Sing Me To Sleep

Chapter 9

Part of me is screaming at me that this is a bad idea. There's a pygmy sized section of my brain, probably the logical part, that is telling me to imagine rainbows and unicorns, not the night my father died. It's beating against the inside of my skull, begging me to choose a different memory. That part of my brain has apparently manifested in the form of the skeleton boy.

He watches me with pleading eyes, his flawless face twisted into a worried expression. "You don't have to do this, Frank," He tells me. 

I take a deep breath, letting my eyes close. Of course I have to do this. I need to see my father's death replayed again right before my eyes. Not like I'm reliving it this time. I merely want to watch. 

My father was a sick son of a bitch. At first, it was just yelling. My parents would fight a lot, and I thought it was normal. Parents fought, right? There were nights that my father would come home from work, complaining about a lack of sales in the shop he worked at, about how pay cuts were bound to effect us all. He was right, in a way. When I was ten, he lost his job due to pay cuts. He came home even angrier than usual, wasted and screaming as he staggered in the back door.

"This isn't the memory you wanted," I hear the angel say. I open my eyes to look at him, but as I gaze around, I realize he's right. I'm in the kitchen of my house again, standing near the doorway that leads from the kitchen to the den, the skeleton boy to my right. 

This isn't the night my father died. This memory, though, has plenty other significance. 

Ten year old me sits at the table, a smile on his face as he watches his mother, my mother, speak excitedly, both ignoring the food that's placed before them. "She's talking about a trip," I say softly. I have my arms wrapped around myself as I watch the younger me grin. I glance over at the skeleton boy. He watches only me, paying no mind to the memory that surrounds us. I laugh lightly. "She told me that it was supposed to be a surprise, but her and my dad were taking me to Disneyland."

The skeleton boy takes a small step closer, his body heat touching me though he doesn't. "What happened?" He asks, prompting me.

I shake my head. "We never went," I state. I shift my gaze back to the memory, letting the flashback explain itself as to why the trip never ensued. 

The back door swings open, hitting against the wall with a disturbing thud. My father stumbles into the room, his face slack of any emotion. Looking back now, I realize he's shitfaced. But back then, I didn't know or care. "Daddy!" Younger Frank looks up, elation lighting up his face. 

My father ignores him and narrows his eyes at my mother. "You started dinner without me?" He demands. His voice isn't as slurred as I imagine it should be from the intoxication, instead laced with annoyance.

My mother looks down. "It was getting late," She stammers, her words seeming nervous as she realizes that my father's sobriety is far from present. "I wanted Frankie to get some food before bed."

"Daddy!" Younger Frank exclaims again. My father's furious gaze turns to the smaller boy. I bite my lip, not wanting to watch what I know is about to happen. "Mommy told me about Disneyland! Is it true they have the people from Toy Story there?"

My father turns his anger back to my mother, amplifying at the child's words. "You told the kid?" He demands. My mother looks down again, opening her mouth to answer but not having the chance before he slams his fist down on the table, sliding it across the hard surface and sending a plate and glass crashing to the floor. "Dammit, Linda!" He yells and even I jump.

I feel the skeleton boy move closer, his arm wrapping around my own, his fingers sliding between mine. I squeeze his hand, feeling the comfort and security wash over me. I wasn't in danger. I was safe. I was only watching. I tried reminding myself that, but seeing this as it took place right before my eyes, I also felt hopeless. This was me, seven years ago. And I couldn't even help myself.