My voice breaks, not with any overwhelming emotion, because I’m pretty ice-cold when I confront these memories. Instead, I find my mouth to be dry merely because I’m getting ready to lay my heavy story on Sutton’s doorstep and I have no clue how she’s going to react.
As if sensing my hesitation, she murmurs, “Only tell me if you want, Alex. No pressure.”
Not quite realizing that my chest has been tight, my muscles loosen up a bit and I can breathe easier. Her insistence I go at the pace that I feel most comfortable with makes the fear lessen.
“He was abusive. Drunk most of the time, but verbally and physically abusive. No matter how good I was—and Sutton, I was f**king good—he always found fault with my play. And fault required punishment.”
I squeeze my arms a little tighter around her, for my comfort and maybe hers as well. “I’m sure it was to soothe his own conscience but my dad disguised punishment as ‘practice.’ He’d shoot pucks at my body and wouldn’t let me defend. I’d have bruises all over and it hurt like a motherfucker. Or he’d make me do drills, sometimes for hours on end, often into the wee hours of the morning. He wouldn’t let me stop to drink anything, and only after I’d collapse in exhaustion was the ‘practice’ over. He’d berate me…constantly, and in front of others. If I dared to talk back to him, or even plead with him for a break, he’d use his fists, or a hockey stick, or his belt…whatever was handiest.”
One of Sutton’s hands, which is still resting on my chest, digs into my skin in angst and she lets out a stuttering breath.
“He was a monster,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Most of the time, but not all. There were some good times.”
“I know,” she says simply, and she does. She said as much the other day, that there were some good times with Cosmo.
“He stole your childhood.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“He made you hate your career.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like your dad,” she says, almost petulantly, and it makes me laugh.
“I don’t like him much either,” I agree again, giving her a slight kiss on her head.
“But you’re worried about him. Just like I worry about Cosmo.”
“Yes,” I tell her, but I don’t tell her everything. I don’t tell her about the crushing guilt that I’m suffering under, because I think it’s my fault that he got to be this bad. I spent the last eight years of my adult life, out from under his ruling thumb, just watching him drink his life down the toilet. I ate dinner after dinner with him while he pounded double vodkas, almost wishing for him to drink faster so he’d pass out and forget about me. Never once did it cross my mind that he could be killing himself.
I enabled him to keep going, often wishing it so. Maybe subconsciously I wanted him to die, so he would be out of my life for good.
Those thoughts cause a violent shudder to run through me and bile to back up in my throat. Those thoughts are going to cause me to go to hell, and I’m not sure I can ever atone for them.
Sutton pushes up off my chest where she has been lying and when our eyes meet, I notice hers have a light film of tears coating them. She’s sad for me…crying for me, and that touches me deeper than anything ever has before.
Reaching one hand up, I sift my fingers through the hair at her temple and push them back. When I cup the back of her head, I give it just the gentlest of shakes so she knows I mean business. “Don’t you cry for me, Sutton. Don’t waste your tears on that story. You have far more important things to shed them over.”
Sutton’s own hand comes up and grips my wrist that’s holding her head. Her smile is tremulous. “I can’t help crying for you. I love you.”
Emotion such as I have never felt in my entire life wells up inside of me. It seems to bubble up from the center of my stomach, spreading outward…down my legs, my arms…up my spine. It blankets my skin with a warm tingle, and the center of my chest feels like it’s going to erupt in a fountain of released tension.
I urge the feeling on, waiting on the euphoria that I feel is ready to break free because of Sutton’s revelation that she loves me. I wait for it to expel my bitterness and fuel me with peace.
I wait for it, and wait for it, and wait for it.
But it never happens. Instead, the tingle dulls and while a light feeling of warmth remains behind, an ache centers in my chest, folds in on itself to a focused intensity, and throbs with drum-like precision.
It’s the pain of realization that I don’t love Sutton back.
At least I don’t think I do. Otherwise, why didn’t the joy leap free? Why did my heart become pained instead?
I search for the feeling again, will it back to life.
I’m left empty.
Sutton stares at me, the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree dancing in her eyes. She’s not waiting for the words to come back to her. I know this because I see no expectation or disappointment in her gaze. I only see love, and care, and tenderness. I only see her waiting for me to accept her gift with absolutely no assumption that she’s going to get something in return.
She’s the most f**king amazing and selfless person I’ve ever met, and it has never been more clear that I am the most unworthy person for her.
I should let her go…right now, right this very minute.
