The Hell I Carry

Part 3: The Back Room and Disneyland

The Back Room

The first few weeks seemed like a dream come true for me. Uncle T spoiled me with new clothes, toys and even a mattress for me to sleep on. He would drive me around in his station wagon and take me to the park and out for ice cream. He and my mother would occasionally fight, but at this stage in my life, I assumed all adults yelled and thought nothing of it. There was a lot about Uncle T that I did not quite understand until I was older. His motives ran deeper than winning my mother's heart; he was after her trust and her soul. He funded her habit and even pushed her to try different drugs that eventually led to her losing her job. Without a job, she relied on him to pay the bills, fill the pantry and fuel her addiction; he had her right where he wanted her. A few weeks after my mother lost her job, Uncle T moved in.

He had, in a matter of days, become a completely different person. I was no longer allowed to sit on the sofa and watch my Barney tapes.

"I've had a long fucking day and I don't want to watch Barney. Go to the back room and play with your toys. Close the door behind you."

I spent a lot of time alone in the back room, but as I mentioned before, I welcomed the empty spaces around me. I now had plenty of toys to keep my imagination vibrant and alive. I would often pretend that Uncle T didn't exist, and my mother and I lived as we had before he invaded our simple lives. He was a parasite in the belly of the beast. My mother was a monster before him, but she was a completely different devil with him in her midst. During all of our time together, these few months were, perhaps, the most painful.

Uncle T had a violent streak. I was never allowed to leave the room and my mother was never allowed to leave the apartment. We were his prisoners. However, in our own ways, we didn't mind. My mother was content as long as her needs were met, and I was at home when embraced by the lumbering solitude. The only friends that I had were Cozmo and Tim, house roaches that I trapped beneath a cup in my room. Don't be so quick to judge me. What child hasn't played with bugs?

I'd let them crawl in my hand, offering them the subtle illusion that they were free. When they made it to the edge of my fingertips, I would slowly curve my fingers inwards, trapping them in my palm; there's no escape. I would sometimes spend hours freeing and then re-capturing Cozmo and Tim. I would let them explore the only world I allowed them to know. Were they happy? I honestly did not care....at first. Then Cozmo died; he was the smaller of the two. He wasn't as strong, nor as fast as Tim. I had accidentally crushed him beneath the edge of the cup when re-capturing them. I grieved silently in the back room that day.

I had experienced sadness before, but not quite like this. A part of me knew that keeping Cozmo and Tim in such perilous conditions was unfair, but I could not let them go. Perhaps, I was more afraid of loneliness than I care to admit. However, this sudden compassion, but lack of understanding, is how I often fueled my relationships. I would grow up and spend years capturing and releasing different women; keeping them imprisoned within the palm of my hand, promising them freedom but never delivering it. In the end, I decided to also kill Tim. It seemed logical to end his existence than to simply set him free.

The back room, later in my life, would become a symbolism of my own mind. I often feel trapped within the realms of my own consciousness; struggling to escape all the wrong I've done and those whom have wronged me. There's a door and a window; both are viable means of escape, but I stay put within my small, merciless prison. Why? Perhaps, this is why the caged bird sings. The cage bird knows its fate when it is trapped inside of its little, metal prison. To be free is to fall victim to the unknown. I would rather stay trapped in the hell that I had come to know so intimately, than to leave it behind in search of unfamiliar treacheries. What was happiness to a child that only knew mild contentment? The back room was my prison and my safe haven.