Chapter 13 | Aaron
Aaron wasn't naturally violent, but given the current circumstances, and in the nicest way possible, he wanted to get up and punch everyone present in the classroom (including Erika) right in the face.
But he wouldn't do that. Of course he wouldn't. Because Aaron Williams was commonly known as the pretty boy with a halo above his head, the nice guy who wouldn't hurt a soul. Which was true, to some extent, in some way. He was a saint until you'd look at the hatred in his heart, an angel until you'd realize he was his own monster. There was always an exception to the rule. A limitation that could be crossed over.
In front of him, the entire class of seventh graders was gathered around one girl like a pack. Apparently, she was crying because she'd been having a hard time at home and everyone wanted to support her. She'd vaguely supplied, mom had to travel and I miss her.
Oh no. How drastic. If Aaron was disrespectful, if he had zero manners, he'd put his feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head just as a signal that he didn't give two shits about it—the unnecessary attention. But he had manners, so he just sat in his place secluded from the gathering, spine slouched forwards, fist into his cheek, grey eyes lazily sweeping around the bulletin boards across the wall.
"You look... totally not annoyed."
Aaron sighed and turned his neck barely enough to glance at Erika as she headed back towards him. "Yeah. What're you doing here? Go back to her."
A curt reply but Erika understood. "What's wrong?"
"Crying kinda makes my head hurt."
Only after saying it out loud did he feel the bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He knew he sounded like his own father. But whether he liked it or not, crying did make his head hurt.
Erika looked at the short blonde who was still crying then back at Aaron. Recognized her. She raised a brow. "You're being a bit biased, aren't you?"
He was and Erika knew the story. Maybe if it was another person crying about some personal life issues, it would've just made his head hurt but he wouldn't have been half as annoyed. It was the person that bothered him.
The blonde girl crying had spitefully tugged his nerves before, back when they'd discussed adolescent dilemmas during English class, and she had decided to share her wisdom, stood in her place like some professional public-speaker born for the non-existent spotlight and said:
"Self-hate and being unconfident is just in your head. A delusion. It's easy to fix. It's a matter of believing in yourself. You guys just make it hard on yourselves for nothing."
Whilst some other ignorants had been prompted to perform a standing ovation, Aaron had wanted to stand up, clap and say: thank you for throwing at us your load of bullshit. Valuable advice. You're such a gem. Without your wisdom, I would've never become fucking confident.
It only hit him that personally because he suffered from it. She acted like she was wiser than any of them, like she knew what every pain felt like. Now, any move, any word from her, directly annoyed him.
Aaron focused on the blonde and said, "You know what can make her stop crying?" so quietly like he hadn't meant to actually voice it.
"What?"
"A cigarette to her—"
Aaron froze like he suddenly turned into a statue. When he recovered from the shock of what his own subconscious was capable of, he realized just how much his father rubbed off on him. He pressed his palms to his face and leant back, whispering incomprehensibly, "I'm so sick."
Erika didn't understand a single thing of what just happened. She figured he was just weird like that, always talking to himself, getting to some sort of analyzation but never sharing it.
She tried to change the subject. A knowing smile pushed one edge of her mouth up. "Know her name?"
Aaron leant forwards again. "No shit. She's in my class. Why?"
"Tina. Looks like people whose names start with a T have a thing for annoying you."
Aaron knew she was referring to his eight-year-old self upset at his teacher for throwing his drawing. He'd only told her half the story. He didn't despise Tiffany just for throwing his solar system. He hated her because he subconsciously associated her to the initiation of the foot-burn punishment. Erika didn't know that.
Aaron gave Erika an unamused, tight-lipped smile. "Sometimes people whose names start with an E too."
Erika only stared for a bit, then frowned and said, "I'm offended."
"Took you a minute to understand."
Erika just laughed it off then walked back towards the crowd, gesturing Aaron over. "Come."
"Where to?"
"To join the others? She's our friend after all."
"Your friend. I barely know her. The only time she actually spoke to me personally was to tell me that I should get over my insecurities and stop being shy."
"Come on, Aaron. Don't hate her just for what she said. It's her opinion, leave it."
"I don't hate her for her opinion," Aaron corrected. Sometimes, even Erika didn't understand. They'd become friends over the years but never enough for him to unravel. If he couldn't understand himself, how could she? "I just don't like the way she thinks? Don't appreciate her shitty wisdom? Because she underestimates a problem she hasn't been through. Like, don't talk just for the sake of sounding smart."