But I’m a selfish bastard and I’m not going to do it. I’m going to keep her until I’m ready to destroy her, and then I’ll just add that to the pile of guilt I’m already suffering under.
As if sensing my hesitation, she murmurs, “Only tell me if you want, Alex. No pressure.”
Not quite realizing that my chest has been tight, my muscles loosen up a bit and I can breathe easier. Her insistence I go at the pace that I feel most comfortable with makes the fear lessen.
“He was abusive. Drunk most of the time, but verbally and physically abusive. No matter how good I was—and Sutton, I was f**king good—he always found fault with my play. And fault required punishment.”
I squeeze my arms a little tighter around her, for my comfort and maybe hers as well. “I’m sure it was to soothe his own conscience but my dad disguised punishment as ‘practice.’ He’d shoot pucks at my body and wouldn’t let me defend. I’d have bruises all over and it hurt like a motherfucker. Or he’d make me do drills, sometimes for hours on end, often into the wee hours of the morning. He wouldn’t let me stop to drink anything, and only after I’d collapse in exhaustion was the ‘practice’ over. He’d berate me…constantly, and in front of others. If I dared to talk back to him, or even plead with him for a break, he’d use his fists, or a hockey stick, or his belt…whatever was handiest.”
One of Sutton’s hands, which is still resting on my chest, digs into my skin in angst and she lets out a stuttering breath.
“He was a monster,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Most of the time, but not all. There were some good times.”
“I know,” she says simply, and she does. She said as much the other day, that there were some good times with Cosmo.
“He stole your childhood.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“He made you hate your career.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like your dad,” she says, almost petulantly, and it makes me laugh.
“I don’t like him much either,” I agree again, giving her a slight kiss on her head.
“But you’re worried about him. Just like I worry about Cosmo.”
“Yes,” I tell her, but I don’t tell her everything. I don’t tell her about the crushing guilt that I’m suffering under, because I think it’s my fault that he got to be this bad. I spent the last eight years of my adult life, out from under his ruling thumb, just watching him drink his life down the toilet. I ate dinner after dinner with him while he pounded double vodkas, almost wishing for him to drink faster so he’d pass out and forget about me. Never once did it cross my mind that he could be killing himself.
I enabled him to keep going, often wishing it so. Maybe subconsciously I wanted him to die, so he would be out of my life for good.
Those thoughts cause a violent shudder to run through me and bile to back up in my throat. Those thoughts are going to cause me to go to hell, and I’m not sure I can ever atone for them.
Sutton pushes up off my chest where she has been lying and when our eyes meet, I notice hers have a light film of tears coating them. She’s sad for me…crying for me, and that touches me deeper than anything ever has before.
Reaching one hand up, I sift my fingers through the hair at her temple and push them back. When I cup the back of her head, I give it just the gentlest of shakes so she knows I mean business. “Don’t you cry for me, Sutton. Don’t waste your tears on that story. You have far more important things to shed them over.”
Sutton’s own hand comes up and grips my wrist that’s holding her head. Her smile is tremulous. “I can’t help crying for you. I love you.”
Emotion such as I have never felt in my entire life wells up inside of me. It seems to bubble up from the center of my stomach, spreading outward…down my legs, my arms…up my spine. It blankets my skin with a warm tingle, and the center of my chest feels like it’s going to erupt in a fountain of released tension.
I urge the feeling on, waiting on the euphoria that I feel is ready to break free because of Sutton’s revelation that she loves me. I wait for it to expel my bitterness and fuel me with peace.
I wait for it, and wait for it, and wait for it.
But it never happens. Instead, the tingle dulls and while a light feeling of warmth remains behind, an ache centers in my chest, folds in on itself to a focused intensity, and throbs with drum-like precision.
It’s the pain of realization that I don’t love Sutton back.
At least I don’t think I do. Otherwise, why didn’t the joy leap free? Why did my heart become pained instead?
I search for the feeling again, will it back to life.
I’m left empty.
Sutton stares at me, the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree dancing in her eyes. She’s not waiting for the words to come back to her. I know this because I see no expectation or disappointment in her gaze. I only see love, and care, and tenderness. I only see her waiting for me to accept her gift with absolutely no assumption that she’s going to get something in return.
She’s the most f**king amazing and selfless person I’ve ever met, and it has never been more clear that I am the most unworthy person for her.
I should let her go…right now, right this very minute.
But I’m a selfish bastard and I’m not going to do it. I’m going to keep her until I’m ready to destroy her, and then I’ll just add that to the pile of guilt I’m already suffering under.
