Cold-Hearted

Chapter 2

She was black and blue from head to toe, just covered in the most unbelievable bruises I have ever seen. There were about thirty bruises on her back, and bruises peppered her entire, sweet face.

He never even denied it.

I was told the official cause of death was blunt force injuries to her abdomen and her head. How could someone be that ruthless with an angel such as herself? That is a question I have no answer to. My mother is the only person I would never harm, in any way.

I had moved out by the time my mother died, they were still raising Margaret. I had cut contact with everyone except my mom, I felt no reason to keep watering the dead flowers. Margaret and Wilhem only ever caused me pain, and although I do have the tendency to be hard on myself, I hardly believe that younger me deserved any of it.

At the time of my mothers death, I was facing demons of my own. Ones that will stay with me until I take my final breath, and I am coming up on my mid 50s, so hopefully that day is not so far from me now.
Anyways, because I was in such a predicament, I had less time to speak with her. I had less time to ask if she was okay, if there was anything she needed, if I could help her.

She needed me and I was not there, so I failed her as a son. But that seemed to be a common occurrence, at least, from what my father told me.

The loss of my mother set me back greatly, and I believe it still has an affect on the way I think today. I do not care how I cause others to feel, I do not feel pity or mercy for those I hurt or make angry. But I do catch myself wondering what she would think about all of this, if she'd continue loving me as her own, if I would be scolded or slapped across the wrist.
I have never been humbled so quickly or violently by greif.

But I forced myself to soldier through it, the way my father taught me to. I was simply brought up that way, and unfortunately you cannot teach an old dog new tricks. I wish now that I dealt with it in a more healthy way, but even now I do not know what that would be.

It seems the only thing I am capable of feeling is anger.

I am glad my family had no more sons, it seems the family disease ends with me.

Now, I find it ironic that my father is in prison considering his profession. Through my adolescence, I never entirely grasped what my father did for a living, the only thing I could gather was that I could not lie to him. Of course, I tried. I can recall many times where I had lied to him to wriggle out of a situation I found myself not wanting to be in. I later learned he was a detective.

It was incredibly hard to successfully lie to my father. He could tell almost immediately if someone was not telling him the truth, a simple stutter would send his meaty fist flying for my body. And he was quite hard to dodge, very unpredictable.

The first notable time I lied to my father was to protect my mother.

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The clanging in the cabinets could be heard from outside, where I had been trapping bugs in my hands for the past few hours. It was hot now, causing me to sweat, but the occasional breeze that blew across my newly sun-kissed skin made it bearable. My afternoon had been interrupted by angry german words filling the air.

"Edward!" A gravelly voice shouted from the back door to my small childhood home.
I snapped my head around to meet his gaze and scrambled to my feet, which were covered in itchy rashes due to the thousands of microscopic grass cuts I had received throughout the day.

"Sir?" I tried my best to look presentable, which was not happening for me. I sported bare feet, unkempt hair, and blue pajama pants that my mother gifted to me on a past birthday. My father seemed disappointed at the sight, he wanted me to be like him, and I wasn't.

"Why is the liquor cabinet open?" He tapped his finger against the wooden door in anticipation.

My mind immediately rushed to find something I could say to him. I knew my mother wasn't allowed to touch the liquor cabinet, let alone take anything from it, and I knew she and her friend had earlier poured themselves a glass. My heart pounded at the possibilities of what would come after my answer.

I stuttered, trying to appear confident, "I'm sorry." I grazed my toes against the blades of grass, looking down in fake disappointment. "I wanted to see why you liked it."

My eyes stayed glued to the earthy floor as heavy footsteps approached me. His shadow loomed over my small body, blocking the sun from my skin. There was a long pause, I could feel his eyes burning into the top of my head. "You lying?" He muttered, in a serious tone. "I can tell when you're lying."

I tried to speak to no avail, the words wouldn't come out, and it frustrated me to no end. My innocent eyes locked with his. They always reminded me of coal, black and cold.

My mouth opened to say what my mind had come up with, which was cut short very suddenly when my father grabbed my ear with his blue collar hands, and practically dragged me across the dirt. I was not given the chance to wipe my feet off, tracking dirt into the house as he led my to my room.

The fear started to rise in me when he let go of my ear, my hand immediately gravitated to it, trying to soothe it back to a normal color. I just watched him as he huffed over me, breaking a sweat from the anger I caused him, which I never thought was possible.

"I would never lie to you." I whispered, in an attempt to change my fate.

Too late.

My sentence was followed by a swift smack to the head, his ring made a crack sound against my skull. It caused me ringing in my ears, my eyes welled up at the pain and confusing noise.

"Man up, Edward. Crying is for girls. Are you a girl?" His yellow teeth could be seen through a sickening grin as he smacked my hand away from the tears I was wiping.

I shook my head solemnly, rubbing my hand against the injured one. "I didn't lie to you, dad." Determined to protect my mother, I continued my act. "I drank it and it tasted bad. Im sorry!" My act continued to escalate, involving more emotion in the words I was saying. He looked puzzled.

My eyes caught a glimpse of my mom, who walked past my doorway, not knowing the situation that was going down.

"I know mom isn't allowed to drink it but you never said I wasn't allowed to, I just wanted to be like you!" I exaggerated, tugging on his shirt with a frown on my face.

That performance should have won me an award. And it did, no more beatings for the day.

Once he gave me a nod of approval, my frown perked up. I wasn't smiling because of his approval, I was smiling because I had successfully saved my mother from a beating. I figured I would rather put myself in harms way if it meant protecting her at all. And that's what I did.

After he left my room, I watched him back out of our drive way in his rust colored car, and waited until he was gone. The ringing in my ears was still loud, but something I had grown accustomed to very quickly, however annoying I found it.

I ran to my mother with tears in my eyes, afraid to let them fall. She traced her bony, manicured fingers over the red welt on my cheek. There was a certain sadness in her eyes when I returned to her like this. One I didn't see often.

My mother was great at pretending everything was okay, and keeping a positive mindset as to not scare my sister and I; but there were times where she couldn't hold back.

I was embraced in her warm arms as she ran her fingers across my bare back and into my hair. I didn't have to say anything, she just knew, though she didn't know I had defended her.

"You are a very brave boy, Eddie." She kissed the top of my head, "Never forget that." Her voice was carried sweetly on the breeze blowing through the kitchen window.

As she held me on that summer day, I think I fully realized how much I loved her.

I also realized just how cruel this world would be to me.