’re a bottom bitch, aren’t you?” he seethes, yanking my pants down until my bare ass is exposed. “Is that why you’re so weak and incapable of doing anything, Eric?” The sensitive flesh stings as he cuts along the new part of me. I’d rather him cut along my back. It hurts when he opens new scars, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as when he creates a new wound on fresh skin.
“No! No, I swear. I swear. I swear! Please, stop. Please!” I sob as he continues down my right butt cheek. He stops, only long enough for me to draw in a ragged breath. He moves to my left side and cuts.
He exhales and tsks. “You know what? I don’t believe you. You’re gay, aren’t you? You take it up the ass; is that your problem? It makes so much sense, Eric. Your defiance against me, your unwillingness to do as you’re told.”
I always do as I’m told. Always. But he picks apart everything I do. Even when I’m an angel, he looks for something to punish me for. “I swear, I’m not gay.” I wish I had a dad who didn’t care about that sort of thing. I don’t have a problem with anyone who’s gay, but I’m glad I’m not or he’d kill me.
My life would be easier if I died. I’ve thought about it a few times. I thought about killing myself. My pain would end. I’d be at peace, but then I think about my mom and how she needs me. I can’t leave her here with him, and that’s the only thing keeping me alive.
“I’m not going to stitch you up yet. You need to sit here and think about your next words. Or I’ll start cutting on something else, so you can never use it again.”
I rub my cheek against the blanket and stare at the white wall. There’s a family photo hanging there. It’s your typical summer beach vacation photo. I’m standing beside Mom, and she’s standing next to Dad. Everyone has their arms around each other, and the waves are crashing against our feet as our toes are hiding in the sand.
It was a decent escape from reality because my dad didn’t touch me while we were there. He couldn’t since Mom was with us and not at work like she is right now. The picture blurs when a fresh wave of tears fill my eyes. Everything about my life is a lie.
We aren’t a cookie cutter family no matter what my dad tries to make everyone think. We live in a two-story house in the suburbs. There’s a pool in the backyard. A white picket fence with an American flag notched on the porch rail, and a Labrador retriever who is currently in his crate, so he doesn’t interrupt my punishment.
He’s barking and growling, doing his best to escape to help me, but no one can help me. I’m stuck in this nightmare as long as my dad is alive, and there is no way in hell I will ever leave him alone with my mother.
Right as I feel a wet cloth against my back, the downstairs door slams shut. My dad gasps, stopping his usual aftercare routine. He grips my neck and pulls me up off the bed. “Who the fuck is that?” he growls into my ear, twisting the scalpel deeper into my shoulder.
“Guys! I’m home,” my mom calls out, and my heart slams against my chest. No! She can’t be home. She can’t be. “I got off work early. I brought home Thai for dinner. I know how much you two love Thai!”
I hear each shoe hit the ground with a hard clack as she takes off her stiletto heels.
Dad throws my head against the bed and presses it against the mattress. His breath is hot against my cheek as he leans down. “You better keep your mouth shut, you hear me? You’ll be fucking sorry if you don’t.”
I don’t think I could speak anyway. There’s static zipping through my veins, and the pain engulfing me can’t be felt; not like the scalpel sticking out of my shoulder. My head is fuzzy, my vision blurs, and sweat stings my eyes. I don’t have the energy to blink the salt away.
I’m too tired.
“What’s everyone doing?” my mom’s voice grows skeptical when all she hears is silence.
“Stay quiet,” Dad shushes me, placing a hand over my mouth as he watches the door.