Dreadful Desire

Chapter 8

"What's with all the questions? Why do you want to know? Is it really any of your business?" I yell like a gun on rapid fire. My face is red, blood boiling. I feel like he is intruding in my personal space. He doesn't need to know about her. Why is this any of his business?

His eyes shoot open, shocked at my outburst. His eyes are hard, jaw tense and he his hands look like they are having tiny spasms. He looks me dead in the eyes and suddenly I feel bad. Why did I do that? Why did I let my anger get the best of me? I need to get out of here. I need fresh air. I lower the window and take a few deep breaths. 

I need to apologize but I feel confused. I'm angry! I'm angry at him for pressing me for information but I'm also ashamed that I screamed at him ... again. I close my eyes and shake my head.

He breaks my thought process, "I'm sorry if my questions made you uncomfortable. That wasn't my intention. I was just trying to get to know you," he says with innocence and sincerity as his eyes bore into mine. 

I feel completely horrible now. "No! I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come out like that. I was wrong to react that way. It's just when it comes to her; it's ... it's difficult to talk about. I just can't seem to bring myself to talk about her yet." My eyes are on the floor of the car. I feel my eyes stinging, about to let out the years of repressed sadness at the loss of my mother when he speaks again. 

"I have a past that I'm not happy about. Things happened to me that I didn't want to discuss with anyone either. But I opened up eventually and now I can speak about it with less anger or hurt."

There is a moment of silence. The air is tense and thick. His face looks like he is considering his words before he speaks. "My father was abusive, he used to beat my mother. She always made sure we were in bed by the time he got home so we wouldn't have to see him that way. She was always protecting us." My eyes widen.

"We would hear things breaking, things being slammed against the wall, the whole thing. We would never leave the room, too scared of what we might find. The next day though, we would see everything, the glass, the bruises, the blood," his voice trails off in thought.

My heart goes out to him, how can anyone give a someone a horrible childhood like that? As if I know anything different. He continues, "My mother would be battered and bruised and she would always defend that man. Saying she fell or walked into a door, making any excuse to cover what he had done to her. She would have black eyes, broken bones. She has even been knocked unconscious." 

I saw the white of his knuckles as he spoke. "But she always made sure she took care of us. We were never around it. She shielded us from the abuse by taking it for us." He looks out the window and rubs his shaved chin with this beautifully tattooed hand.

"He wasn't always like that," he kept going. "I remember him coming home and playing with our train set, making train sounds. Acting like the conductor." A smile stretches on his face. " I even remember sitting on his shoulders pretending to fly, my arms stretched. I really felt like I could fly." He's still smiling. 

"As cliche as it sounds we even played catch. I remember him being so patient and working with me until I understood how to work the glove so I could catch the ball. He looked so proud of me that day. I felt happy making him proud. I think that is every child's dream, to make their parent proud of them." He smiled as he said it. "He was good once." He trailed off and stared blankly out the window.

He decided to continue, "I don't know what's more confusing, knowing he was good and then turned into what he was or not knowing what made him turn to alcohol and becoming an abusive man." I don't know what to say, so I stay quiet.

"As time went on, he slowly stopped coming home after work and we saw less and less of him. He started coming home later and later, angry.  The arguments started and my mothers life of sunglasses, concealer, casts and excuses started," He huffed. I want to reach out to him and hold his hand but I'm afraid to move. I don't want to stop his divulgence of information.