A Life of Death (Chapters 1-3)

A Life of Death, Chapter 2 - Wednesday, September 28th, 1995

Chapter 2 – Wednesday

September 28th, 1995

“Hey, Dad,” I muttered with a frown. “I know you can’t be here, but it doesn’t change how much I miss you.”

As I spoke, I massaged his dog tags with my thumb. I wore them each day, as much as I hated what they reminded me of. But because they were something he’d worn close to his heart, they were never far from mine. We talked about how cruel life was, but the conversations were always one-sided. While not ideal, it was as close as I could get to him. To this day, the bark on the eastern side of the tree is worn smooth by my constant company.

I would speak with him until the sun set, then force myself up and trudge the rest of the way through town. I’d pass our old house, cross the railroad tracks, and then wade through the vacant lots of waist-high grass, running my hands over them like a sea of yellow and green waves. They’d escaped people’s notice. No one mowed the lots and they were free to be themselves. I envied those blades of grass.

After passing row upon row of identical trailers, I found myself at the rotting steps of our three-bedroom, mobile resort. Vivian’s car wasn’t there. She hadn’t returned from work yet, but her husband’s truck was. I looked from the artificial put-put turf covering the porch, up to the wooden sign hanging from one remaining hook. The name “McCullins” could only be read if you craned your neck to the side. I chuckled at Vivian’s poor attempt to create some semblance of home.

That isn’t my name and it never will be.

I grudgingly trudged up the steps to my prison, praying to make it through one last year. As the door opened, a cloud of putrid smoke engulfed me. The drunk had already arrived. I slipped through the living room and avoided looking at him or my older stepbrother, Frank. But through my peripheral vision, I noted that their gazes never wavered. I almost made it to the hallway when the drunk parted his lips from his cherished beer can and said, “Hey”.

I heard the clunk as he haphazardly threw the can toward the trash. It wound up in a heap on the floor with the others. Disgusted, I mumbled, “Hey,” and headed for the room I shared with Frank. The third bedroom belonged to my stepsisters. They’d lucked out with the larger room. Ours was only eleven-by-seven feet, smaller than prisons are allowed for single-occupancy cells. A bunk bed took up most of our room.

As I slid the wooden door closed, the drunk began another tirade. “Hey what?” A minute later, he repeated himself and began ranting in slurred imitation of English. “Stupid, disrespectful kid. Can’ts even call me, Dad.”

I threw my bag down and climbed to the top bunk, then pressed play on my portable CD player. I popped my headphones in, and heavy-metal guitar solos swarmed my consciousness. I tried the bottom bed once when I first moved in, but Frank about killed me when he got home early that morning. He threw me out of it and beat me black and blue as a reminder of what would happen next time. The keepsake bruises took weeks to heal. He was only a year older than me, but he could have been a clone of his father. I was never what you would call ‘built’ and didn’t care to tangle with either of them again, so I kept to the top bunk.

            The next morning began as usual, with Vivian shrieking at my bedroom door. My music still drummed in my ears, so I turned over and pulled the covers up. A few minutes later, a deluge of ice water flooded my safe haven, drenching the bed and startling me from my quaint oblivion. I leaped down and searched the small room for the assailant, but Vivian had already left. The cup sat dripping onto the dresser in the corner of the room. The mirror above it advertised the damage. I stood bare to my boxers, dripping wet and shivering in the morning cold that permeated the trailer. My hair hung limp with soaked, black clumps plastered to my forehead. I grabbed a towel and made my way to the shower, pushing the oldest of my stepsisters out before she’d finished combing her preadolescent hair. I slammed the door and jumped into the shower. The warm water was cleansing, but soon turned cold as well.