What I Love About You | boyxboy

Chapter 7

When I was about five, my father began teaching me guitar.

"Put your fingers here," his voice was kind and low as he guided my tips onto the correct strings, pushing them down into the neck. "Now strum." I let my opposite hand run through the strings at the base, slowly, and listening to the music fill the room. "Good. That was G chord." His smile was so bright. It was something I rarely saw on my father's face and upon seeing it, I wanted more of it.

Most of my days would be spent independently studying guitar chords using the family computer. I would practice on a small toy guitar, that lacked all the strings but I still got the placement right. After my dad's gig, which my mom and I went to every night, he would teach me more. It felt so good to hear those words "good job". Eventually my love for him turned more towards the music I was playing.

Especially when I didn't get it right.

He hit me. With the force of that giant hand on my child face, I flew to the right and hit the hardwood floor. Instinctively I reached up to my stinging face. My eyes widened in horror as I stared up to see him towering above me. The look was far from a smile. It was far worse than it had been before. A look that I only learned the word of when I entered middle school.

Disdain.

My mother rushed to my side, holding herself over me and scooping me up in her arms. "What the fuck is the matter with you!" She yelled, backing away from my father.

He threw the guitar, with the string I'd broken, down on the floor with a thud. "He broke it."

"It was an accident, Rodger."

"Bitch, do you think we're made of money? This is how I pay for everything." He pointed harshly at the broken guitar. "I said, don't touch the tuning pegs. What'd you do?" I snuggled into my mother's breast. "What did you do!" I flinched. He was never this angry. My heart was racing and all I wanted to do was cry in my mother's arms. "Fucking prick!"

He reached for me, only to be shoved back by my mother who fell to the floor from the effort. "Rodger, stop, it was just a string."

"Just a string?" He turned slightly, turning his head up and brushing the sweat of his forehead away with the palm of his hand. The other hand planted on his hip. He turned to us again. "Bitch, I don't think you quite get it. I need that to pay the bills!"

"We'll buy new strings."

"Buy new strings." He mocked, huffing at the end. "This little shit will not touch my things, understand me woman?" Mom hesitated a nod. "Got it!" She flinched, making me jump a little, then nodded quickly. "Keep control of that child. That's your one and and only job, woman. And clean my house. It's filthy in here."

That was the moment I decided I didn't like him very much. That night my mother cried while he was off playing at the nightclub. It was the first night we'd missed his performance.

He continued with his erratic behavior, sometimes kissing my mom and I, other times using us like punching bags. At Christmas he bought me my own guitar, which I played for hours without his guidance. I'd take his personal lessons when he felt like it, otherwise I participated in mostly self study.

So many times I wished I could just hit him back. It was my longing desire for him to feel the same pain he inflicted on us when he felt like it. For months I watched him push her down, choke her, slash her, abuse her until she became a mindless puppet. I couldn't understand why she wouldn't leave him. Even at my young age, I knew he was toxic. When I got older, I realized she wanted to. Oh, she wanted to, but life is harsher and more complex. Essentially, it was easier said than down.