Repressed

Attempting to appreciate the beauty of the Sistine Chapel through a straw. One eye, one straw. You make out a curved line that most likely is the butt crack of an old Biblical man facing the Last Judgment. Straining to see over the tallest man's shoulders at your favorite artist's concert, then taking two steps either side and noticing that everyone is as tall as he is. You strain yourself, get on your tippy toes, and see the black handle of the microphone covered in specks of spit. A photo that you knew would just look absolutely BEAUTIFUL, just to have someone knock into you so it turns out like an unidentifiable smear.

Or, my childhood.

He grabs an almost archaic contraption and bounds up the stairs to my room.

"Layniebug! Remember that leaf presser Mamaw got you? It's a beautiful day to use it," he explains, eyes glazed over. It's six in the evening, prime time for a Bud Light, or eight. I didn't know it then, though.

He hadn't really done anything fun with me for a while, so I peer at him inquisitively. I am bored, and I feel like getting some fresh air. Plus, I love nature, so I hop out of bed. Click, I turn off the tiny silver TV I had. As I walk by, static caresses what little arm hair I have. He's already outside, searching for the perfect leaf to press flat and dry out like a business man's favorite dress shirt, splattered with his newborn's pumpkin and squash concoction from the day before.

He coaches me through the process. "Go look around, Layniebug! There are leaves all over the place. Just pick one that really stands out to you. We'll make a masterpiece."

It's the middle of June and the sun is beating on my auburn hair. I put my hand to my head and wonder if I could make a heated blanket out of the strands. Glancing at my father, I see a spear of fifty hairs plastered against his forehead. They're the color of Ken Doll's hair at most times, but the sweat darkens it and now he looks more like Jeffrey Dahmer. His thin, chapped lips grip a half-finished cigarette. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke, so I cover my nose with my hands dramatically. He notices, but continues to blacken his lungs. A perspired mixture of salt and beer drips down his moon-like cheek; little craters fill up and get drunk.

Dinner time is always hideously loud and rage filled. The six of us don't sit together at a big table, circling each other and singing "Kumbaya", or whatever the hell it is families do when eating a meal. Last week, Dad made spaghetti. Then, he made spaghetti art. The snow colored wall in my living room was his blank canvas and a plate of spaghetti was his medium of choice. I've never seen someone so ridiculously angry, or maybe so ridiculously piss drunk, to the point where they hurl a heavy china plate against the wall above where they sleep. He covered his couch in spaghetti sauce, cow crumbles, noodles, and shards of the plate. My mother scrubbed, and still scrubs that spot on the wall. We don't have the heart to tell her it's stained for good, tinted with a little pink now. She probably knows. I like the abnormality on the bleached drywall. It's a memorial for the not-eaten spaghetti. After all, we were always told to clean off our plates. What a waste of delicious pasta, I think to myself.

In two months, on Thanksgiving, Dad will take the turkey out of the oven, set it out on the counter, and then yell at my mom for some miniscule reason. An argument will ensue, and soon enough, they start cooking like the turkey. Dad's timer will go off: DING DING DING. His alarm is much scarier than the one on the oven: two gigantic, bloodshot eyes, with huge black circles in the middle. You'll see humanity escape him, drained out by a demon or two. With two sweaty palms, he'll attempt to seize the two silver handles of the turkey pan. He'll slip, partially from the dampness encompassing his fingers and partially from the alcohol flooding his soul. The Devil will help him out, though, reasserting his posture. Hovering over him, like a shadow, Lucifer will get closer and direct Dad. He's more pliable after a beer, or two, or six. The Devil/Dad hybrid will then stomp menacingly towards the back door, realize his hands are full, and shove his shoulder blade against the black door handle. It will take him two full shoves to get the door open enough for him to fit through with the bird. Six steps to the grass, he won't even pay attention to how slippery the deck is. Devils don't worry about that sort of thing, I assume. An unadulterated snowfall will glisten beautifully until Dad hurls the pan at it. The darkened poultry in the blizzard resembles Snow White's visage, plagued with a boil. Devils don't like beauty, and they certainly aren't fond of Thanksgiving.