A Small Voice

Chapter Seven

"For God commanded, saying, Honour thy father and mother: and, He thatcurseth father or mother, let him die the death." Matthew 15:4

I rolled into the driveway and cringed when I saw the time. It was nearly four in the morning. I braced myself to be as stealthy as possible and pushed the car door open, shutting it as quietly as I could. Every sound I made seemed exaggerated, and turning the doorknob to go into the dark house made my heart pound even more. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I stepped inside. All I had to do was make it up to my room without waking anyone up, and then I would be safe, home free. I had tiptoed halfway into the living room, feeling my way around in the dark, when I sensed I wasn't alone. Was someone else in the room? No. I was being paranoid. Just walk. Just keep going. No one is there. No one is there. You always do this. You always imagine the worst.

And then the light came on.

The blood drained from my face when I saw my dad standing there at the entrance of the paisley-wallpapered hallway. His lips were pressed into a thin line on his otherwise stone-cold expression. He looked me up and down, and I stood there, terrified. He turned to look at the clock and then back at me.

He finally spoke. "Well?"

Oh, God. I stood frozen, trying to silence the swirling panic in my head long enough to formulate an answer. Seconds felt like minutes as they ticked by, and I did my best to gather my courage. "I was with a friend. She had questions about Christianity, and I just lost track of time."

He walked closer to me, shirtless, large, and looming. "Is that right?"

It was an accusation.

"And you reek of booze and cigarettes because?"

All I could do was stare at the floor. I began tracing the patchwork on the carpet and wishing this moment to be over fast, so I could escape to my room.

"Is that how you share Christ and His Word? By drinking, smoking, and who knows what else?"

"No. It's not like that. You're judging me before you know the facts."

"The facts? Just standing in the room with you gives me enough evidence to know the facts. So now you're not only drinking and smoking, but you're also lying."

"I'm not lying, I was just..."

"Just what? Partying and carousing with a tramp, that's what. I'm disgusted with you. Christ is disgusted with you."

I was beginning to feel nauseated, and I wasn't sure if it was because of the whiskey and cigarettes or if it was because of this petrifying confrontation.

"Who is she?"

"It's no one." Defensiveness began to well up inside me. He didn't have the right to talk about her that way. He didn't know her. If he did, he wouldn't be saying these things.

"Clearly, it's someone. Someone who's worth throwing away your place in Heaven."

"Listen, Dad." I interrupted, with all confidence I could muster. "I'm seventeen, you have to start letting me make my own choices."

He went silent, his expression angry, stricken, indignant. This was uncharted territory. I had never defied him. Not once.

"So, you think you can do whatever you like in my house? You think you can do whatever you want under the watchful eyes of Christ? Maybe it's time we got back to scripture. 'Spare the rod, spoil the child.'" He stomped into his room and came back with one of his big leather belts. "In this house if your choices lead to sin, there are consequences."

He came at me with it, connecting with the side of my leg. The blow burned. I saw him pull it back, ready for another swing. His eyes were wild with righteous anger. He hit me again, the leather snaking around my side and lashing violently against my back. The pain felt like it would split me in half.

This had been my father's modus operandi my whole life. No talking it through. No compassionate ear. His way, or the belt. Rage began to pulse through my veins, replacing the meek boy I had been only minutes before. I'd had enough. Seventeen years of this was enough.

"Dad! I swear to God, if you hit me again I am going to hurt you." I pointed at him with a trembling hand, but my voice was even, firm, and confident. It was the voice of a man.

My mother was in the living room now, shouting and crying, pleading for us to stop. I didn't know how long she'd been there. My adrenaline dimmed out the environment, and focused my mind solely on the adversary.

He cracked the belt at my side again, snapping it against my back, and this time, I couldn't hold back. I erupted, grabbing hold of the leather strap, wrapping it into my fist, and yanking my father toward me in one swift motion.

Rage pulsed through me as I balled my hand into a fist and cracked it against my father's chin, and then swung into his stomach with the other. He crumpled to the ground, dazed and disbelieving, struggling for breath as my mother, horrified, knelt beside him.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. "Go to bed, Dan." Her voice quivered. "Just go."

It was surreal to see my parents huddled on the floor at my feet. I wanted to rewind, to unhurt my mother, to lift her from that moment and have her dreaming safely in her bed. I wanted my father to be snoring softly beside her, blissfully unaware and unconcerned with my doings and whereabouts.

My father had always been all-powerful—indomitable—but as I walked away, I realized that he was just a man, like any other. I had seen fear flicker in his eyes. Unease. Trepidation. Had my demonstration of physical violence caused him to waver? No. That wasn't it. The old man was afraid because he had lost control of the situation. He had lost control of me.

I headed to my room with hot tears welling, the wave of rage replaced with exhaustion. I tossed the covers over my head while falling onto my mattress. My thoughts turned to Rachel, imagining her soothing voice comforting me, her soft lips kissing away my tears. Before I realized it, I was back in the cornfield with her. I grew hard as I replayed the vivid image of myself in her mouth. I began stroking. For a few moments, I forgot about the world.

Once the intense feeling of my orgasm dissipated, the guilt returned. Frustrated at my spiritual weakness, I began hitting my thigh, punching it repeatedly until my strength was gone, and my leg black and blue. I was trapped between two worlds. I needed to find a way to please God and keep Rachel, or I'd risk either losing my religion or my first love.

Give me wisdom Lord, give me self-control, I begged. I'm sorry, please forgive me. The prayer went through my head again and again, a compulsive being of its own trying to overpower the emerging cynic inside me.

The shame, the struggle, the praying. It was my modus operandi. I pulled the blankets over my head. Grief stricken and guilty, I fell asleep.