I stand back, arms folded, waiting for her to come to. This is the third time this week, and it’s only Wednesday.
Her eyes flutter open before the realization of her being drenched with cold water hits her. She screams and scrambles back, her back hitting the white-tiled wall.
“You ruined my dress,” she slurs, attempting to stand, but she’s not going anywhere. “Your father loved this dress.”
“Oh, bull-fucking-shit,” I counter, not interested in her theatrics. “He isn’t coming, Mom. When are you going to accept that? He is a selfish fucking asshole who hasn’t thought twice about us!”
“You know nothing!” she cries, brushing her soaked hair from her eyes. “He loves me. He told me he would look after me. Without him, I am nothing. I have nothing.”
She lunges for my razor, fumbling to extract the blade.
Her actions prove what self-centered assholes both my parents are.
“Is this what you fucking want?” I scream, crouching in front of the shower and reaching in, fighting her for the razor.
The cold water drenches me, but I don’t care. I can’t feel anything anymore. I am numb.
“I want to die! Let me die!” she bellows, her tears mingling with the waterdrops falling around us.
Gripping her wrist, I force her to drop the razor. It skids along the shower floor.
“I will not let you ruin your life because of someone who doesn’t give a fuck about us. You may not want to live, but I refuse to let that asshole fuck up both our lives.”
Her eyes beg I help make the hurt go away. I withstand the pain for both of us, which is why I climb into the shower with her.
With water soaking us both, I hug her tight, offering her my strength because she has none. “I love you, Mom. And I wish you loved yourself.”
She sobs into my shoulder, her tiny frame shuddering in my arms. I let her grieve for the life she wanted but never had.
“He loved me. He really did,” she whispers, a broken record stuck on a loop. “You look just like him. He was so handsome. Popular. So smart, just like you. You’re going to be someone. You’re going to change the world.”
Reaching overhead, I turn off the water but don’t let go of my mom.
As much as I wish she’d stop being the victim, I love her nonetheless. She always tried her best when I was growing up. She tried to be a good mom.
But we never had enough.
I was the kid who wore hand-me-downs two sizes too big. The kid with the weird haircut because his mom cut his hair to save money.
When I was eleven, I realized life isn’t what it’s made out to be on TV. The Brady Bunch was not a representation of the ideal American family. Cindy and Bobby were making out in the doghouse when they were nine, Greg was fucking Carol, and Mr. Brady was a closet homosexual.
Life changed for me, and it had nothing to do with The Brady Bunch and everything to do with June having a breakdown. It was coming. The warning signs were there. But it was too late, and when she snapped, she snapped hard.
I found her unconscious on the bathroom floor as she had popped every one of her prescription pills and chased it down with a bottle of Jack. I called 911, who instructed me on how to bring my mom back to life.
That day changed me forever.
June was deemed an unfit mother, and because of that, I was thrown into a Catholic boys’ home—Saint Paul’s.
I hated every single fake smile, every single fake promise. They were going to provide what my mom couldn’t, but I could smell their bullshit a mile away. All I was to them was another innocent boy they could harm for their own sick perversions.
Behind closed doors, it was clear that I was to eat, sleep, and breathe when the brothers told me to, and if I disobeyed, I would be punished, and by punished, I mean starved, beaten, and locked in the dark.
But being locked in the dark, away from society, wasn’t such a bad thing—it was here I taught myself how to survive. I was forgotten, and because of this, I could slip undetected in and out of the shadows.
It was here I began to steal to better my life, as well as the lives of the other boys who were terrified of the dark. Not so much of the dark itself, but rather what lurks in the shadowy depths.
Reverend Franchot was the savior of Saint Paul’s Boys’ Home. He could do no wrong. He was seen as the town hero because he “saved” us boys who were discarded by most. But looks are deceiving because when The Reverend came down those dark basement stairs, belt in hand, I knew it was the last time I’d allow anyone to hurt me again.
The Reverend was a pedophile. He liked the younger boys to call him daddy.
But there was no way I was calling him a name that was supposed to encompass protection and care, so that rainy November night, when he came down those stairs, I ripped that belt from his hand and showed him who was his daddy.
“On your knees, Franchot,” I said, stretching that thick belt between my hands.
“I’ll have you locked away for good. You’re nothing but a—”
Thwack!
A pained oof left The Reverend as I brought the belt down on his back.
“Are you a little hard of hearing, old man? I said…on…your…motherfucking knees.”
He had no other choice but to surrender.
“Please don’t hurt me.” His pleas were sickening. He had no right to beg for clemency because he never delivered the same fate to those he defiled.
“I will bring down this house of lies if you ever touch any of the boys again. We clear?”
He interlaced his liver-spotted hands. “Please—”
Crack!
His head snapped back as I smacked him across the forehead with the edge of the belt. A trickle of blood dripped down his face. “What will the clergy say?”
I shrugged, not at all bothered by his pleas. “Tell them it’s stigmata, seeing as you think you’re a fucking god. But you know what you are?”
Smack!
The question was rhetorical because his time to talk was over.
“You are a predator.”
Smack!
“A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Crack!
The Reverend was crawling on his hands and knees, desperate to flee, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Each time he scampered away, I hit him—over and over again.
“You’re going to leave. Tonight. If you don’t, Sunday Mass just got a whole lot more interesting because I will broadcast the video of you and little Tommy playing leapfrog together—naked.”
He knew I wasn’t lying because that, in fact, had happened.
I would have stopped it if I had known. I set up the video camera I stole from the visual arts department because I thought The Reverend was fucking Sister Polly after hours, but I was wrong.
And that’s why I put that motherfucker to his knees.
Us boys, we learned to survive in the shadows, and it’s here where The Reverend’s “favorites” emerged, inflicting their own revenge on the monster who stole their innocence.
From that day forward, the boys looked at me as their savior and officially crowned me their Reverend. The name stuck, and they called me Rev.
I knew how to survive. And I knew I couldn’t rely on anyone but myself. I soon learned stealing from the rich is a great way to live, and it’s what I’ve been doing ever since.