December 29.
My mother was laying in her hospital bed. She had just given birth to her mediocre son. The wonder she had in her eyes as she lay there, tired. She thought of my future, thought of my personality, my everything. My father was sitting by the window. Instead of looking at the baby like any father would, he sat on his phone with a soda in hand instead of a beer because he couldn't bring alcohol into the building. He looked up from his phone and glanced at me and mother. The son he imagined me as always did what he asked for, played catch, did everything he did as a kid. I knew that behind his eyes, he was taking pity on me. He never wanted to have a kid, he just wanted to get laid, but mother didn't care. She was so happy to finally have a child of her own, even if father never wanted me around. Having me around meant limitations after all. Sylvester. The name my mother chose for me. She knew that with that name I would cause mischief. She said "he's bound to get into trouble, after all, he is your son, is he not?" She was so pleased with my birth.
Eventually she would take me home. Father left sooner than mother did. He didn't care, and he was tired of sipping off of a soda bottle instead of his usual beer. Besides, he couldn't watch the football games and other tv shows from the hospital anyways. I don't remember much from my childhood, or at least from the early days.
When I was about 5 or so my mother would start taking me to church. I never payed attention to what the pastor was saying when we were in the main hall. I had a chalk board and would doodle on that instead. I would draw things from my favorite games or tv shows I saw father watching. Every time the bread and water was brought over to us I would always try to take two pieces, and I savor the water as much as possible. Church made raw bread seem much more appealing than it was at home. It made me learn to savor the food I ate. Whenever we would pray I would always open my eyes the whole time. I thought it was a competition to see who would open their eyes after saying "amen" first. My mother would giggle every time, while father would roll his eyes and glare at me as if I was "betraying god". I never believed in god, even if I ever went to church.
One day, mother gave father the choice of staying home from church. They had previously gotten into an argument, and father, the night before, had to work late, so he didn't want to get up early so he could come with us. Of course, he stayed home without hesitation, and he rolled over and went back to sleep. Me and mother drove to church, parked right up front like we usually do, and went inside. The main hall felt much larger that day. We were earlier than normal, so there were less people. I drew on my chalk board as we waited. The minutes flew by, I didn't realize how long I had been doodling. The bread and water were already here. I almost managed to take two pieces that time, but mother saw me and shook her head. We did our prayer, I kept my eyes open, she giggled, but this time there was no glare from father, I felt happier, and I liked it when he wasn't around.
After church we went out to the car. Mother was in a good mood, so she let me sit in the front seat just this once. The trip from home to church has many twists and turns, there are corners where you can't see anything on the other side, and when father drives, he turns them super sharp to scare me and make me scream. Me and mother were turning corners, she was going fast, it was fun, it was bumpy, but I liked it. We were laughing, we were happy, we were having fun. We turned the corner. There was a car on the other side. Mother didn't see it, she was going too fast. Before I knew it, mother had unbuckled her seatbelt and was holding me tight. I wasn't sure why she did that back then, but I realize now that she was blocking me from the windshield so I wouldn't get hurt. Everything went black, and when I finally woke up, it was blurry. I could faintly hear sirens. I was picked up and put somewhere, then I blacked out again.
I woke up to the sound of beeping in my ears. My father sat in the corner, just as he did when I was born. Not paying attention. He was only there because as I child I needed an adult nearby. "Well kid, you fucked up." He stood up, staring at me. I didn't know what he meant. "Huh?" I stammered. "I said you fucked up. You killed her. You killed your mother." That's a fucked up thing to say to a child, especially one who doesn't even understand that he can make friends yet. My eyes widened, I couldn't find the courage to speak. My father was guilt tripping me, and I believed every word he said because as a child you believe that your parents know everything. I'm foolish for believing him. My injuries were minimal, mother took most of the blow. I was let out sooner than expected because of it.
On the car ride home I sat with an emotionless and blank face. I thought to myself, did I really just kill my own mother? It's your fault. She's not coming back and it all your fault. So worthless. My eyes began tearing up and I didn't notice. But father did. "What's with the dopey look, kid? You have no right to feel that way. It's your fault she's dead." I stayed silent. If I spoke, he would just yell at me. He always has despised me. "I'm talking to you! Answer me!" He continued to yell, I stayed silent but began to cry instead. It all started boiling over, and I couldn't contain my feelings any longer. "Now you're crying?! Honestly, you have no right to cry. You killed her, you have no right to be sad. She's not coming back anyways." He just kept going on, won't he ever shut up? Eventually, I snapped. "Yes, old man, I know she's dead! You don't have to sit here and tell me! Just shut up already, you're making my head hurt!" I get my attitude from him, and it shows. He'd be proud of me for talking back if it was to anyone but him. "You do not get to talk to me that way! Get out of the car, you are walking the rest of the way home." We we're about three quarters the way there, it wasn't that big a deal, I knew my way back. He pulled over and I got out. I started walking.
