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Chapter Nine
Tegan
“I want Daddy,” I tell Momma, tears streaking down my cheeks.
I’ve tried so hard to be strong, but sometimes my little body and mind just can’t take it. Today is one of those days, because I know one of Momma’s friends, the one I hate the most, is coming today. I tried to tell her he hurts me when he comes, but she just cries and begs me to be a big boy.
“We’re not with Daddy anymore, baby. We had to move away from there.”
I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. We’ve been gone for a year. The reason I know it’s been a year is because my birthday was last week, and we left right before my last birthday. I miss my daddy so much. I know if he were here, he wouldn’t let the men touch me. I wish I had told him when we were still with him what was happening, but I was so scared.
“Please don’t let him hurt me, Momma,” I whisper, and look up at her. Her eyes look darker than they used to. They look like someone’s pushed on them and they’ve sunk in her head. And her face looks really skinny, just like her arms and the rest of her body. She always looks sick, and the happy times that would peek through every once in a while when we were with my daddy never come anymore. She’s always sad now.
“I promise this will be the last time, Tegan.” She gets down on her knees, so she can see me better, and puts her hands on my cheeks. “Please just be a good boy. I need you to be a good boy one more time. Can you do that?” Her voice sounds tired and scratchy, and there’s water in her eyes.
I nod and try to fight back the tears. I used to love being her big boy, the man of the house while Daddy was away, but I don’t like it anymore. I know what Momma says isn’t true. I know that this won’t be the last time. She’s promised me before and broke that promise a couple days later.
Things have been different since we moved away. When Momma started bringing the men back around, she did it a lot more than she used to. She doesn’t have to worry about Daddy being gone now. Now it’s just the two of us.
There’s a knock at the door, and Momma quickly gets up from her knees to go answer it. My stomach starts to hurt and my lip trembles. He’s here.
Instead of running out the back door like I really want to do, I sit in the kitchen chair and wait for them to come get me. A minute later, I hear footsteps and look up and see him standing there. Fear freezes my little body as I stare up at him. He’s dressed all in black and his salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back and looks wet. Even his eyes are black, as he looks at me like my old dog used to look at a steak. When we first moved, the only good thing about it was I didn’t have to see him anymore. Didn’t have to let him touch me. I was terrified when he showed up at our house the first time after we moved.
I keep my eyes on him as he steps to the side and Momma walks in after him. She walks over to me and grabs my hand. It’s shaking and her face looks scared again, just like it always does when he comes. “Come on, baby. Mr. Williams is here to see you.”
She pulls me from the chair and out of the room. When I pass by Mr. Williams my body starts to shake. It scares me to be near him. My hand squeezes my mom’s tight, wishing so hard she would change her mind and make him leave.
“Pants off, boy, and get on the bed,” Mr. Williams barks, once Momma closes the door to my room.
I look over and see several men sitting in chairs, just like always. It never bothers me that they are there. They don’t hurt me. I can close my eyes and forget about them. But the men on the bed, I can never forget about them, no matter how tight I close my eyes, no matter how much I try to think about other things.
I do as Mr. Williams says, pulling my pants and underwear down my legs and getting on the bed. I don’t get far though, before he snags my hair and drags me down the end. It hurts when he grabs my hair, and I cry out.
“Shut up,” he snarls, his spit flying in my face. “Fucking suck it up and be a good little bitch.”
He shoves me down until my face smashes into the mattress. I try to sniff the snot running out of my nose, but he’s pushing so hard on my head that I can’t. I can barely breathe and the mattress in my face gets wet. I claw at the sheets and try to push up, but he’s too strong. He’s always too strong. I’m nothing but a weak boy. Momma says she wants me to be her strong boy. The man of the house.
But shouldn’t a strong boy be able to fight off the bad men?
I blink open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. The room is shrouded in darkness and quiet, but I swear I still hear the muffled cries of my younger self. I’ve learned to cope with my dreams. They don’t bother me as much as they used to, but I still hate having them. They bring back the pain I endured as a kid. A time I wish I could forget forever.
When my dad finally found me with my mom, he took me away, and my mom went to jail. During her trial, it was discovered she wasn’t mentally stable, and instead of going to prison, she went to a psychiatric hospital. My dad once told me when I was older that she had a mental breakdown during the trial. It’s where she’s been ever since. Personally, I think she got off easy. The bitch should have rotted in a jail cell.
I throw off the blanket. I’m sweaty and sticky from my dream, and I need to wash off the residual remnants of the horrific scenes in my head. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon, letting a soft orangey light into the room. I stand in the shower for several minutes, washing away my memories, like I always do.
But it won’t last long. Not today anyway. It’s Monday, and I leave in a couple hours to go see the bitch. It’s been a week, and I know she’s not dead yet, because no one’s called to tell me so. I’m not sure which I want more; to watch her die and know she’s finally gone from the world, or to let her die alone, like she deserves.
I wonder if it’s natural for me to long for that day. Most people would be sad that their mother was dying, even if she put them through hell. Those people didn’t feel what I felt when I was a kid. They didn’t feel the innocence ripped away from them each time a man came over to the house. They didn’t feel the pain of what happened, or pray every night that their mother would love them like a normal mother would. Or the hatred for the one person that was supposed to protect them.
I get dressed and finish up on an armoire a customer is waiting for. I admire my work and am satisfied with the finished product. I can already imagine the smile on the old woman’s face.
The drive to the psychiatric facility is long, but the time passes before I know it. I both look forward to and dread these visits. I get a sick sense of satisfaction seeing my mother helpless in her bed. She now knows what it feels like, except in her case she’s not being subjected to sick bastards who like to sexually abuse children. Even so, she lies there, unable to move, unable to help herself, just like I did as a boy.
I stand at her bedside and listen to the beep of the machine keeping her alive. The line on the heart monitor goes up and down with her heartbeat. I don’t wish to lean over and flip the switch that will stop the machines breathing for her. Nope, I hope wherever she is in her comatose state, she’s regretting every fucking sick thing she let those bastards do to me.
I often wonder is she did regret anything. My dad never visited her once she was committed, and he never asked me if I wanted to. I would have said no even if he had. I didn’t start coming until the cancer took over her brain and she was noncommunicative. Before then, I was eleven the last time I saw her. The last words I spoke to her were “Goodbye, Momma” when the officer stuffed her crying in the back of his cruiser. I was happy she was going away. I looked up at my dad, who was holding my hand, and fucking smiled and said, “Thank you.”
