When I Was Alphie

Chapter Five / Christopher

Author's note: I wrote this today on the train; therefore, it might not be perfect so please feel free to point out any errors. All my stories on here that take place in Connecticut are fictionalized versions of true events and inspired by where I grew up. I'm not confident in my third-person writing skills so I'd love some feedback or know how I did.

As always, feel free to direct message me or comment with any thoughts or concerns! I think this chapter will clear up a lot of confusion about Alphie's family life. After this, we will jump right back into the drama.

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Chapter Five / Christopher

Eighteen years ago

The late summer dew glistens in the sunlight, reflecting light across the backyard. The plastic swings on the swingset are slick, water resting in beads that collected during the nighttime with no sun to absorb the fluid. James goes running across the yard, the bottoms of his Oshkosh pants growing wet as he traipses through the dew. Grace makes no move to get up from where she sits on the back porch. When he's done playing, she will strip him down to his little briefs on the front porch, so that he doesn't make wet streaks across the floor of their home.

At some point, she would have made James wait to go play outside, telling him that six-thirty in the morning is too early, and then would try to deflect his attention by putting on an educational children's show. Those days are now long gone; most of her parenting over her son has simply become damage control and trying to direct his attention to non-violent activities.

Nathaniel told me that he used to pretend sticks were guns when he was a child, she thinks, trying to mentally reassure herself. Last week, the principal held six-year-old James in the office for several hours, refusing to allow him to play with the other children or attend classes until his parents picked him up. The pretend weapon was resting on the principal's desk when a stricken Grace and Nathaniel arrived to pick up their tearful child; a short, stubby stick retrieved during recess from underneath an oak tree in the playground.

She's beginning to feel nauseous again; her stomach is starting to heave a bit and her chest feels tight. Before she became pregnant, she still felt this way. Grief has a way of disrupting the body by changing digestion, circadian rhythms, and weight. For two years she survived off of pre-made meals, grapes, crackers, and thin slices of white cheddar cheese. It was hard enough to bolster the energy to properly feed her husband and son, much less properly nourish herself.

Now, for the third time in her life, she's eating for two again. Nausea, the swollen ankles, and the slew of discomfort she's felt with this pregnancy feels more like a blessing than a curse. The pain makes her feel alive again, the same way the life growing inside her is a living reminder that something beautiful can come from something broken.

And truly, her family has been broken.

Grace watches James climb onto the wet swing, babbling to himself. When she's absolutely sure he's fully in his own world, the world of a tortured and overprotected child, she leans over the side of the freshly oil-stained porch and throws up. It feels good to expel it all as if the food she's eaten is poison. Morning sickness brings bile and vomit, that coat her throat, filling her mouth with the taste of life inside her womb.

Nothing makes her feel disgusting anymore. Not the desiccated semen coating the inside of her thighs underneath her baggy pajama pants, the stretch marks running like lightning over her protruding stomach, or her unwashed hair which is held in a limp ponytail. She feels beautiful because she is loved.