“I’m not scared. I’m not scared. I’m not scared,” he intoned three times, then spun around and spat behind.
Jon flung open the door and jumped down the stairs, hoping to avoid— No, it gripped him as it always did. A wave of nausea ran through him. Some hidden scent, some forgotten childhood nightmare, some trick of the light always triggered unease in his soul. His gorge would rise and his bottom would drop. Every time his appetite dried up upon walking down the steps. He never actually did vomit but felt constantly on the verge of it. The ritual followed was to ward off the evil which lurked there. Childish, yes, but it was the only thing that gave him confidence.
He didn’t know why this happened. It was just a normal-looking cellar filled with standard cellar junk. Old holiday decorations, the water heater, a warped workbench with rusty tools, and the washer and dryer. It smelled dank and musty, but that wasn’t different from any of his friends’ cellars and he never had the gripping nausea when at their homes.
That was a mystery for another time, though. He needed to take care of his charge. Jon laid the towel down in a slightly grimy sink next to the washer and unwrapped the creature inside. It was a squirrel he had accidently run over with his Huffy on the way home from school. Its back legs were crushed and bent in weird angles. Its eyes fluttered open and shut, and the animal’s breathing came in rapid short breaths.
Guilt washed over him. He didn’t know what to do. It was an accident, yet he was responsible. The creature’s feeble eeking made the whole thing even worse. Jon paced back and forth, anxiety sending tremors of panic down his spine. He had to help, but how?
Maybe some splints for its legs? What could he make them out of? Twigs? Popsicle sticks? Oh, hell, its back was probably broken. Maybe something to eat, or some water, or some whiskey to ease the pain. Could squirrels drink alcohol?
He went back upstairs and ransacked the kitchen, finally coming across a can of Spanish peanuts favored by Father. Taking that was a mortal sin, but he recklessly did it anyway. Jon filled a saucer with water and hurried back down to the animal.
Inside the living room, his mother was wrapping things up. “Okay girls. Remember, you deserve to be given the best of everything. If someone can’t provide what you need, then take what you can and move on.”
The squirrel had gone silent. He slid a peanut between the squirrel’s weird thumb and fingers. It fell out, so he tried again. The creature’s eyes flitted a bit then dropped the food. All right, it was too far gone for that. Jon edged the saucer to the animal’s snout. Surely it could use some liquid. That was the one thing you always needed when you were sick or run over by a vehicle.
“Jon, Jon, where are you?” His mother was stomping around above. “What’s this about you kicking the screen door again?”
He froze. This would not end well. He knew it. His mother took a sadistic glee in ranting about petty crapola. It was only Jon who received these assaults. She left her other two daughters alone. He was her favorite stress ball.
Though he couldn’t end it, Jon hoped to delay the attack for a while. He remained still by the sink, watching and waiting. His focus was on the door exclusively and didn’t notice that his hand had strayed a little too close to the squirrel’s mouth. The animal roused a bit and, whether he recognized Jon or just lashed out because of the pain, the squirrel bit deep into the webbing between Jon’s thumb and forefinger.
Pain. Scream. Crying.
“Ah ha!”
The cellar door kicked open. His mother, all five-foot-two-inches of her, stood silhouetted against the dying afternoon light. As she stomped down the stairs, a hideous joy was revealed on her face. She loved having the high ground. She loved having an excuse, no matter how petty, to rip into someone. It filled her with a cold warmth that neither children, nor marriage, nor church could supply. These moments were what she truly lived for.
“How many times do I have to tell you to use your hands to open the fucking door, you idiot. Your feet will bend the metal if you kick it enough times,” Slim figured and large breasted, her visage was the living definition of a ‘bitch face.’ Her shrill words spat out rapid fire. “Why are you such a fucking retard? This house is going to be yours one day, stupid. You might want to fucking take care of it a little.”
Catherine peeked around the cellar door, barely stifling a giggle. Her face mimicked her mother’s as she absorbed the scene, excited by the chaos she’d caused.
“Is Jon in a lot of trouble?” she asked.
“No, dear.” Mother’s tone twisted to doting parent mid-syllable. “Why don’t you get a popsicle for being a good girl and watch cartoons.”
“Okay.” But she didn’t leave. No cartoon could beat the show in the basement.
“Why can’t you ever follow simple directions? It’s not much. It’s not fucking rocket science. I ask you not the kick the door open, but that’s too difficult for you. I send you to get some Hellman’s mayonnaise, you get some other goddamn brand. I tell you to cut the lawn a quarter of an inch, you cut it half. You’re so incompetent. When are you gonna pull your head out of your dumb ass and stop being the biggest fuck-up in the world?”
Anger. Hurt. Depression.
It would be so satisfying to break her face. He could almost feel the crunch of her teeth across his knuckles. The rules of society held back his blow. One just didn’t hit their mother, did they? No matter what she did, she was still a mother and that meant something. So he took the emotional wounds, withstood the verbal battering, without complaint. He became the proverbial whipped dog since society left him no other options.
Despite his resolution, Jon was not the type to do absolutely nothing. Robbed of using violence, the only thing he could manage was tears. That made him hate himself more. He wanted to be a man, be strong, but . . .
“Holy shit. Are you crying, you little wimp?”
Eyes downcast, a sniffle wiped away. “No.”
“Yes, you are!”
Why was his life like this? Why couldn’t she be a normal mother who cared for her children? Cared about them as people, not just about their basic needs. Father supplied him with clothes and food, but not much else.
“Time to step up and start being a man. No one loves a pussy,” she continued on without missing a beat. “That means doing what you’re told. And why the hell are you bleeding?”
A little pool of blood had developed in the webbing of his hand. It spread over the lines of his knuckles. He had forgotten it under the abuse. Only after it was pointed out to him did he feel pain. That and the nausea.
“Well?” she demanded.
He mutely pointed to the sink. She stomped over and screeched. “Why is there a half-dead animal stinking up my good basement?”
“I . . . I . . . ”
“What?”
“I kind of hit it with my bike.”
“Jesus fuck, so you bring it home?”
“It’s not dead.”
“We’ll see about that.” She grabbed the squirrel and dashed its head open against the bottom of the sink. This time the nausea overwhelmed him, and he vomited on the slate floor.
***
Jon retreated into his inner thoughts. In his room, he scribbled furiously away in a spiral notebook. He had labeled it “geometry notes” to prevent any curious snooping, but it really contained his secret diary—or journal. Yes, journal was more masculine—where he raged against his parents, his insecurity, his lingering virginity, and whatever was left in the world.