Memories of You

Chapter Three - Breaking Down the Walls

Tobias POV

75 days

1,785 hours

105,900 minutes

6,354,000 seconds

I trace the lines of the wood grain on the table with my finger, glancing at the clock one more time. Marcus should be back any minute. I shouldn't have to worry too much; the house is spotless and my homework is complete. The only things I should really be concerned about are how well the dinner with Andrew Prior went and what Marcus' stock prices did today. If either didn't go well, then I'll have to worry.

Marcus walks througfh the door a few minutes later, going straight to the kitchen. He comes back, sitting across from me with a beer bottle in hand. He twists the top, tipping the bottle back. He looks at me, finally speaking, his voice low in displeasure. "How was your evening, Tobias?"

I swallow the bile that has started to rise in the back of my throat. Things did not go well tonight. I might be paying the price later for whatever has angered him. "I was able to complete my homework and chores, and started reading through the next chapter in English, sir," I reply, trying to keep the quiver of fear out of my voice.

He nods his head and takes another large swallow from the bottle. I'm not sure if I should bring up the dinner, but he seems to answer my unspoken question. "The dinner with the Priors went well. Their daughter is quite lovely. She made the most delectable cake, though she acted oddly toward the end of dinner." He doesn't elaborate further as he tips the bottle back, finishing it off. He stares off in thought, and a shiver runs down my spine.

I fear for whoever this girl is. She has unfortunately caught Marcus' eye, and he will somehow weasel his way into her life, then destroy her in so many ways. Like the countless young women before her.

He gets up, empty bottle in hand, more than likely heading back to the kitchen for another. I take my chance, hoping to leave his presence and go to the sanctuary of my room. "May I be excused? I have a test in the morning and would like to go to bed early."

He turns, nodding his head before heading toward the kitchen. I stand and begin walking quickly toward my room, the nausea threatening to overtake me as the true meaning of his displeasure hits me hard; I know I can't do anything to help this girl.

I hear him call from the kitchen, "Goodnight, Son."

I swallow again. "Goodnight, Father."

I make it to my door and close it gently. I can't lock it yet, at least not for another hour at the rate he's going, or until he turns the record player on. I'll know then that he's too drunk to really operate a door or remember that I locked it.

The one time I didn't lock my door was shortly after my tenth birthday, about a year and a half after my mother left. That was the first time he ever used his belt on me. I remember the pain from that night the most clearly. He had flung my door open in a drunken rage, ripped me from my bed, and thrown me to the floor. I don't remember how many lashes I received, but at some point I passed out when the pain was too great.

I woke up two days later, lying on my bed and covered in bandages. My father told me if I tried to tell anyone, I'd just be seen as a liar, a little boy desperate for attention; no one would believe me because he was too respected in the community. He then said that if anyone asked, I was to tell them I had gotten into a fight and had been dragged across the ground.

I remember the neighbor next door asking why I was acting strangely, why I had suddenly stopped playing with my friends that lived on our street, especially her son when he asked me. I stuttered through the story my father had insisted I use about getting in a fight, and no one came near me after that. Everyone kept their children from me, insisting I would harm them. I realize now that it was probably for the best to be isolated, but at ten years old, it was depressing to have no one. I had become the boy that everyone skirted around.