Erika rotated towards him again, leaning her hip against the desk in front of him. "Do you believe that the only way to ever understand a thing is to go through it?" Her question was meant to evoke thought. She had no personal answer. "I mean, can't someone ever understand through some other way?"
"I don't think so. At least not fully. Philosophy says no." Aaron perked up, straightening his posture. He'd started reading astronomical philosophy because he loved astronomy and he'd found himself drifting towards Freud, Descartes, Espinoza. He couldn't count all the theories he'd read so far if he tried. "I read a theory once, that the only way to study the conscious mind is through introspection. Which means someone studying his own thoughts, not someone else's. Because your own feelings and thoughts are the realest you'd ever get, right?"
Erika didn't look like she quite understood, like she hadn't really read about philosophy before. But the way he seemed interested for the first time since morning, she couldn't tell him to stop.
"Tetens said that the only way for us to understand a phenomenon or an emotion is to go through it, introspect it, and that's when our mind has enough info to understand it. You can never understand what a heartbreak is unless you go through it, no matter how much someone tries to explain—"
"Who's Tetens?"
"A pilot." Aaron almost seemed serious. But then he added, "What do you think? I'm talking about philosophy so obviously he's a philosopher."
"Oh, okay. You need to chill. You're so grumpy today." Erika gestured him to proceed with a flick of her wrist. "Anyway, go on."
"Yeah, so—" Aaron stopped, bit his bottom lip, and leant back in his seat. "Just forget about it. What do I even talk about?"
No wonder he wasn't considered cool. He always seemed to be the odd one, the boy not quite the same format as everyone else. It was one thing to be weird and blissfully unaware of it, jovially living in a secluded bubble, but another to notice it—scrutinize yourself for every move, wonder why you were like this, why you couldn't be normal like everyone else.
And he hated himself for it. Not for loving the stars or philosophy, for the incapability to be charismatic. For the inability to make what he did seem cool. For being shy. For being a hypocrite, hating his own father but turning out exactly like him and having no clue what to do about it—
So many things to hate. Why did he even exist again?
Erika said something but Aaron was distracted when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, read the message his father sent him.
I'm picking you up today.
Aaron shoved the phone back in his pocket and glanced at Erika. "You gonna leave?"
"No, I'm staying with the rest here until she feels better."
Aaron sighed. "You know what? As you like. I'm leaving."
Just in time, the secretary creaked open the door and rambled, "Aaron Williams, your father's here." Then she left as fast as she appeared like she couldn't have been less interested in doing her job.
Aaron stood, slung his backpack over one shoulder. He gave the crying girl a one last look, then gazed back at Erika. "Tell her that if things get too bad—" he reversed towards the door with one hand holding the strap of his bag against his shoulder, lips curved in a mocking smile, eyes closed like he was meditating and chin tipped up. "—the solution is easy. Just let her close her eyes and imagine that there's nothing wrong with her. Her problem is just a delusion, isn't it?"
Erika shook her head amusedly, mumbling, "If only people knew who the real Aaron is."
Aaron would've asked, who is he? Except he felt that would be unnecessarily dramatic and more importantly, he was scared of the answer, of what people thought of him. So he let it pass as a joke.
He turned fully and crossed the threshold, but two steps past it and he froze. A group of older boys stood at the end of the hallway, all dressed in leather jackets and jeans ripped at the knees. They'd bothered him before because he was a perfect victim, skinny and small compared to their stature.
Aaron wasn't exactly scared of them but he wasn't in the mood for their bullshit at the moment, so he eyed them, and when they weren't looking, scampered to the opposite way towards the entrance of the school.
Once he was safely away from them, he checked in the office, spotted his father and returned to the car with him.
Aaron climbed into the passenger seat. As the engine started, he didn't bother asking why he'd chosen to pick him up today. The same silence that used to drown him back when he was younger filled his lungs. Only this time, it didn't hurt, didn't make him want to speak any word just to feel less lonely or less awkward around his own father.
The awkward silence finally became comforting. He couldn't be happier about it.
The entire ride home was a series of unwilling glances through the corner of David's eye and skillful avoidance on Aaron's part; a boy and a man unwilling to understand each together.
Unwilling unwilling unwilling. There was no such thing as will or choice in Aaron's life even though he wanted it.
Right now, at twelve years old, was the stage in Aaron's life where his paradoxical mind inclined slightly towards ambition and hope. The stage where he wanted to reach the sky and steal the stars because he couldn't steal his father's love or his mother's presence. Where he wanted to tell the planets that just like them, there was a gravity stronger than his will forcing him into an alignment he didn't quite fit in, a system he didn't want to be part of.
