The Religious & The Damaged (UNDER EDITING)

6

Joseph

  I walk into the house and kneel to remove my shoes. I place them to the side, next to my father's. He would get mad if I handled them any other way.

  I walk further into the house, toward the stairs and I only make it up a few steps before my father speaks, his presence behind me sends shivers down my spine. I begin to feel panicked.

  "Son." He speaks, calmly.

  I turn and my eyes meet his, reluctantly. A shaky breath slips out from my nose and I feel my heart pound against my chest, so much that it hurts. His arm raises and he gestures me to come closer. I gulp hard as I step down the few steps I made it to until I'm standing in front of him and he's towering over me. His arm extends outward to point somewhere indeterminable to the right.

  I follow the direction and I'm staring at the closet door. My gaze falls to the floor at the sound of his belt unbuckling.

  Another shaky breath escapes as I push myself to walk toward the door, my willingness refusing—I didn't dare let it win.

  A shaky hand reaches for the doorknob and I twist it open, and walk inside. It's dark. He lights candles around the room, and I slowly drop to my knees, my hands shaking in my lap. Shaky breaths after shaky breaths; eyes unfocused as I listen to his ascending footsteps.

  "Tell me what you did to deserve this." His voice is cold and demanding, it makes me want to cry and I don't realize that I already am until I speak—my voice is wobbly and high-pitched.

  "I disappoint you." I say.

  I wince when the belt makes contact with my back, and I grow unbelievably tense.

  Whip after whip—I try hard to suppress any more tears from falling, but my efforts are ultimately useless. It only makes my father angrier and his whips harder. My back is hot and I feel the blood rushing down beyond his whips.

  My body is tense, my shoulders are high and my head hangs low. The back of my hands are wet from my tears and they hold onto my pants so tight that my knuckles turn white—they tremble with the excruciating pain.

  I focus on my hands—my knuckles, the color, the tears, how they feel against me, the gentleness as they naturally roll down the sides of my hands and onto the floor; anything to distract me from the pain.

  My body is tired and my vision is darkening. I try to speak, but my efforts are futile. My mouth opens; I want to say: I can't take anymore. But I can't. It's hard to do anything else but sit here and watch as my consciousness slips away. It's just out of my reach.

  My hands are shaking even more now and hurried breaths escape, rather than tears. My father isn't affected by it. He continues, his whips much harder now. I react with winces and shaky, hurried breaths.

~•~

  It's dark. My body feels cold. I open my eyes and my vision returns, it's fuzzy; blurry. My hand presses against the cold wooden floor, and I realize that I've been lying against it. I must've passed out, and my father left. He often does that.

  I pull my arm from beneath me and press my hand next to the other. I wince when I pull myself up just barely, and I'm forced back onto the floor. I try again. A scream of utter pain slips through my chest, and I press a hand against my mouth. I don't want to alarm my father, but it's too late.

  The closet door swings open and my head snaps over as my body reacts with a twist, my back presses against the floor and I scoot back against a wall.

  "Get up."

  I feel the panic enter my chest at the coldness of his voice; his eyes tainted. I obey his order, and I stand. It's at a slow pace and when I'm on my feet, I stumble and a shaky breath escapes from my nose as I try not to wince in pain.

  He steps aside. "Get out of my sight." He says, and I do.

  I stumble past him; his eyes burn into my skin. I ascend the stairs and I walk into my bedroom.

  My gaze turns toward the window in front of me—it's night. How long have I been out?

  My gaze falls down to my sweater and my eyes widen as realization hits me instantly.

  "No. No, no, no, no, no." I speak in a blurted mess.

  I tug off the sweater with care and turn it over, so I can see the back of it. It's covered in blood, but there's no rips. I still panic. I limp out of my bedroom, and down the stairs and into the laundry room.

  "Please, please." I'm quick to start the wash, and I wait anxiously.

~•~

  I sit on the floor, my back against the wall as my leg bounces and I chew my nails; my eyes are trained on the dryer. It beeps, and I'm quick on my feet—it hurts, but I don't care.

  I open the dryer and pull out the sweater. I exhale shakily. The blood remains. I clench the sweater tightly in my hands.

  My brows furrow in great distress, and I want to cry. My eyes grow unfocused as I try to think of something else, anything else.

  And suddenly, I'm rushing back upstairs and into the bathroom. I shut and lock the door before going to the sink, and I run the cold water.

  "Please, God. Please."

  I scramble for the hydrogen peroxide and I quite literally douse the stain in it. The cuts on my hands are burning, but I don't pay mind to it. I'm too engrossed in my own fear that the stain won't go away. I scrub and scrub, but it doesn't come out. A shaky sob slips from my lips as I desperately scrub the stain away. I take the hand soap and wash it with that. Nothing. I take the laundry detergent from underneath the sink and attempt with that, but ultimately nothing. The stain is still there.

  Another shaky sob escapes and I drop to my knees as I clutch the drenched sweater against my chest.

  My heart aches—it hurts as it pounds against my chest and shatters into a million pieces.

  It quite literally feels like a part of me has died. Mom. I'm so sorry.