Sins of the Father

6 | Crack

He comes back down to collect my old dirty clothes a long time after I've showered. I feel a little pang of sadness as I watch him scoop up my clothes, which I left at the foot of the staircase like I assumed he wanted. He's likely going to throw them out, maybe burn them.

But what bothers me more is the cup he's holding.

"Drink this," he says.

The liquid isn't clear. It's red and thick, syrupy.

"What is it?" I ask.

The corner of his mouth quirks up, but he doesn't smile. "Something to help you sleep."

I shake my head. "I'm sleeping just fine. I don't need it."

"Drink."

We've danced this routine before, when he wanted to show me the bathroom, and I know how this ends. I reach for the cup, my arm shaking, but at the last second, I step back.

"I don't want to drink it," I whisper.

His eyes roll up. "Don't make this difficult for me, son. Just—"

He thrusts the cup toward me, and I react by slapping it away. It hits the ground and rolls around, the syrup oozing out onto the concrete. I didn't mean to do it so violently; it was a panicked reaction, and I back away, terrified.

He picks up the cup with a sigh and mops up the mess with my old shirt. "I'm starting to think my old man had a right to be so awful with me," he says. "I don't want to think that. Don't make me think that."

I stay where I am against the wall. He's still crouched and cleaning, but he's between me and the staircase. I've noticed that during every visit, he always places himself between me and the staircase. If I make a run for it, he only needs to stick out his hand to trip me up. I'm too scared to risk it.

He stands back up with an exhale, patting his knee. Disappointment is etched into his features, and he keeps shaking his head while he leaves.

I hear the click, and only then do I relax.

And then he comes back with a new cup, bigger this time, filled with even more of the syrup.

"I don't want to drink it," I say before he's even reached the last step.

He pauses, sighs, and sets the drink down on the step before approaching me. "Alright," he says.

He puts both hands on my shoulders reassuringly, but every cell in my body is screaming. He's lying, and he's not hiding it at all. I can see it all over his face.

He raises his hand, and as it's flying toward my face, I raise my arm to stop it. He responds by slamming his knee up into my stomach.

I double over, gasping and coughing. Pain spreads across my ribcage, making it difficult to breathe. I suck in air like I've been underwater for too long, my heart pounding with the realization that, since kidnapping me, this is the first time he's gotten violent.

"Drink," he commands, holding out the cup.

I look up at him, tears blurring my vision, and wait until I've caught my breath so I don't choke. Then I do as he says and down the whole cup because I can tell that if there's even a few drops left at the bottom, he'll hit me again. The syrup is sickly sweet, coating my throat long after I've swallowed it, and when I'm done, I slide to the ground, arm draped around my middle.

"Sweet dreams," he says, and he leaves.

I keep coughing, taking shallow breaths to keep the pain down. The syrup does its magic quickly: not too long later, my eyes are involuntarily closing, and I fall sideways onto my bed, unable to fight the sleep.