Unspoken

Chapter Ten: Ryan

"So," my mom says across the table after taking a large bite of pizza, the grease smeared across her cheek. "How's school going? Is everyone being nice?"

"What a motherly thing to say," I say in my most sarcastic tone, hoping to spark some sort of fight in the mix so she'll never be tempted to ask me to come out for dinner ever again. I look up at her when she doesn't respond, and find her eyes on her plate and her shoulders slumped. Suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, I jump back into the conversation despite my younger self begging me not to. "Yes, everyone is being nice."

She smiles but keeps looking down, clearly more depressed than she had wanted to be on this special outing. I know she's thinking of my dad, I know she's thinking about all of the times he brought her out to dinner like this before I was born.

Of course, the dinners he brought her to were much fancier than the paper cups filled with sugary soda sitting in front of us now, accompanied by a piece of pizza on a paper plate sitting on a dirty table.

My father was a successful businessman, especially when it came to the stock market, so he brought her to only the fanciest of restaurants. Sparkling champagne buzzed in her nose every night while the bottle was stuck in the ice, her lips dripping with red paint while her newlywed eyes shimmered at her love, not knowing that in a few years, he would make the shimmer turn to tears.

Our house had cost the same price as a small town, our yacht sat on the water and bounced against the light waves off of the Gulf of Mexico while stars shined above and palm trees danced in the salty breeze.

Jazz music played throughout our estate while the nanny my parents hired tucked me into my very own king-sized bed at the age of eight, and when I had asked if my parents were coming to say goodnight like they used to, she shook her head and rubbed her fingers through my buzzed hair, promising that tomorrow night they would.

It wasn't that they were busy, they just didn't care. Not that I blame them, I was in an entirely different wing of the house, I suppose it was a bit of a walk.

We were rich beyond belief, you'd never find us in a rundown pizza shop under a rainy bridge that cracked whenever a car drove over it.

My dad would wear a suit, my mom a golden floor-length dress, and me a little button-up shirt with dress pants most nights just to have dinner in our kitchen that might as well have been the same size as my whole neighborhood now.

And like her dress, our house was golden with white stone and many windows. It smelt of freshly cooked food or cleanliness constantly, and then eventually our heaven came crashing down and that smell transformed into blood.

The sound of jazz fell silent as the sound of my dad's fist hitting my mom's ribs echoed through the long halls.

Any employee we had quit and we couldn't hold any new ones for more than a week without the fighting getting in the way, causing them to lose sleep as I did, finally understanding that I couldn't just quit like they did. I was stuck in that hell. Night after night, not even covering my ears would drown out the screaming.

The bottles of liquor my mom bought were empty in days, no matter the amount she bought, and when my dad had an empty one in his grasp, God help anyone who dared walk into his line of vision.

He took his anger out on us, not hearing us begging him to stop.

And although my mom was afraid, she watched time and time again as the blows came to her son's face, not caring enough to stop it.

She is selfish, and I know where I get it from. Both of my parents were equally as insane even if my mom looks to be the good guy.

A hero would save her child no matter the risk, a villain would let the villain continue.