Dear Tabitha (15 page)

Past

Age 18

“Y
OU FUCKING
moron!” he screams almost incoherently as spit flies from his mouth. “Who makes pancakes for dinner?” The plate that I placed in front of him whizzes past my head, shattering against the tiled walls, and falling onto the floor. Syrup drips down my cheek and one of the pancakes is stuck to my chest. “I can’t take your stupidity anymore, Alex. You’re just a useless fuck!” He lunges toward me and his fist connects with my jaw. My vision begins to blacken and blur as I stumble backwards through the door into the garage.

“Pops, no!” I plead as I try to regain my footing. My face throbs from his punch and it feels like my cheek has shattered. He continues to yell but his words are incoherent at this point. He stumbles into the garage after me and continues to pummel me with his fists. The stench of the alcohol on his breath is overpowering, causing me to gag. He lands a crushing blow to my gut, knocking the wind out of me and causing me to drop to the floor. In desperation, I take a swing at him and miss.

That was a mistake.

He roars, “You stupid fucker! You think you can lay a hand on me?” He’s shocked that I’m trying to defend myself since I haven’t in the past. But this attack is far worse than anything he’s ever inflicted on me. I’m woozy and feel like I’m going to black out. I continue to swing at him blindly as he mocks me, “Son, you’re no match for me.” Suddenly, I’m flying through the air after his boot clad foot crushes into my chest, catapulting me into the workbench. I slump to the floor, gasping for air as I see him stumble toward me. He raises something long above his head, but my vision is too blurry to see what it is. As he begins to come into focus, I don’t notice the object that’s about to make contact with my gut.

I notice his eyes. They’re burning with fire.

I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

I sit up with a jolt. Heart racing. Palms sweaty. I’m gasping for air and clutching my chest. I toss the covers off and open my lungs to allow the air to flow in. I’m panting and tears are streaming down my cheeks. My ribs are sore, mimicking the pain that I felt almost four years ago when Pops tried to kill me with a metal garden rake.

He’s dead. Long gone.

But my nightmares are still very much alive. At least once a night, I wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding in my chest and a silent scream escaping from my lips. Each dream is so real that I swear I can still feel the prongs from the rake digging into my side, tearing at my guts. You’d think by now, I should be able to cope. That my memories would begin to fade. I wish they would fade. But it feels like it happened just yesterday, and I can still see my father’s lifeless body swinging in the bathroom. These dreams remind me of what he did to Mom and me. What a vile person he was.

“Alex?” I hear a soft voice outside my door.

I’ve been living with Dax’s family, the Andersons, since my father’s suicide. They were able to assume guardianship of me when I was fourteen. Dax’s mom, Lila, is a social worker, and his father, Drew, is a lawyer. After my father died, my sister was named my legal guardian, but she was barely an adult herself. She was relieved when the Andersons stepped in and opened their home to me. With my sister’s consent, they were able to appeal to the courts, requesting that I come live with them.

Here, I have my own room. My own space. Of course, I’m always welcome to crash at Reagan’s apartment any time I want, but I really like living here with the Andersons.

“Come in,” I say to Lila as she opens the door.

“Honey, are you okay? I could hear you from our bedroom.” She walks over and sits on the end of my bed. “Do you want to talk about it?” Her concern is evident on her face as I shake my head.

This is the first time in a while that anyone outside my room has heard my nighttime struggles. I feel bad that I woke her up. And embarrassed.

“I’m okay, Mrs. Anderson.” I take a sip from the bottle of water on my nightstand.

“Alex, you didn’t sound okay.” The look of concern on her face is evident. “I’m worried about you. I think it’s time you talk to someone about these awful nightmares that you’re having.” Her tone is suddenly stern as she assumes a motherly role. She doesn’t realize that I already
have
started talking to someone. I have a counselor at school whose been helping me try to sort out some of these feelings that I’ve been having. He knows about the nightmares to an extent. I’m working my way up to sharing everything, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that he’s going to think I’m a pussy for taking my father’s beatings for so long. I should have started defending myself sooner, and then maybe, he would have backed off.

“I’m going to be fine,” I lie. “I’m actually tired now. I’m going to try to go back to sleep.” I don’t want to talk about what I’m feeling. Lila is amazing, and Dax’s family has welcomed me with open arms after Pops died and treats me like their son. But I’m not ready to tell her everything that I’ve been through. I don’t want her to think that I’m weak.

“Are you sure?” she asks quietly. She stands up slowly, waiting for me to acknowledge.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I feign a yawn and stretch my arms out in front of me. “Goodnight,” I say to her as she turns to leave the room.

“We’ll talk more in the morning, after you’ve gotten some rest, okay?” she says as she closes the door.

I reach into my night table and take out my sketchpad. It’s filled with poems and lyrics to songs that constantly play over and over in my head. Words of sadness and despair. Loneliness. Terror.

