Inside The Dark

Inside The Dark

It is dark. The carpet feels good under my feet, between my toes. Its lushness holds me in place as the voices wash over me, crash into me. I hear shouts downstairs, yelling, screaming. I can hear the words, but the words are meaningless.

My father is angry; my mother is terrified.

I am a silent observer in the drama of my parents, an audience member incapable of criticism, incapable of joining in the act.

I am separate from them, their anger, their fear. I close my eyes, and I feel their sounds on my cheeks, caressing me.

There is a crash from downstairs and then silence. This is an interesting change to the program.

Sweat tickles my neck.

The door opens. Light flares over my eyelids. I do not open them.

“Put on your shoes.” My father’s voice is hushed, almost a whisper. I do not move.

“Honey, put on your shoes.” He is pleading with me. I do not hear anger, so I do not move.

“Damn it. Don’t just stand there. Put on your damn shoes!”

I open my eyes, and he is standing in the doorway. The light streams in around him from the hall. The light is off in my room, so his face is in shadows. I like that I cannot see his face. His angry command is still echoing in my ears.

“Where is mommy?” I ask, and I hate the weak sound of my voice.

“She is downstairs. I am not telling you again to put on your shoes.” But I do not hear the anger in his voice.

I look around my room. From the hall light, I can see my room is immaculate. My books are all neatly piled one atop another. My bed is made up. My clothes all put away. My shoes are poking out from under the bed.

My clock is flashing 12:00—I never set my clock. When he sets it, I unplug it again.

“What is wrong with you? Put on your shoes!”

He takes a step into the room. I quickly grab my shoes from under the bed. I slip my feet into them. I do not put on socks. My left heel doesn’t fit in the shoe right. I do not fix it.

I stand up and look at him.

“Come on.” He motions with his hands.

I follow him into the light of the hall. It is bright in the hall. I stare at his thick back, his white shirt, the dirty sweat stains spreading from his armpits. We go down the stairs. It is hard to climb down the stairs because my shoe is not on right.

In the living room I see my mother sitting on the couch with a huge ball of toilet paper wrapped around her hand. I am surprised to see her. I thought he had murdered her.

She smiles at me encouragingly. A red spot is seeping through the white toilet paper. I close my eyes so I do not have to see her puffy, ugly face. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

I am a silent observer in the drama of my parents, an audience member incapable of criticism, incapable of joining in the act.

I force my my eyes open. I stare at her. She looks away. She is weak.

“Come on.” My father is waiting at the door.

My mother gets up and follows my father, and I follow her. I shut the door to the house behind me.

On the street my father gets in the car. He does not open the car door for my mother. I open the door for her. Then I get in the backseat behind my father. He starts the car.

I try to get my shoe to go on right, my fingers pulling back on the heel of the shoe. The car starts moving.

He slams on the brakes. I fly forward, hitting my shoulder and neck on his seat.

“How many times have I told you to put your seatbelt on when you get into the car?” My father does not look back at me.

I quickly put my seatbelt on. This is not the first time he has done this. I will remember. I will remember. I will remember.

Is this punishment for opening the door for her?

My mother cranes her neck around to look at me. She smiles at me again. She is trying to tell me it will be ok. She is a liar, a weak liar. She doesn’t know anything. She is twisted and broken and too stupid to know anything.

I close my eyes. My neck feels funny. I ignore it.

“Tell them that you hurt your hand cooking,” my father commands.

“At this time of night?” my mother asks.

I can sense my father tensing. The only sound is the car’s engine. Why does she provoke him? I know he will explode.

“I will tell them I was cooking a roast,” my mother says.

I cannot listen to them anymore. Their voices are too near me.

At the hospital we go to the emergency room. They leave me in the waiting room. I sit with my eyes closed. I like the smell of disinfectant in the air. I like the murmurs of the people chatting about things that don’t matter. I like the cool white light on my eyelids.

“Hello.”

I do not answer. I do not open my eyes.

“Does your mother often cook this late at night?” I know it is a doctor speaking. His voice is knowledgeable, educated.

I know if I confess to him, things will change; in time everything that has been will fade into a dream, and I know I could forget a dream. I know I could…

I am a silent observer in the drama of my parents, an audience member incapable of criticism, incapable of joining in the act.

I will not answer him. He will leave. The drama will continue.

"He beats us!" I scream.