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I’ll torment myself by letting my imagination flow freely.
Because when I’m buzzed, it’s easy to pretend that my requirements from a woman aren’t fucked up and that I’m a better man than the one I loathe.
My father.
Brax and his old lady come in together about half an hour later. They both say hi, and I nod back at them, watching as he sits her on a stool at the bar and kisses her neck like she’s the most precious thing in the world. I wonder if he’s ever thought about slicing her open and watching her blood spill over her skin. Probably not.
Brax was a nomad for years before he committed, and not just to her, but to our Charter. Anyone can see how much he worships her. He wouldn’t want to cause her pain.
I always thought Brax was more like me than any of the others, that he was numb to all that kinda shit. Turns out I was wrong and I’m a lone wolf living among a pack. The one that will never really fit in, but will always have his place. That being said, this is my home and these are my people. They always have my back, they never judge, and I’ve been here long enough now to never imagine being anywhere else. We may be outlaws, but at least the people who suffer by our hand deserve it. We don’t prey on the weak and vulnerable.
AGED 6
“Quickly, Richie, pick those trains up off the floor.” Mama starts breaking up the track that I’ve just put together perfectly, I even managed to make a junction all by myself.
“But I’m playing,” I moan back at her, and she stops flapping to look at me, guilt and sympathy taking over her panic.
“I know, darling.” She crouches down to me. “But you know how your father feels about unnecessary clutter, we don’t want to upset him, do we?”
Taking two tissues from the box on the table beside her, she rubs the chocolate from the corner of my mouth then stands back to admire me.
“Come on, Richie, we’ll get them back out for a few hours after school tomorrow.”
She squares up the tissue box and makes sure the next available tissue is standing up at the perfect point. Then she helps me break up the track and put it back in the box.
I come back down the stairs from putting the box away, just as Father’s car pulls up in front of the house. Mama’s eyes dart nervously around, checking for any imperfections or flaws that she might be punished for.
Most kids my age idolize their fathers. I hate hearing the kids at school talk about the plans they have with them at the weekend. I detest mine, and I hate even more how he makes Mama scared of him.
He barks at her like she’s his servant.
He takes pleasure in how scared of him she is.
And if she doesn’t do things perfectly, he hurts her with his fists.
Mama quickly tucks the back of my shirt into my pants and pushes back my shoulders so I’m standing straighter. Then dusting off her apron, she takes one final glance at her hair in the mirror before the door opens. Her “everything is wonderful” smile takes over as she moves toward him. I can tell that the kiss she places on his cheek isn’t welcomed, and I shudder when his eyes narrow in on me.
“You do your homework, boy?” he asks, disregarding Mama so he can hang up his jacket.
“Didn’t have any, sir,” I reply. It's the truth, I’m much smarter than the other kids at school and sometimes my teacher lets me do my homework in class while they catch up.
“Then I’ll set you some sums after dinner,” he tells me, walking past to inspect the living room.
His shoes tap against the immaculately polished wood floor. He checks the windows first, running his fingers across the sills and rubbing imaginary dust between his finger and thumb. Then he inspects the bookshelf, where his books stand in the exact neat order that they were in when he checked them yesterday. There won’t be a speck of dust found. Mama spends her entire day making sure of it.
I hear the relieved breath Mama lets out when he passes us in the hall and makes his way into the kitchen. The room is faultless as always. The table is already laid for three, with each item of cutlery having the precise amount of space set between them. Mama uses a ruler to be sure.
When he makes his way over to the stove, I notice how Mama tenses like she’s bracing herself for something.
I brace myself too.
Reaching for a towel, Father lifts the lid off the pot that bubbles on the stove.
“What is this?” he asks, looking down into the pot with disgust.
“Dinner.” Mama smiles as if there’s nothing wrong, yet I notice how her hands are shaking behind her back.
“Dinner.” Father nods his head as he puts the lid calmly back in place. I swallow thickly, knowing from his tone that he isn’t satisfied. He takes the eleven steps between the stove and Mama agonizingly slowly, like a predator ready to pounce its prey.
