Sing Me To Sleep

Chapter 15

"Relax," His breath is in my ear, sending chills down my spine and only making me more tense. He's so close, both of his hands resting on my hips, his chest pressed almost completely flat against my back. I force myself to breathe evenly and close my eyes, his touch disappearing though I can still feel his presence prominently. "What do you remember from that night?" He asks. I can hear his voice moving as he walks around me in slow deliberate steps.

I bite my lip, concentrating on his words and my own memories which now seem terrifyingly distant. My thoughts are still jumbled and the skeleton boy urged me to wait until I was finished healing to try to press the memory, but I couldn't wait. I wasn't sure how much more time I had here, safe inside my own mind.

I fight my way through memories of my father, all of them flooding my head at once, and I will them to slow down, wanting time to scrutinize each and every one. But of course my mind rejects that request and I have to focus even more on the vague images as they whir by, trying to grasp specific things that seem to pop out; Glass. A lot of glass. Blood. Crimson liquid, sticky against my bare hands and sneakered feet, and warm as it soaked into my clothing, staining not only my jeans but my mind as well. As soon as I have a grasp on part of the memory, the entire night comes back to me like a slingshot, all at once, and I can feel it once again. Every single detail like a tidal wave crashes against me and I suck in a breath, actually feeling the waters tearing at my throat. My eyes flit open in a second and I'm staring at the worst nightmare I've ever had.

The night my father died. 

It was addictive at first, the memory filling my thoughts for days after the original incident, replaying in a constant, taunting loop. It mocked me, showing again and again the blood that I brandished and the terror on my mother's face. The guilt and horror of my own actions seemed to bear down on me at all times. The police insisted on therapy, which I attended regularly for a few months. And then I found my own therapy; the drinking, the partying. It was a temporary fix to the depression and I thought it was a permanent fix for the memory. The night my father died became a blurred memory buried in the back of my mind... Until now. Now, I watched once again as the scene I tried so hard to forget played before my own eyes. 

Thirteen year old me was standing near the kitchen sink, looking down meekly at his Converse. His hands twisted together, shame clear on his weak features. I looked so young, I note. So innocent. But that innocence will soon end. As if on cue, my father barges into the room, looking furious. A half-empty beer bottle hangs loosely between his fingers and I know it's already his third so far that night. His last that night, in fact. His last beer ever.

"What was that noise?" He demands, but no one answers him. Instead, his eyes find my mother, on her knees to the right of my younger self. She picks up a few bigger shards from the shattered glass, placing them delicately into the fold of her apron. And then his eyes flash back to Frank. The skeleton boy and I stand behind him, near the doorway leading toward the living room, and I'm silently thankful that I can't see the anger on my father's face. I already know it all too well. But I can clearly make out my own young features, my bottom lip tucked in between my teeth, my eyes cast downward. "Did you break the glass?" 

Young Frank ignores the question, a mistake I know now. I could have answered him right away and maybe the entire fight would have been avoided. But retrospection now isn't going to help anything and I focus on my mother. She clambers to her feet, tossing some of the glass into the trash bin and going back to her place near the stove, the remaining glass glinting on the tile floor at her feet. 

"Please, calm down, John," My mother speaks up, her voice soft. The words sound hopeless. She knows as well as I do that it's useless.

"I'm talking to you, boy. Don't make me repeat myself." My father says, but continues before I have the chance to even let out a breath. "I said, did you break the glass?"