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Sure, there are a lot of fucked up parents out there that hit their kids for having behavioral issues. But I can’t remember ever giving my dad a reason to beat me. He just did it because he hated me. Or so I assumed. He never touched Matt, so that made it easier to think he hated me.
The entire thing fascinated me for a while. I’d stare at my face in the mirror when my busted eye would finally heal and I’d see a younger version of my dad in the reflection.
I was him and he was me. Very often in my teens, I saw a lot of him in myself and I wondered for a moment if I was becoming him or if I was born this way. Always destined to be this way.
The only thing I do remember is feeling the depression eating me on the inside. It came and went. And sometimes when it came, it made me feel low and I hated myself to the point where I believed that I was a vile monster.
I’d be in the darkness for days, crying, drinking till I was sure I’d kill myself, taking lines of cocaine and fucking random girls till the lines of reality and dreams blurred. And then it disappears and I’m back to being determined and superficial.
And then there were days when Diana would tell me that I’m broken and that I needed to be fixed. Could I be fixed? I don’t know. I’m not some fucking piece of machinery, so how could I ever be fixed or be normal?
Parker doesn’t ask me anything as I pull my jeans on. Instead, she silently takes her towel and heads into the bathroom. When I hear the water, I grab the Mustang keys and leave the room.
I need a few hours to breathe before I could come back and face her again. Things just got good between us and I wasn’t going to mess it up right now.
