The God in the Machine

A World to Call My Own (Part 1) - A Hell of My Own Creation

For all the pain in this broken world, none have suffered such as I.

At 8 years old, I still had never met any friends or playmates. Mother did not trust outsiders and kept me from socializing. She would not let me be hurt as she was. She felt as though in her fierce overprotectiveness, she was looking out for me, and she gave me all the love she had, leaving none for herself. My father was a broad man with a short and explosive temper. He racked up assault charges as if he was doing it for sport. To his credit, he had yet to take it out on me or Mother. One night, close to my 9th birthday, I overheard my Mother and Father arguing over me,

"Michael is weak and clingy. He comes to us like a puppy expecting a treat. It's pathetic." Father said to his wife dispassionately, a flask of whisky in hand.

"What is wrong with you?! He's a well-behaved and sensitive boy! If you gave him a chance to get to know you, you'd come to love him too!" Mother snapped back. Any offense on her son she found much worse than an offense on herself.

"You've raised a loser, Mary! I had guts! He'll be eaten up when he gets into the real world." Father replied, his attitude escalating.

"I hate you, Jacob! You bastard! I will never let my child suffer!" Mother cried out through a heavy flow of tears. Father got up and walked away without a glance at his distraught wife.

"Hysterical bitch" he said under his breath. I retreated to my room to hide my sobs under the floral comforter Mother picked out, despite Father calling it "faggy".

At 13 years old, my Mother said I was a smart and talented boy. I played on my home computer and started learning basic coding skills. Mother let me outside at most twice a week and never for more than an hour. She said the air was dirty and violence could come from anywhere. At this age, I started to understand and share Mother's crippling fear of crowds and strangers. It was humiliating, but Mother had never removed the child locks on drawers and rubber corner guards. One night, I made a collage for a school project. It turned out that the pictures I used were very important to Father. When he found his treasured memories cut to pieces, he grabbed me by the arm, dragging me to the living room with his iron grip. I cried and apologized, more afraid of him than any monster on television. When Mother attempted to intervene, she failed of course.

"Let go of him!" she shouted "You're gonna hurt him!"

"That's the point," Father gruffly replied, "This little shit needs punishment. He just takes up space without ever getting any discipline." Mother tried to scratch at Father until he threw her off of him where she hit the ground hard, earning a few bruises for her trouble. Her delicate thin frame could not withstand her husband's wrath, and she was knocked unconscious. I was not used to pain, the lashes on my behind were the first blemishes on my body. I bled. My wails didn't stop for the whole long night. Father never gave me the courtesy of a lesson and explanation. I had no idea what set Father off and, for my safety, avoided him like the plague, refusing even eye contact.

At 16, I asked my Mother about my grandfather on her side. She reacted like a deer caught in the headlights. She sputtered briefly before replying, "He was a bad man Michael. Dead now. I will never let you become like him. No matter what it takes.". The photobook I found cleanly cropped to remove someone began to make more sense. He must have hurt her like Father, I assumed.

Father had made an effort to be around the house as little as possible, until vanishing altogether as he was escorted by the police to prison, resisting violently and predictably. What started as a bar fight escalated into a homicide after Father's fist connected with another rowdy patron's jaw. Unluckily for both of them, the patron's head hit a stool in just the right way to make an assault into a murder. The cops dragged him kicking and screaming from the apartment. By the time he made it to the car, he was already pierced by three Tasers. After this, Father was behind bars, for life, in fact. Blame that on his shitty attitude on trial. Who'd have thought cussing out the judge wouldn't help his case? Mother refused to go to visitation. Fine by me. I didn't miss him much, but I never did get the chance to get Father to see me. Not as a man, not as his child. Not once.