Black Lies
Page 63
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“Focus, Brant. Multiply the fractions. We don’t have all day.”
I’d never seen this pile of crap before. Numbers above and below lines. The crooked cross, which I knew meant to multiply but I didn’t know how to multiply. I pushed the paper away and looked at her. Said the only truth that didn’t make me sound stupid. “I’m not Brant.”
“You certainly are Brant. And you did three pages of these yesterday in the time it took me to use the restroom. So don’t tell me you don’t know how to do it.”
I don’t know how to do it. I said nothing, only stared in her face. “I want my mom.” It wasn’t so much as wanting my mother as wanting to get away from this woman.
She looked at me. “Your mother is at work, Brant. You know that. She’ll be home at six. Until then, you’re stuck with me.”
She was a liar. This ugly woman opened her mouth and all that spewed was a lie. My mother didn’t even have a job. She stayed home all day. Spent time with me. Let me watch TV and slipped me Hershey’s kisses and glasses of milk during commercial breaks. I closed my mouth and stared at the paper. Hated this stranger.
“Do you want to work on your computer for a bit, and then return to this?”
“I want to watch TV.” The clock about the shelves showed that it was almost four. My mom would let me watch TV anytime after three.
The stranger frowned. “You don’t like TV anymore, Brant. It hurts your head, remember? Why don’t you work on your computer.” She pulled at my arm and I snatched away, her grip slipping off, the return of her hand harder, her nails digging into the soft skin in a way that hurt.
I didn’t know what she expected me to do with a pile of junk stretched out, a computer screen hooked to a chain of pieces. There was no computer there, just a jumbled mess of wires. The only computer I’d used was my father’s, which was simple, the first step being the large and easy-to-find power button. There was no power button there, and that only served to make me feel more stupid. I shook my head.
“Then we’re back to fractions,” she sighed. “Do these four pages now, no excuses, Brant.”
I looked up, away from the worn page that had been pushed and pulled between us until it had a small rip in the right corner. “I’m not BRANT!” I screamed, the anger pushing out of my throat like it had legs and arms and would fight to be heard.
The woman started, her head jerking back, and I saw a change in her eyes, a hesitation of sorts. A look I liked. I pushed away from the desk, standing, almost as tall as her, a growth spurt already putting me a head taller than my classmates. Giving me strength over others. Over this woman.
“Shush, Brant!” she scolded, regaining her footing and putting a hand on my shoulder, digging in her nails and trying to push me down, into the chair, the muscles in my legs fighting her attempt without struggles.
“I’M NOT BRANT!” I screamed and reached out. Shoved both hands into her chest, having a moment of adolescent pleasure at the forbidden feel of female br**sts, even if they were attached to an old woman. She fell, stumbling, her hand leaving my shoulder and waving wildly on its way down.
I moved closer, sitting on her stomach, like how Rowdy Roddy Piper had done to Hogan on TV a few weeks earlier. The move worked well, she struggled and yelled but went nowhere. Hulk had done an athletic spring jump that had thrown Roddy off and across the ring, but she only squirmed underneath me like an overanxious dog.
“Brant!” she yelled, hitting my chest and using the voice that my mother did when she was really serious about something.
“I’M NOT BRANT!” I swung with a fist, the way my father taught me, in our garage, against his baseball glove, my thumb safe, my wrist strong. Saw her head snap, her yells stopping as her hands flew up to protect her face, swing after swing breaking easily through the fluttering of her hands, her voice becoming a river of sobs, finally quieting by the time my hands tired.
My father had been clear in his teachings. You only allowed someone to push you to a certain point, then you pushed back. Stood up for yourself, first with your words, then your fists if the words weren’t effective. I had used his words against this liar. Asserted myself clearly before using violence.
The fists. I had enjoyed using the fists. I looked at the still woman beneath me and almost hoped she called me Brant again. Crawling off of her, I looked at my hands, ignoring the moan from behind me. I have blood on my hands. Someone else’s blood. A first for me. I brushed them off on my pants, realizing too late, that my mother would be upset by the streaks of red against the tan fabric. Then I head for the door, certain that somewhere nearby there will be a TV. And I had almost two hours to watch before my mother would be here to pick me up.
I climbed the unfamiliar set of stairs and smiled, certain my father would be proud.
Chapter 63
Brant finishes the story, torment ripping vulnerability through his eyes and for a moment I think he’s going to cry. Break in front of me. I grip his hand, bring it to my mouth. “Brant, it wasn’t you. You know that.”
“What I just saw… where I just went… that was me. Me peering into another world that makes no rhyme or reason. I did that. I hit her over and over, like she was an object, a game. My mother…” His voice drops and his hand comes up, pinches the skin between his eyes. “My mother came home and found me on the couch, watching television, eating popcorn, with f**kin’ blood on my hands.” He lets out a hiss. “I remember that. Like it was me, even though it wasn’t. Why am I suddenly remembering that? After twenty-seven years of nothing.”
