Life's a Gem

2.C Night

I shoot back up. The bed rattles as I make my way off it. Sounds can be heard from downstairs; a woman's and a man's voice, they're arguing. Mom and "Dad" are arguing, again. I hate it when they argue, they always-

"Where's the money, you said you'd - - -, so where is it, huh?! Where is it?!" Henry's voice swells as I try to make out the conversation by pressing my ear to my door.

"I-I - -, I can't - - - when you - - -. Can't take any more - - can only - - maximum of sixty hours." A woman tries to rationalize with Henry; that's my mom. Her soft voice trying desperately to diffuse the situation.

I look at the digital clock by my bed. The red numbers indicates that it's 1:03 AM, my mom just got home from work. She works as a waitress at Pa's Own, the local diner. Mom always pulls close to sixty hours a week, I hate that about her.

"I don't care if you - - -, you either - - - or - - - can get out! I pay for the bills! I do everything here, everything! You hear me?!" I heard that last part perfectly as he is now yelling at the top of his lungs. He doesn't even do anything around the house, he just drinks beer like a camel drinks water.

"I- - sorry, I-"

"I don't care if you're sorry, you ain't worth shit to me if you can't bring in six hundred dollars! Huh, are you? 'Cause I don't think you are, Margret!" He said her name so viciously, so horrid, so- so evil.

Inaudible pleading can be heard now. He just says, "Nope, ain't gonna work this time." The begging gets louder and more desperate as each minute passes. Eventually, I think mom gets bold and says something Henry doesn't like.

"What!? What'd you say?! H-how, I do not spend money on beer! I-," his voice goes silent as she says something, "that was just one case, Margret. I don't even- yes I bought your damn kid some food. Little damn ingrate didn't even say thank you for the pizza. It- it had pepperoni, my favorite." Henry can't get anything right; I don't eat meat.

"What do you mean he's pesca-... pesca-... pescamamarian? I don't care what religion he is, he's gonna eat the damn food I give him or he ain't gonna eat nothing never!" The amount of negatives in that sentence hurts my soul.

"Be a father? I ain't that twerp's dad! I ain't give no birth to him, I ain't gonna treat him like he's my kid, he's your kid." I think that hurts both me and my mom as she goes quiet. I can't see why she married him, she would've been better without him. We all would be better without him existing in this world.

She starts up again.

"Shut up, woman! I've had enough of your trap, I'll give you somethin' to cry over!"

Oh my god, no, nonononononono.

Soft thumping can be heard, followed along by soft crying. The thumping gets heavier, louder, and faster.

I run to my closet and close it. The darkness of the enclosed room surrounds me like a sensory deprivation chamber.

Please stop, please, she's my only mom, please stop. God, please make him stop, please please please? I don't ask you for much, but just this once? God, please!

A few minutes later, the thumping stops and the front door can be heard opening and closing; Mom starts crying heavily down stairs, she doesn't stop until what seemed like an eternity.

I sit in my closet, my knees to my chest. I take deep breaths while rocking myself back and forth.

Just rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

I eventually exit the closet like a nuclear war survivor exiting the shelter, alone and frightened.

I look at the clock, 4:46 AM, I spent the whole night holed up in the closet.

I go to my door, picking up the broken glass jar on my way out to drop off in the kitchen trash. I walk down the stairs and notice my mom laying on the couch, she's sleeping where he should be sleeping. Her black hair covers the couch's arm rest; she's using it as a pillow. I quietly walk to the trash can near the fridge and place the jar in it.

I really need to check up on her.

I walk up to the couch and see that she has a thin blanket wrapped over herself like a baby burrito. Dried up tears are crusting up the sides of her eyes, her nose is still red and twitching. My mom is truly angelic; when she smiles, she makes everything broken inside me fit perfectly. Even though she's in her forties, she looks like she's thirty three, only showing wrinkles when you really get near her and squint. She's a bit shorter than me, only coming up to my shoulders, but I don't care. I squat down whenever she comes up to hug me, just to indulge her. She loves it when I do that...

I don't see any bruises or cuts on her face, he must've went for her body then. Sorry mom; I gently tug the blanket off, revealing her work uniform, a classic white apron, a yellow polyester shirt, and navy blue pants. I roll up the bottom of her shirt and see a huge circular bruise the size of my fist near above her bellybutton. What did he hit you with? God...

I roll the shirt down and put the blanket over her, she clutches it closely towards her chest. I go to the laundry room and get a towel; might as well take a shower. I need to start my day anyways.

I go to the bathroom and start up the shower, the hot water is both relaxing and burning as the heat stings. I start to doze off while standing under the shower head; I struggle to stay awake. Why did he- he hit my mom, she- never does anything to him. I can barely think, the hot water is too relaxing, so I force myself to apply shampoo.

Rinse, lather, repeat, rinse, lather, and repeat. I repeat those words over and over to take my mind off of... off of that.

I wrap the towel around my waist and go to the fogged up mirror, wiping it off before I grab my tooth brush and toothpaste.

I look at my reflection, I have bag under my eyes, my hair is a mess, cheeks are red, and my eyes are burning.

You look like crap. Why couldn't you do anything to help your mom, huh? Look at you, you have no muscles, no chest hair, no confidence, and no courage. Yet, you still call yourself a man; you're a joke.

I spit out the toothpaste and rinse the brush out, looking back at my reflection as I finish.

I hate you.