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Our dad had a journal; I knew that.
But only by accident.
I stumbled upon it a long time ago while I was trying to find something in his study that I could break. He was forcing me to go to the therapist’s office and I hated it there. Back then he had a theory that my lack of grades and concentration was the result of an illness, like ADHD or something, because it had been very hard for him to accept that his second son wasn’t like the first. That he was a rebel and not a boring puddle of mud to be molded into a shiny vase.
I was too little at the time to read the contents of the diary when I found it. But before I could even make an attempt at it, I was caught. Results were not pleasant, let’s just leave it at that. And while I still snuck into his study after that incident and stole things and broke them, I never went for his journal. I did start to keep my own though. When I was old enough and when one of my therapists wanted me to keep track of my angry thoughts.
I’ve had enough therapy to know that it was my unconscious effort of seeking Dad’s approval.
What a fucking stupid thing to do.
It doesn’t matter though.
Because I don’t keep a diary. Not anymore.
Not for two years, two months and twelve days.
From the looks of it though, my brother didn’t know about our dad’s journals. Which is surprising because I thought my dad and Homer were all buddy buddy and knew each other’s secrets.
Well, not all secrets but still most of them.
He takes in another sharp breath, his chest expanding as he repeats, “So I know.”
“You know what?”
“What he did to you.”
I stop breathing then.
I stop thinking. I freeze.
While his chest expands on a sharp, agonized breath.
But it’s not enough to calm him down. It’s not enough to settle him or settle that pained expression on his face. So he shifts on his feet a few more times, runs a hand through his hair, messing up those strands — something that I’m seeing for the first time, his hair messed up — to say what he wants to next.
“He had…” He swallows. “He had it written down. What he did to… to punish you. The beatings. The starving. How he locked you up in your room, in the basement or in your closet. To teach you… To teach you a lesson. Medicating you. I knew he was taking you to doctors but I…”
Didn’t know.
No, he didn’t.
No one did.
Because it was a secret; my dad’s long and well-kept secret.
So the first thing that comes to mind right now is how fucking stupid.
How fuckingrecklessof him.
To write down his own crimes.
Something that he went to such great lengths to hide. Something that he never ever wanted anyone to find out. Something that he told me people wouldn’t believe even if I told them.
Because of his image.
Because of how generous and kind he was.
In the eyes of others, he meant.
