The Unlucky Ones

[3] - Contrast

[Tobias]

I WAKE WITH A START. I can hear Marcus’s heavy footsteps in the hallway just outside my bedroom door. I’m lying on the bed with the objects strewn on the mattress around me. His footsteps are slowing down as he comes closer to the door. I pick up the spark plugs and motherboard pieces and wires and throw them back into the trunk, locking it tightly.

I stow the key in my pocket. I realize at the last second, as the doorknob starts to move, that the sculpture is still out. I take hold of the glass figure and shove it under the pillow. I slide the trunk under the bed. I dive toward the chair and pull it from under the knob so my father can enter. When he does, he eyes the chair in my hands with suspicion. I look away, nerves shaking me up.

" What was that doing over here? " He says, referring to the chair. " Are you trying to keep me out? " He asks.

I shake my head.

" No, sir. " I say, quietly.

He raises an eyebrow.

" That’s the second time you’ve lied to me today, " Marcus says. " I didn’t raise my son to be a liar. "

I look at him, watching his dark eyes full of dark intentions.

" I— " I can’t think of a single thing to say, so I close my mouth.

I lift the chair, carrying it back to my desk where it belongs, right behind the stack of schoolbooks.

" What were you doing in here that you didn’t want me to see? " Marcus asks, looking over at me.

I clutch the back of the chair, hard, and stare at my books. Maybe if I don't look at him, he'll go away.

" Nothing. " I say quietly.

He steps towards me.

" That’s three lies, " He says, and his voice is low but hard as flint.

He steps closer toward me, and I backup instinctively. His hand glides its way under my bed, grabbing the trunk. He pulls it out, trying the lid. It doesn’t budge. Fear stabs into my gut like a blade. I pinch the hem of my shirt, but I can’t feel my fingertips. I'm numb everywhere from nerves.

" Your mother said this was for blankets, " He says, looking at the trunk. " She said you got cold at night. But what I’ve always wondered is this. If it still has blankets in it, why do you keep it locked? " He asks.

He holds out his hand, palm up, and raises his eyebrows at me. I know what he wants—the key. And I have to give it to him because he can see when I’m lying; he can see everything about me. He has me cornered and he'll keep me there as long as he wants. I reach into my pocket, then drop the key in his hand.

The numbness that started in my fingertips, spreads to my palms. The breathing is starting, the shallow breathing that always comes when I know he’s about to explode. I close my eyes as he opens the trunk. I hear the click of the key unlocking it.

" What is this? " He asks, his gravelly voice low.

His hand moves through the treasured objects carelessly, scattering them to the left and right. He takes them out one by one and thrusts them toward me.

" What do you need with this, or this? " He shouts.

He shoves the trunk off the edge of the bed so its
contents scatter all over the floor.

" It poisons this house with selfishness! " He shouts.

I can’t feel my face, either. His hands collide with my chest. I stumble back and hit the dresser. Then he draws his hand back by his face to hit me.