He wanted to have authority. He wanted to change things the way he liked. To rearrange the planets, strip Saturn of its ring and put it on Neptune because he liked Neptune better. He wanted some sort of grip on his life and how it went.
So many wants, but none of them fulfilled. A twelve-year-old left to wish and wish then watch none of it happen. Dream of better days, only to realize years later that it was called a dream for a reason. His destiny had already been set and didn't include what he wanted.
Without gravity, without science and measured orbits, wouldn't the planets stray off their circuit? Maybe they wouldn't have worshipped the sun, maybe they would've chosen another galaxy, like him, like—
What did he think of? Don't be like this, Aaron thought to himself. Stop personifying shit. He personified the sky to feel less lonely. He wondered what people would think of him if they knew. Surely they'd hate him more like he hated himself.
When they made it home, both went straight inside but at the foyer, they parted. David went to the kitchen, probably to fetch some cigarettes, while Aaron went to his bedroom.
But then, because peace wasn't made for Aaron, his father shouted, "Why didn't you throw out the trash yesterday?"
Aaron frowned. "I did."
"No you didn't. It's still right here and it stinks."
Aaron doubted himself only for a second. He walked to the kitchen, though on his way he accidentally knocked a plate off the counter whilst he'd been in the middle of saying, "I'm sure I did, what are you—"
David turned to him with his brows incredulously cocked. He laughed, short and dry and discontinuous. Like a series of snorts. "Oh, oh. So now when you're mad you just hold shit and break them?"
"What? No. I'm not angry. And I didn't break it on purpose. It was an accident."
"Now you're lying in my face?"
Aaron knew that his father turned a monster in two cases: when his addicted self for some reason hadn't smoked, and when he was drunk. Those were the worst cases. Otherwise, he was just aggressive and bossy.
Aaron eyed the untouched pack of cigarettes at the edge of the table. He briefly pointed at it. "Dad, smoke a bit then we'll talk."
For the first time in his life, Aaron hadn't meant to be sarcastic. He was being realistic. Any further interaction wouldn't end well and he knew.
Except David didn't appreciate the suggestion. "Now my son wants to tell me what to do. I told you throw the trash, and you didn't. Why didn't you? Because you're too classy to hold trash?"
Aaron's face said, what the hell? His tongue however, "No I'm not too classy to throw the stupid trash. I always do it. You're angry because you haven't smoked."
"Don't answer back, you little shit." David reached for Aaron's ear and tugged it. "Kids these days. Respect your father."
"I am respecting you—" Aaron raised one shoulder, screwing his eyes shut. "—ow, that hurts, stop it!"
"That hurts? So pulling your ear hurts? Is that what a man says? Does a man get hurt because of someone tugging his ear?"
He let go of Aaron's ear. Is a man not supposed to feel? Aaron wanted to ask, but the distorted knowledge David had imparted gave him the answer: of course not. Real men didn't feel.
Judging by the look on David's face, Aaron could tell where this was going.
"Take your shirt off and go down to the basement. Now."
In other words: you're too weak and I need to teach you how a man handles pain. With a belt.
Aaron's heart dropped. "No—"
"Now!"
Aaron knew better than negotiating at this point. It was his fault anyway. Everything was. He trudged to the basement, lungs straining, pulse crashing, and took off his top there. He stood alone, shivering between four dreary walls, a prisoner awaiting his death penalty.
When David came in, his belt wasn't around his hips. It was in his hand. He watched his own son stand there without protest. The resignation in his grey eyes almost hurt, almost made him feel bad. Made his ice-cold heart constrict.
But discipline didn't know mercy. David spoke with a firm voice, reinforcement of authority over pity, "Turn around and kneel."
Aaron did. This wasn't the first time this would happen. The first time it'd happened was when he was eleven and he'd screamed until his throat withered each time the belt met his flesh. Only then, his father had hit him only three times.
Aaron pressed his forehead to the wall and closed his eyes, anticipating the pain like a wrongdoer accepting fate.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
The first time the belt hit him, he stifled the screech that rumbled in his throat—which sounded like someone stepped hard on a kitten's paw—and jerked away sharply. He bit his bottom lip, screwed his eyes shut, puny chest heaving.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
The second time, the end of the belt curved at his shoulder and hit his collarbone then scrawled down his back again. The pain radiated to his neck. Pounded. Aaron let out a sharp cry that tore his throat, flinching against the wall, biting harder into his lip. He felt his soul scratch his body, try to tear out of his flesh.
