The Promise We Couldn't Keep

9

TPWCK:
NINE

…………

BROKEN glasses littered the kitchen floor, glinting through the slats of the bamboo support of the sink every time the curtain flapped and revealed a gap in the widow for the moonlight to break in. The stench of moss and rusty pipe engulfed me; I bit on the back of my palm to fight against the gag that threatened to spill out of me, tasting bile in my throat.

This had happened a lot more times than my number of fingers, and yet I still wasn’t used to the stink. And while I would’ve found interest in the way “stinky sink” had a poetic ring, it was uncalled for in the situation that I was in.

Heavy footfalls resounded in the room followed by the sound of my mother begging, cutting me from the stupid poetic trance, and I quieted my labored breaths so as to not announce my location to the madman that had been rampaging around the house. My body was shaking uncontrollably and I bit harder on my hand to choke back the sob that would’ve revealed my spot to the monster out to get me.

“Come out, you faggot,” he half-screamed, his voice deep and guttural, then another glass shattered nearby, almost making me jump.

“Come out!”

Another shatter, the sound closer than the last. My heart was on my ears but I repressed the fear that was eating me alive.

“Arnulfo, please,” my mom said somewhere close by, probably behind him, hands halfway to reach out to him but would never have the courage to hold him and stop him from wrecking things as he saw fit, the same way she lacked the courage to finally kick him out of our house. There was a scratch in her voice that told me she’d been crying longer than I first assumed. “We can’t afford to buy new glasses yet.”

Because of course, glassware mattered more to her more than my well-being. Sometimes I wondered if she ever saw me as her own flesh and blood, or only saw me as the living memory of the man she loved but loved her back on a web of lies. She was a mistress, though little did she know, and maybe it hit her hard learning that almost a year ago when I was already graduating elementary. Maybe it hurt her to see me and be reminded of the man who played her for years, maybe that was why money was easier and more common to escape her lips than my name.

Or maybe she was consciously avoiding speaking my name so as not to aggravate her lover any more than he already was, on normal days, some days like today he was worse. Although I doubted that. The few times my name did sound from her lips never carried any positive affection.

A slap took me out of the downward spiral I was in, and her crying blew into a sob.

“Do I look like I care?”

He should, though, care. This wasn’t his house after all. He barely owned anything in this house; most of his pay from working on construction sites went to alcohol. The man lived with alcohol as his water. Yet he had been acting like he was the owner of everything in here the day mom brought him here. If anything, most of the things he broke and would break were brought from the child support my biological father had been providing us, although not once had I actually felt the money in my own hands. But it helped us live, me and my mom, and now that leech—or survive, so I wasn’t complaining.

I’d never be like my mom. I’d never lower myself and compromise and compromise again for the person I’d love. I’d walk away and never look back once it started to get toxic. I’d never stay in a relationship that wasn’t healthy.

I was a tug away from showing myself to the monster if it meant no more harm came my mom’s way, but I knew if I went out now we’d both end up suffering a far worse fate. There would be time for guilt later, but only later. Sometimes one had to do nothing but hide and watch as the people they cared for took the blows meant for them. Sometimes there was no better choice than to cower in the dark and cry while sacrifices were being made for you.

Sometimes, the better choice was the coward’s.

The bamboos under the sink began closing in on me as a pair of familiar feet appeared in my line of sight. They were bigger than a normal grown-up man’s feet, probably because he preferred bread to rice. The left foot was smeared with dry blood which only worsened my horror.

“Come out, Samuel, or you’ll regret it when I drag you out of your rat hole.”

The way he said it felt like he was speaking directly at me, as if we were facing each other, but that couldn’t have been possible because nobody else knew about this spot. There was barely space underneath the sink, and it was only because I made myself small enough that I was able to fit inside, however uncomfortable it was to crouch in the same spot for almost half an hour.

Foolish. I wished I knew sooner how naive it was to think that a man in his late 30s wouldn’t know better than a 13-year-old high school freshman. Maybe then I could’ve saved myself from the shock, although there was no saving from the torment.

The door parted loudly and a hand went for my neck before I could even have a moment to register what had just happened and dragged me out of my hiding spot, a bamboo cutting my cheek in the process.

Gasping, I sat up, feeling like I could never breathe enough air into my lungs, and now I was way too close to choking and coughing, my hands feeling for my neck, the ghost of his hand still wrapped around me. Everyone was fast asleep around me when I looked around the dark room, the moon the only source of light from the window. Beside me, Jadeson was snoring. I brought my knees to my chest and hugged them then cried as silently as I could, fearing that I might disturb these strangers from their sleep.

There was movement on my side but I couldn’t find it in me to care or be bothered. Silent footsteps, not the monster’s for his was loud and heavy, this one was familiar and safe. I hate it all the same. The rustling of a bag, then a solid arm over my shoulder, pulling me to a hot wall of muscles.

I wiped my tears with the back of my hands, snot sticking on my skin like slime, shaking my shoulders to wave off his arm, angry that I’d let myself be vulnerable in front of him again, but then I heard his gentle voice, “Don’t stop. Just cry.”

This time I was already too exhausted to push him away. He turned me around until I was pinned between his legs that were bent at 60°, a palm above my nape, planting my face in his chest, and, after wrapping my arms around him and hugging him tight I may have stolen his breath for a good few seconds, I wept all the tears I’d been bottling since the day he abandoned me.

As if he could hear my thoughts, he said, barely above whispering while petting my head, “There. That’s it. Let it all out. You’re safe right now. It’s alright to cry. I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

It’d been a taxing day, and just as I thought the day couldn’t get any worse, I’d dreamt of my parents. Clenching my fist on his chest, I tugged his shirt, and he tightened his embrace.

I forgot how safe I felt in his arm until I was in his embrace again. The world could end tonight and I’d never know. There’d be no panicking, no fear, just me and the strong arms around me. I also forgot how there was something otherworldly in the way his cologne, soap, and body odor mixed into a uniquely Fernan scent, and how it brings me peace like, ironically, earth after a rain. I had no idea how I managed to forget all these little things that I had been sure were carved deep in my bones when we were still together. But then again, maybe my mind chose to forget all these little good feelings Fernan made me feel as a coping mechanism, because knowing I was barely left with any good things without him would’ve wrecked me even more than I already was.

Just this once, as tears continued their endless stream from my closed eyes, his one hand petting my head, palming my temple down my nape, while his other palm was running circles on my back, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for the two of us.

© 2022
dondoLOL