The Fire Between High & Lo
Page 49
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“So what, you went off to some fancy rehab place and come back thinking you can just step back into this place, Logan?” he asked, annoyed. “Trust me, you don’t want me as your enemy.”
I reached into my pocket and grabbed my wallet, counting out fifty bucks. “Here. Take it and go.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I say fifty? I meant seventy.”
Asshole. I pulled out another twenty, and shoved it at him. He willingly accepted the bills, stuffing it into his pocket. He bent down in front of the lasagna. “You make this, son?” he asked, knowing that calling me son would get under my skin. He took a spoonful of the food, then spit it out, back into the pan, ruining the whole thing. “Tastes like ass.”
“Ricky,” Ma said, going to defend me, but he shot her a look that shut her up.
He stole her voice so long ago, and she had no clue how to find it. “You act like I don’t take care of you, Julie. That’s really offensive. Don’t forget who was there for you when this boy walked out and left you. And you wonder why it’s so hard for me to love you. You betray me every second you get.”
Her head lowered.
“And this? Him bringing you food and groceries? That doesn’t mean he cares about you, Julie.” He opened the cabinets and the refrigerator, grabbing all of the food I bought for Ma, opening each item, and dumping them into a pile on the floor. I wanted to stop him, but Ma told me to say quiet. He opened a box of cereal, locked eyes with me, and slowly poured it on top of everything on the ground, before opening a gallon of milk and doing the same exact thing.
He then walked over it with his sneakers, and headed to the front door. “I’m going to handle some business,” he said with a smirk. “And Julie?”
“Yeah?” she whispered, a tremble in her body.
“Clean that shit up before I get back home.”
When the door slammed, my heartrate started to go back to normal. “Are you okay, Ma?”
Her body was tense, and she wouldn’t look at me. “You did this.”
“What?”
“He’s right. You left me, and he was there for me. You’re the reason he made this mess. You weren’t there for me. He took care of me.”
“Ma…”
“Get out!” she shouted, tears falling down her cheeks. She started toward me, hitting me, just like she used to when I was young. Blaming me because the devil didn’t love her. “Get out! Get out! It’s all your fault. It’s your fault that he doesn’t love me. It’s your fault that this mess is here. It’s your fault that Kellan’s dying. You walked away from us. You left us. You left us. Now leave, Logan. Leave. Leave. Leave!” she shouted, pounding against my chest, her words confusing me, hurting me, burning me. She was hysterical, reminding me too much of the Ma I once knew and hated. Her words were echoing in my mind.
It’s your fault. It’s your fault that this mess is here. It’s your fault that Kellan’s dying. You left us. You left us. You left us… Kellan’s dying…
My chest scorched as I blinked over and over again, trying not to fall apart. How did I get back here? How did I find myself in exactly the same kind of position that I was in five years ago? How was I back on the hamster wheel I spent so long running away from?
She didn’t stop hitting me. She didn’t stop blaming me.
So I packed up my things and I left.
***
Logan, eleven-years-old
“Don’t you look comfortable?” Dad stumbled into the living room while I sat on the floor watching Cartoon Network. I ignored him the best I could and continued eating my Captain Crunch cereal out of a bowl. He was smoking a cigarette and smirked at my attempt to pretend he wasn’t there.
It was only four in the afternoon and he was already stumbling. He was already drunk.
“You deaf, boy?” He moved over to me and ran the back of his hand against my head before he smacked me hard. I shivered at his touch. But I kept ignoring. Kellan knew how bad my dad could get, and he said it was best if I didn’t respond. Kellan was so lucky that he had another dad. I wished I had another dad, too.
I couldn’t wait for Mom to get back home. She’d been gone for a few days, but when she called me last weekend she said I would see her soon. I wished Dad would leave and stay gone forever.
When his hand ran against my shoulder blade I flinched again, knocking my cereal bowl out of my hands. He laughed wickedly, pleased by my unease. His hand rose and he slapped me against my ear. “Pick that shit up. And what the hell do you think you’re doing eating cereal at four in the afternoon?”
I was hungry and it was all we had. But I couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t tell him anything.
Standing, I shook as I began to put the pieces of the cereal back into the bowl. Dad started whistling a tune from my cartoon, and my heart started pounding. “Hurry the fuck up, kid. Pick that shit up. Making messes in my house like you don’t have any damn sense.”
My eyes started to tear up, and I hated that I was letting him get to me. An eleven-year-old was supposed to be tougher. I felt weak.
“Pick. It. UP!”
I couldn’t take any more of his drunken anger, his apparent displeasure for me. I picked up the cereal bowl and threw it at him. It missed his head and hit the wall, the bowl shattering into a million pieces. “I hate you!” I hissed, tears burning down my cheeks. “I want Mom back! I hate you!”
His eyes widened, and I panicked, regretful of my outburst. Kellan would’ve been so disappointed. I shouldn’t have talked back. I shouldn’t have responded. I should’ve locked myself in my bedroom like always.
But there were no cartoons in my bedroom.
I just wanted to be a kid, if only for one day.
Dad swung around and gripped my arm. “You want to get slick? Huh?” He yanked me across the room, forcing me to trip over my own feet. “You want to break shit?!”
I was dragged through the kitchen, where he opened the cabinet under the sink. “No. I’m sorry, Dad! I’m sorry!” I cried, trying to tear away from his grip.
He snickered, and pushed me inside of the cabinet. “Here’s your damn cereal,” he said, grabbing the box, and dumping it all out on my head.” When he shut the cabinet door, I tried my best to open it, but it wouldn’t move. He’d placed something in front of it to keep it locked.
