TALK TO ME ¯ᶠʳᵉʳᵃʳᵈ

-ˏˋｔｗｅｎｔｙ ｆｏｕｒ：ｕｓｅｌｅｓｓˊˎ-

trigger warning: mention of violence, child abuse, verbal abuse.

“Speak up!”A hand collided with the side of my face, slapping me hard enough to send me to the ground. “Come on, use your fucking voice!”

That wasn’t the voice of a bully pushing me around because I was “mute.” That was my father, beating me one last time when I was eight years old, before he left my mother and me.

“Stop!” my mom would cry. “Stop it!! He would talk if he could and you’re only making it worse!” She would jump in front of me, but he wouldn’t stop, he’d slap her too.

“Speak up and protect your mother!” he’d yell. “Fucking useless child. This is why I’m leaving you, wasting all my money on therapists and shit, but there’s no hope for you! You,” he pointed at my mother, “should have had an abortion like I told you to. The only reason I stuck around was because I thought I should be decent enough to be a father since I’d fucked you unprotected. But if I knew I would be stuck with a retarded child, I would have left a long time ago.”

He picked up his already packed bags and left. My mother held me in her arms, crying, drenching the top of my head with tears. I didn’t cry. I had cried so much the times he’d beat me before that I had no tears left. I know my mother was crying for me more than herself, maybe she felt bad for me that I had no tears left, so she made up for them.

I was convinced I was useless just like my father said. There was no one who would stick around for me; my own father wouldn’t, so who would?

I stood now at the entrance of the living room, looking at my father. This wasn’t the first time I had seen him since he left. He often came and visited randomly. I was never sure why. Every time he came, he just brought trouble. He would make me feel like crap about myself and then leave. My mother once said he must have come when he had trouble so that he could put us down to feel better about himself. I was beginning to agree with that theory.

He sat on the sofa, staring at me, scrutinizing me as he looked me up and down.

“Still the silent treatment, eh?” he scoffed, rubbing his hands on knees as if my silence was making him physically uncomfortable. He was wear a suit that looked pretty expensive, nothing could make him uncomfortable in that. He looked towards my mother. “Why don’t you buy him decent clothes? He looks like a child stuck with hand-me-downs.”

I clenched my fists. I didn’t care if he attacked me, but he had no right to make my mother feel bad.

“They’re his friends’ clothes,” she stated plainly. Damn, when did she notice? “He’s been staying the night there.”

“He has friends?” my father laughed. “Are they mute like you?”

“He’s not mute,” my mother said firmly. “Why did you come here?”

“To see how you all are doing,” he shrugged.

“To make us feel horrible because you’re a successful business man?”

“Just to see how my son is doing, that’s all,” he said, standing up. He stepped closer towards my mother and me and I instinctively took a step back. “Oh, still scared of me, Frankie?” I shook my head and he smirked. “Oh, you look like it.” He continued taking steps closer to us until he was standing right in front of my mother. “You know,” he said, looking closely at my mother, “you were so beautiful until you had him.”

“Shut the hell up,” she muttered, her teeth gritted together. “Hurry up and say or do what you need to do to feel better about yourself and leave. I only let you in because I don’t want trouble.”