I’d never seen this pile of crap before. Numbers above and below lines. The crooked cross, which I knew meant to multiply but I didn’t know how to multiply. I pushed the paper away and looked at her. Said the only truth that didn’t make me sound stupid. “I’m not Brant.”
“You certainly are Brant. And you did three pages of these yesterday in the time it took me to use the restroom. So don’t tell me you don’t know how to do it.”
I don’t know how to do it. I said nothing, only stared in her face. “I want my mom.” It wasn’t so much as wanting my mother as wanting to get away from this woman.
She looked at me. “Your mother is at work, Brant. You know that. She’ll be home at six. Until then, you’re stuck with me.”
She was a liar. This ugly woman opened her mouth and all that spewed was a lie. My mother didn’t even have a job. She stayed home all day. Spent time with me. Let me watch TV and slipped me Hershey’s kisses and glasses of milk during commercial breaks. I closed my mouth and stared at the paper. Hated this stranger.
“Do you want to work on your computer for a bit, and then return to this?”
“I want to watch TV.” The clock about the shelves showed that it was almost four. My mom would let me watch TV anytime after three.
The stranger frowned. “You don’t like TV anymore, Brant. It hurts your head, remember? Why don’t you work on your computer.” She pulled at my arm and I snatched away, her grip slipping off, the return of her hand harder, her nails digging into the soft skin in a way that hurt.
I didn’t know what she expected me to do with a pile of junk stretched out, a computer screen hooked to a chain of pieces. There was no computer there, just a jumbled mess of wires. The only computer I’d used was my father’s, which was simple, the first step being the large and easy-to-find power button. There was no power button there, and that only served to make me feel more stupid. I shook my head.
“Then we’re back to fractions,” she sighed. “Do these four pages now, no excuses, Brant.”
I looked up, away from the worn page that had been pushed and pulled between us until it had a small rip in the right corner. “I’m not BRANT!” I screamed, the anger pushing out of my throat like it had legs and arms and would fight to be heard.
The woman started, her head jerking back, and I saw a change in her eyes, a hesitation of sorts. A look I liked. I pushed away from the desk, standing, almost as tall as her, a growth spurt already putting me a head taller than my classmates. Giving me strength over others. Over this woman.
“Shush, Brant!” she scolded, regaining her footing and putting a hand on my shoulder, digging in her nails and trying to push me down, into the chair, the muscles in my legs fighting her attempt without struggles.
“I’M NOT BRANT!” I screamed and reached out. Shoved both hands into her chest, having a moment of adolescent pleasure at the forbidden feel of female br**sts, even if they were attached to an old woman. She fell, stumbling, her hand leaving my shoulder and waving wildly on its way down.
I moved closer, sitting on her stomach, like how Rowdy Roddy Piper had done to Hogan on TV a few weeks earlier. The move worked well, she struggled and yelled but went nowhere. Hulk had done an athletic spring jump that had thrown Roddy off and across the ring, but she only squirmed underneath me like an overanxious dog.
“Brant!” she yelled, hitting my chest and using the voice that my mother did when she was really serious about something.
“I’M NOT BRANT!” I swung with a fist, the way my father taught me, in our garage, against his baseball glove, my thumb safe, my wrist strong. Saw her head snap, her yells stopping as her hands flew up to protect her face, swing after swing breaking easily through the fluttering of her hands, her voice becoming a river of sobs, finally quieting by the time my hands tired.
My father had been clear in his teachings. You only allowed someone to push you to a certain point, then you pushed back. Stood up for yourself, first with your words, then your fists if the words weren’t effective. I had used his words against this liar. Asserted myself clearly before using violence.
The fists. I had enjoyed using the fists. I looked at the still woman beneath me and almost hoped she called me Brant again. Crawling off of her, I looked at my hands, ignoring the moan from behind me. I have blood on my hands. Someone else’s blood. A first for me. I brushed them off on my pants, realizing too late, that my mother would be upset by the streaks of red against the tan fabric. Then I head for the door, certain that somewhere nearby there will be a TV. And I had almost two hours to watch before my mother would be here to pick me up.
I climbed the unfamiliar set of stairs and smiled, certain my father would be proud.
Chapter 63
Brant finishes the story, torment ripping vulnerability through his eyes and for a moment I think he’s going to cry. Break in front of me. I grip his hand, bring it to my mouth. “Brant, it wasn’t you. You know that.”
“What I just saw… where I just went… that was me. Me peering into another world that makes no rhyme or reason. I did that. I hit her over and over, like she was an object, a game. My mother…” His voice drops and his hand comes up, pinches the skin between his eyes. “My mother came home and found me on the couch, watching television, eating popcorn, with f**kin’ blood on my hands.” He lets out a hiss. “I remember that. Like it was me, even though it wasn’t. Why am I suddenly remembering that? After twenty-seven years of nothing.”