I reached into my pocket and grabbed my wallet, counting out fifty bucks. “Here. Take it and go.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I say fifty? I meant seventy.”
Asshole. I pulled out another twenty, and shoved it at him. He willingly accepted the bills, stuffing it into his pocket. He bent down in front of the lasagna. “You make this, son?” he asked, knowing that calling me son would get under my skin. He took a spoonful of the food, then spit it out, back into the pan, ruining the whole thing. “Tastes like ass.”
“Ricky,” Ma said, going to defend me, but he shot her a look that shut her up.
He stole her voice so long ago, and she had no clue how to find it. “You act like I don’t take care of you, Julie. That’s really offensive. Don’t forget who was there for you when this boy walked out and left you. And you wonder why it’s so hard for me to love you. You betray me every second you get.”
Her head lowered.
“And this? Him bringing you food and groceries? That doesn’t mean he cares about you, Julie.” He opened the cabinets and the refrigerator, grabbing all of the food I bought for Ma, opening each item, and dumping them into a pile on the floor. I wanted to stop him, but Ma told me to say quiet. He opened a box of cereal, locked eyes with me, and slowly poured it on top of everything on the ground, before opening a gallon of milk and doing the same exact thing.
He then walked over it with his sneakers, and headed to the front door. “I’m going to handle some business,” he said with a smirk. “And Julie?”
“Yeah?” she whispered, a tremble in her body.
“Clean that shit up before I get back home.”
When the door slammed, my heartrate started to go back to normal. “Are you okay, Ma?”
Her body was tense, and she wouldn’t look at me. “You did this.”
“What?”
“He’s right. You left me, and he was there for me. You’re the reason he made this mess. You weren’t there for me. He took care of me.”
“Ma…”
“Get out!” she shouted, tears falling down her cheeks. She started toward me, hitting me, just like she used to when I was young. Blaming me because the devil didn’t love her. “Get out! Get out! It’s all your fault. It’s your fault that he doesn’t love me. It’s your fault that this mess is here. It’s your fault that Kellan’s dying. You walked away from us. You left us. You left us. Now leave, Logan. Leave. Leave. Leave!” she shouted, pounding against my chest, her words confusing me, hurting me, burning me. She was hysterical, reminding me too much of the Ma I once knew and hated. Her words were echoing in my mind.
It’s your fault. It’s your fault that this mess is here. It’s your fault that Kellan’s dying. You left us. You left us. You left us… Kellan’s dying…
My chest scorched as I blinked over and over again, trying not to fall apart. How did I get back here? How did I find myself in exactly the same kind of position that I was in five years ago? How was I back on the hamster wheel I spent so long running away from?
She didn’t stop hitting me. She didn’t stop blaming me.
So I packed up my things and I left.
***
Logan, eleven-years-old
“Don’t you look comfortable?” Dad stumbled into the living room while I sat on the floor watching Cartoon Network. I ignored him the best I could and continued eating my Captain Crunch cereal out of a bowl. He was smoking a cigarette and smirked at my attempt to pretend he wasn’t there.
It was only four in the afternoon and he was already stumbling. He was already drunk.
“You deaf, boy?” He moved over to me and ran the back of his hand against my head before he smacked me hard. I shivered at his touch. But I kept ignoring. Kellan knew how bad my dad could get, and he said it was best if I didn’t respond. Kellan was so lucky that he had another dad. I wished I had another dad, too.
I couldn’t wait for Mom to get back home. She’d been gone for a few days, but when she called me last weekend she said I would see her soon. I wished Dad would leave and stay gone forever.
When his hand ran against my shoulder blade I flinched again, knocking my cereal bowl out of my hands. He laughed wickedly, pleased by my unease. His hand rose and he slapped me against my ear. “Pick that shit up. And what the hell do you think you’re doing eating cereal at four in the afternoon?”
I was hungry and it was all we had. But I couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t tell him anything.
Standing, I shook as I began to put the pieces of the cereal back into the bowl. Dad started whistling a tune from my cartoon, and my heart started pounding. “Hurry the fuck up, kid. Pick that shit up. Making messes in my house like you don’t have any damn sense.”
My eyes started to tear up, and I hated that I was letting him get to me. An eleven-year-old was supposed to be tougher. I felt weak.
“Pick. It. UP!”
I couldn’t take any more of his drunken anger, his apparent displeasure for me. I picked up the cereal bowl and threw it at him. It missed his head and hit the wall, the bowl shattering into a million pieces. “I hate you!” I hissed, tears burning down my cheeks. “I want Mom back! I hate you!”
His eyes widened, and I panicked, regretful of my outburst. Kellan would’ve been so disappointed. I shouldn’t have talked back. I shouldn’t have responded. I should’ve locked myself in my bedroom like always.
But there were no cartoons in my bedroom.
I just wanted to be a kid, if only for one day.
Dad swung around and gripped my arm. “You want to get slick? Huh?” He yanked me across the room, forcing me to trip over my own feet. “You want to break shit?!”
I was dragged through the kitchen, where he opened the cabinet under the sink. “No. I’m sorry, Dad! I’m sorry!” I cried, trying to tear away from his grip.
He snickered, and pushed me inside of the cabinet. “Here’s your damn cereal,” he said, grabbing the box, and dumping it all out on my head.” When he shut the cabinet door, I tried my best to open it, but it wouldn’t move. He’d placed something in front of it to keep it locked.