Please don't cry.
The third time made him realize his eyes had watered. He brought his arm up, pressed it to the wall then pressed his eyes against it. When he felt his skin moisten, he knew he'd shed tears.
Idiot. Coward. You're crying.
David heard the muffled cries of pain. Guilt pricked his heart. He continued anyway. As he raised the belt again and again, he said things that made Aaron sound at fault. "I wouldn't have to do this if you just act like a man already," and "I have to," and "You brought this to yourself."
By the end of it, Aaron's back was a constellation of wounds criss-crossing along the flesh, dripping blood and rust of the tragedy he'd harbored in him.
"Turn." David wanted to see if he was outright crying. When Aaron refused to move, he caught his shoulder and forcibly spun him around. Aaron kept his arm against his face so he'd hide the tears. David figured it out. "Are you seriously crying? Do you want me to burn you foot too or what?"
"I'm not crying!" Aaron removed his arm. His words were a contradiction because his eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks flushed. "These are just... reflex tears. I tried to stop them, I promise. And- And I won't even let it happen again. Please don't burn my foot too. Please."
The desperation in Aaron's voice brought back memories. David shook his head to himself. Back when this was a norm, when all the kids in the neighborhood spoke of it. He glanced at the bleeding wounds on Aaron's back.
When David saw Jannette in Aaron, he despised him. When he saw himself in Aaron, he pitied him. A never ending cycle of viewing his son as a leftover of a woman he hated or a child he'd grown up like. Always linked to something or someone, never a boy on his own.
David tried to suppress the pity in his chest. "Let me clean this up first. They'll get infected."
"No," Aaron dismissed, trying to stand but his father pushed him back down. "I'll do it."
"Can you reach the wounds by yourself?"
"Yeah."
"No, idiot, you can't." David's sympathy dissolved again. Rage reappeared. "It's not time for your stupid pride. I said these can get infected. Think I love cleaning wounds for you?"
Aaron didn't move as David got a piece of cloth and a cleansing alcohol. Aaron leant the side of his head against the wall, bringing a finger up to his mouth. He bit it then laughed to himself like he was drunk.
"Because, because if they get infected, I'll have to go to the hospital. They're gonna ask where I got them and—"
"None of that will happen. What do you think? The police will help? They'll just tell you stop being a pussy and get lost. I'm just teaching you how to be a man. It's for your own good."
Aaron didn't counter. At his point, the idea was ingrained in his head. He hissed and bit his finger harder when the cloth touched the wounds.
David heard the hisses but didn't stop. Aaron's shoulder blade was sharp where he pressed the cloth. "Does that hurt?"
Aaron knew what his father wanted. He lied. "No."
"Good boy. That's what a man says."
Shh. Hide your pain. Suffer in silence. Die without a sound.
When David finished, he straightened and said, "Go to your room. For the love of God, try to be a man so I don't have to do this again." A pause. Then he added, "Don't sleep on your back."
Aaron stood, slowly, because the more he straightened the more the muscles in his back stretched and made him feel like the wounds were tearing open all over again.
Despite everything, he found it in him to mutter to himself more than his father, "Thanks for telling me. I was totally about to sleep on my back and turn my bedsheets red if you didn't say that."
The sarcasm in his words and exhaustion in his voice didn't match. He trudged to his room with a deep sigh, rounding the corner of his bed, and sat at the edge of the mattress with a squeak followed by a pained grunt.
Like every night, everyday, he was left to wonder what he had done to his own father to hate him. He wondered what he needed to do for David to love him, for his mom to miss him.
What made him so expendable? What made him so worthless? Was it his love for the stars or hate for this life? Was it his fault his mom promised him to return, but here he was, years later, still waiting?
He wouldn't call it waiting, at least not anymore. He'd lost hope. Now, he didn't want to look at Jannette's face. He used to envy the sun for seeing her but things changed and so did his love to her. Over long years of departure and heartache, it died. Aaron sighed, long and shaky.
He just wanted validation. Of his existence, of his worth. When he looked up at the sky through the window, he laughed half-heartedly. If he couldn't get the love and attention he wanted from his own parents, how did he ever expect the stars to give him that?
Aaron simply sprawled down on his stomach, face into the pillow, and mumbled, "Thanks, pillow, for always being there for me."
*_*_*_*_*_*
this was important personality-wise for both Aaron & David. Thoughts on the chap tho?? jannette miiight be making a final appearance soon.
thank you so so much for reading/commenting/voting <33