My counselor encourages me to write everything that I’m feeling. Poetry and music are the only ways that I know how. It comes natural to me and allows me to purge my feelings onto the paper, giving me temporary relief from my memories and pain.

Tonight, however, I’m not writing words. I’m sketching a picture. Something that signifies all of my pain and suffering at the hands of my father. I draw until the sun comes up, making the finishing touches to the drawing as I hear a loud knock on my door.

“Alex, are you awake?” Dax says, opening the door.

“I am now,” I say, dropping my sketchpad onto the bed in front of me.

“Dude, I’m stoked to get my tattoo today. Aren’t you?” he asks as he makes himself comfortable on my bed near my feet.

I nod toward the pad of paper in front of him. “Check it out. I just designed my tattoo,” I say.

Dax grabs the pad and looks at the sketch of my future tattoo. He raises his eyebrows and scowls. “What the fuck? Dude, this is dark. Even for you.” He turns the paper so that I’m staring at my own artwork.

“It’s real. It’s fucking real,” I say, feeling the need to explain myself. “It’s part of my life story. I lived to tell my story. In
spite
of him. It will be my constant reminder that
I
survived and he didn’t.” Fuck, yeah.

He shakes his head and I can see his concern. He and his mother get the same look in their eyes when they are worried about me or anything in general. “Think about it. You may regret this in the future. Why do you want a reminder of him and the way he died? I’m confused.” Dax leans against the wall and drops the pad in front of me on the bed.

I answer him matter-of-factly. “That picture is going to cover up the scars that he left on me. And it’s going to serve as a constant reminder that I fucking lived. What’s not to get?” I need this tattoo. I need to feel the burning sensation as it’s carved into my skin like a brand. For life.

“Whatever, man. It’s not something I would do. That’s all. I’m your best friend, so maybe you should trust me for once and do the right thing. Don’t permanently place something on your body that you’re going to regret.” He looks at my fingers. “Like those.” He nods, looking at the tattoos on my fingers that spell ‘EPIC FAIL’. That’s what I am and what I’ve been my entire life. A huge fucking epic fail. Pops would remind me of that every time he beat the shit out of me. I failed at everything, and he never let me forget it. The tattoos on my fingers are my constant reminder.

“I have no regrets.” I lie. I have so many regrets. So many things beyond my control.

He raises one eyebrow and smirks. “You keep telling yourself that, okay?” He looks down at his phone. “Our appointment is in fifteen minutes. Are you
sure
you want to get that tattoo?” he asks one last time.

“Definitely,” I answer without hesitation.

I feel calm now. I love getting ink. There’s something about the buzzing sound of the needle that makes me drift off into a happy place. I look forward to the pain and numbness caused by the process. It helps me forget and erase him from my memory.

I grab my jacket, and follow Dax out to the car.

~

My ribs ache. I’m sore, and it feels great. I lift my shirt to admire my new ink in the mirror. It’s a rope about the length of my torso with a noose at the bottom. This is how Pops died. He hung himself. I close my eyes and remember seeing his shadow swinging in the doorway. I hated him. Despised what he did. To my mother. To me. That fucker deserved to die the way he did. Alone with the demons in his head.

He scribbled a note to me and my sister apparently right after he tried to kill me. Just before he hung himself.

Dear Alex & Reagan,

This world is fucked up. I’m fucked up. I have no other excuse for the way that I am, and I know that I can’t go on like this anymore. I’m tired of feeling. I’m tired of hating. I’m a monster, and I’ve fucked up so many lives. I know I won’t be seeing your mother where I’m about to go, but Hell is better than living on this miserable Earth.

Pops

The fucker didn’t even have the decency to try to find me. I was practically bleeding to death in the basement, and he just wanted to end it all. He was full of anger and rage. He was a raging alcoholic that couldn’t control his urges. He was fucked up beyond repair. I hope he’s learned his lesson in Hell if that’s where he indeed is.

I stare at the noose in the mirror. It looks three-dimensional. Real. This noose erases my scars and reminds me of who and what caused them. I won’t inherit his rage.

I won’t be like him.

Past

Age 18

T
HE DAYS
and nights blur together. I feel like I’m living in my own private nightmare. I honestly don’t know how much time has passed since I got here. Since I’ve been a prisoner. A few weeks? A few months? A year? It’s even hard to tell what day it is. I have nothing. I look around my apartment and want to vomit. Bad things happen here. Very bad things.

I’m no longer allowed to keep my tips. They are handed over to Dante or Tony when I finish work every night. I have nothing. Tony has made sure to strip me of everything. Well, I have a few things hidden in the kitchen, the one place that Tony never enters. My photo of Trina and a few dollars that I’ve been able to skim behind his back. The only clothes that I have are the ones that I wore when I got here and my cocktail uniform. He’s taken
everything
from me.