Spices (FIRST DRAFT) ~ An Alejandro and Alfred Story

𝓣𝔀𝓮𝓷𝓽𝔂-𝓯𝓲𝓿𝓮

November 5th, 1951

A little boy examined his hair with a furrowed brow in the full-length mirror in the main hallway of his large house. He ran a finger over it, the fresh gel leaving his finger greasy and slimy. His father instructed– or demanded– the maids to start putting it in his hair every morning.

As he made ugly faces in the mirror, he heard a deep voice across the hall slur yet sternfully order, “Quit doing that. You look like a fool.”

The boy watched his father lean on the doorframe leading to his office and push off, keeping a hand on the dark wood wall to keep himself steady. In his other hand, there was a glass of golden brown liquid, ice drowning inside. When the father reached the boy, he brushed his fingernails through the boy’s hair, poking his eye accidentally every few strokes. “Touch your hair again, and I’ll glue it this way. Stop pulling strands out. It looks idiotic.” He hiccuped.

“I don’t like how it feels, Dad,” the boy whined, reaching up for his hair again.

The father roughly grabbed the boy’s hand. “I said don’t fucking touch it. Christ, sometimes I can’t tell if you’re just a child or I genuinely hate you. Why do I even bother…” The influence of alcohol made him stumble over his words so much that the boy could barely understand him, assuming— or forcing himself to— assume that his father couldn’t have said those things. The father brought the glass to his lips, swallowing it on one go as he leaned back and flipped it upside down. “You’re so fucking insuf… insuffable,” he croaked.

The boy picked at his fingers, fluttering his lips reluctantly before deciding to say, “Did you mean insufferable, Dad?”

He flashed his eyes to his son, hostility burning in them. He placed his empty glass on the back wood dresser in the hallway, the remaining shapes of ice clinking. He calmly wiped his mouth with his thumb. Smack. The boy was struck across the face so fast his own gasp got caught in his throat.

The father did not even blink as he stared down at his son whose eyes welled with tears and a sob that was too frightened to fall from his lips peeked out and sucked itself back in.

With a snap of his arm the father grabbed the boy's chin, tilting it up to make him look him in the eye. “Cry and I'll hit you again. You know I will.” The boy suppressed everything inside him the best he could: holding his breath and almost choking on a sob. He trembled, knowing a simple betrayal of his body to let the water in his eyes fall out would have bigger consequences than any child should know. He should be playing outside, exploring a creek, or wondering what he wants for Christmas. Instead, he learns that discipline means taking what his father throws at him— even if it is his own hands— and resistance would only lead to harsher punishments.

~~~

January 14th, 1952

Admiring the certificates and University degrees framed in black, one below the other, the boy was slapped on the hands suddenly. “Don’t pull your clothes; you’re ruining them,” the father muttered gravely.

“Sit down,” he followed. “Your private tutor called in sick today, so I’ll have to study with you. Makes me wonder why I’m paying her at all. That’s why she has this job, ‘cause I have my hands full focusing on my company while she handles my seven-year-old.”

“I’m nine, Dad.”

The father shot his son a glance and kneeled by the desk, opening a drawer of textbooks and graph paper, throwing it on the table in front of the boy with a thud. “Find lesson eleven. She was supposed to start the advanced algebra lesson with you yesterday.”

Repressing an eye roll and a sigh the boy lazily flipped through the confusing sea of numbers and letters in the textbook, locating a large number eleven at the corner of a page. The boy took his time writing down the first question so it looked like he was busy doing something while he thought about the problem. The words bunched together in his head and became an incomprehensible mess. He barely understood the last lesson, or the one before that, leaving him completely blank.