Go ahead and cry, little boy
You know that your daddy did too
You know what your mama went through
You gotta let it out soon, just let it out
- daddy issues
tw: abuse (brief description)
THE NIGHT OF THE SOIRÉE.
IL N'Y A PAS plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre.
No one is as deaf as the one who does not want to listen.
My dad repeated the quote to me every time I'd shed a tear when I was younger. Whenever anything got hard. The hits, the slaps, the cries, the muffles. Everything.
I don't remember much of growing up. All that is left is the good memories, Luca and I playing around in his backyard when Ms. Cathan's - Maria would pick lemons off the trees in her white dress with tiny floral patterns. She'd go inside, bring out everything needed to make lemon scones and begin the process in the sun, outside whilst watching us play. Winter was almost always with her, sometimes she'd join us and then find her way back to Maria's side.
I remember Sage's dad leaving the key to upstairs pool when he and Helem - Ms. Evander's would go out of town so we could throw our own parties, and when he'd leave out the paints and clay for us to fool around with. I'm not sure he would've allowed it if he really knew what Sage was sculpting though. Actually, I take that back he'd probably say how it's 'natural,' and we should not be ashamed of what the media has deemed unnatural. An artist he is.
I remember dinner at Atlas' house, how Monet - Ms. McAllister would make Atlas set up the table and let me bring out the drinks before we sat down to eat. How Mr. McAllister would do the same on days she was away, and we'd eat dinner together. Atlas hiding away in his seat whenever an embarrassing story would come up, and then rolling his eyes when I'd laugh.
I remember coming home at the end of days, with Mom on the floor picking up pieces of grand-mère's shattered vases. Sometimes the insides of her palms cut with blood still leaking out from them. I remember kneeling to help her as we worked together. And then he would walk in...I don't remember the rest. I block it out.
I am remembering it now, however, vividly. Flashbacks come and go as he sits a foot away with his mouth moving. Moms already started to cry and Elisé is out for the night at a sleepover.
This is our perfect family.
"Combien de fois Caleb?" I look up at him, not answering. Words don't get you anywhere with my father. Nowhere good anyway. "Es-tu un putain d'idiot!"[How many times Caleb?] [Are you a fucking idiot!]
"Armand," mom tries, but dads not having any of it. He never does. She looks so small next to him and not even in size but everything.
Mom is this beautiful being; she has these big brown eyes and hair that stops just below her shoulders that's always so healthily shiny. She's poise, and pretty and the sweetest person I know. How she ended up with a fuck up like my father still has me in shambles.
When you look at old photos of her, you see the way she used to smile - with her head thrown back her smile wide as her eyes glimmered. She doesn't smile like that anymore.
"Get out of the room Cecile." He orders not bothering to face her as his eyes paralyze me to my spot. I hate his green eyes, not as much as I hate mine though.
"No, no-" she tries, but trying doesn't cut it out with Armand Delvaùx. He's the richest man of them all, he also happens to be the coldest.
We live in the secluded house up the hills. The one that everyone always stares at, whispering how lovely it must be. It's isolating, lonely, quiet. So quiet in fact that glass shattering against walls, a little boy crying out in pain and a mothers horrified screams can't be heard at all for miles on end.
"Cecile, Sortez!" [Get out!]
Mom's makeup is already wasted away with the tears she's shed knowing what's about to come next. Because I fucked up. I don't know how I was found. I always checked if I was being followed, checked if anything gave anything away. I was so fucking close this time.
Valé Asters is not the cause of dads wrath - I wouldn't be stupid enough to put it on her, but she is the cause of something I haven't felt in a while.
I once thought she was what happiness wanted to be, she was like this thing I couldn't quite figure it out. How does a person live like she does? Turns out, she's a fucking fraud.
But I can't help but remember before I would pick her up when we'd go out, I'd watch her interact with her dad. How he would say goodbye to his daughter, sometimes try and get a glint of who it was picking her up. She'd push him away - lightheartedly and he'd surrender before kissing her cheek.
She'd be so vibrant, entering the car with a stupid smile as she apologized. I didn't care that she took long, only how happy she'd seem.
"You really love your dad." It'd been a passing comment of an observation. She'd turn to me nodding as a smile creeped its way onto her face, probably thinking over a happy memory of them two.
"He's like my favorite person ever."
I wondered how that must feel, seeking love from a father instead of refuge.
Settling into reality I come back down. Not meeting mom's eyes, not wanting to see her decaying happiness, the heartbreak, apology, grief of allowing what happens to happen.
I finally catch her eyes for a fleeting second as she stands to leave and I see it, the guilt she feels. I forgive you. I know you can't leave. I just wish you did.
When the door closes, I face my father. He shakes his head rounding his desk, I know the routine like the back of my hand. He'll unlock the third drawer, reach in past all the documents to the rings. All those fucking rings.
One by one he'll place them on, starting with his left and ending with his right until they weigh him down. His hand will drop slightly, but he'll carry himself with so much confidence you'll barely notice.
When he moves closer, I stand up.
Taking off the black blazer, then my tie and last the dress shirt. Always the body, never the face. Things you can cover up. Things no will notice. He's always come close, but I think it would kill him. I know it would, to have his son talked about in a non-perfect manner.
And plus, if he ever got my face, I think that would scare the shit out of me. Like, really. Because then he has no limits, and maybe one day Elisé will be next. Or mom. He can't start to hit mom again, not now, especially because I'm here.
He comes closer, and we stand face to face. Father and son. "You make a fool of this family again Caleb, and I'll kill you."
"What will they all say Dad? Caleb Delvaùx's disappearance? You might not care, but they all do." For all the wrong reasons, but still.
"You think you know everything? You're nothing but a little boy Caleb. What you pull girls? they make you feel good?" He laughs. "They give zero shit about you. Only what's in your bank account. My bank account!"
I look at him with so much hatred I hope he suffocates from it."I wish Mom had never met you." His fury builds in his eyes, his jaw locks. "I wish she'd gotten with anyone else."
"You can't protect her Caleb, you're just like me."
"I'd rather you kill me ten times over than be anything like you."
He snaps. And this time I feel it, I haven't felt it in a long time. The punches roll in, the metal rings digging into my skin. I smell the familiar metallic scent of blood and then it goes black.
I wake up what feels like hours later, my body still aching from the hits. I try and open my eyes, but they feel heavy.
I turn to my side, my entire body burning. and I see Mom hunching over as she scrubs the floor – fuck. There's so much blood, I don't realize why she's hunched over until I hear the whimpers. She's crying while cleaning.
I go to feel my face, sticky red residue comes off on my fingertips and my heart sinks.
He got my face.
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