“I don’t wanna talk about it, so stop asking so many fucking questions.” I kick the shit outta something, an old carburetor, I think, and the noise causes Saylor to yelp. Now I want to kick the shit outta myself. I should apologize, but I can’t bring myself to speak.
The padlock on the door is rusted and I’m struggling to get it open. What I really want to do is kick it down, but I’ve done a good enough job at scaring the shit outta Saylor. No need to fuck things up worse. I hear shit being moved behind me and turn to find Saylor half sitting and half laying on an old lawnmower. I can’t make out her face, but it’s bright enough I can see her body is limp, and I’m hoping like hell it’s from exhaustion and not from me. “You okay?” I ask, my voice low and hoarse.
“I would be if you would hurry the fuck up and get me to bed,” she huffs, and suddenly, I’m not angry anymore. I’m not pissed at myself, her questions, or this rusty-ass lock. I’m just happy that she is making an effort to be bitchy and isn’t sad. I manage to get the door unlocked and push it open. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and rat piss fills my nostrils, and I know I’m home. My stomach turns at the thought of referring to this place as home, and the fight to not retrigger old memories is won. And it’s not in my favor.
“Dirk! Get your wormy little ass in here and get us a beer!” Black yells, and I’m on my feet at the sound of his voice. I know I won’t get to it fast enough. I know that no matter how I bring it to him it won’t be good enough. Just like I’m not good enough. I know this because he reminds me of it every day. “Damn, boy. You ain’t worth the shit paper I wipe my ass on. Your daddy should have shot his wad in an ant bed instead of in your whore of a mama.”
I grab the beer out of the fridge, making sure not to drop one or shake them up, and pass them around the table. The smoke in the room is thick, and I know it’s drugs and not cigarettes. And it’s not the kind of drugs that looks like cigarettes either. Black calls it dope. I don’t know what that is, but I do know not to ask. I wait to see if he wants me to do something else. “What the fuck you want, a hug? A cookie? Get the fuck outta here!” He is yelling, but it is at my back. At the sound of his voice, I’m moving. This time, I’m glad it’s away from him. I leave my door open, afraid he might holler for me and I won’t hear him, then I disappear into my hiding place to re-lace my shoes for the twentieth time today.
I listen to the voice I’ve feared my whole life, and it is as loud in my head as it was in real life. I can still see everything. I can still smell everything, and I can still feel the same chills rolling through my body as I did when I was a kid. Not that I ever was. I sure as hell wasn’t ever treated like one or got the opportunity to act like one.
I shake my head, physically trying to remove the memories. I turn around and Saylor’s sleeping form is all I need. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her inside, kicking the door shut behind me. The sound doesn’t even wake her.
There isn’t a bed in this house I want to sleep in, or couch I want to sit on, but the furniture shouldn’t bother Saylor. She doesn’t have the memories that I do. I lay her down on the couch before pulling the air mattress from the large tote that still sits in the middle of the living room floor. I plug in the pump and stand there in the dark, waiting for it to inflate, and dread checking the house. That would mean I had to turn the lights on. And tonight, I really didn’t want to see this place in color. But I haven’t been here in months, and it is very possible that there are snakes or raccoons or some shit that have somehow made their way inside.
I leave Saylor, dragging my feet down the hall to the small bedroom, and stop. Might as well get the worst over with first. Fuck. I turn the light on, and the room comes into view, the sight drying my mouth and quickening my heartbeat.
“Pussies cry, Dirk. Are you a *?” I shake my head, furiously wiping the tears from my face. Black charges across the room toward me. I’m so scared I stop breathing. I know he is going to hit me. I could try to run, but that will just make him even angrier.
He uses the back of his hand to slap me across my face, the force of his swing throwing me to the floor. I feel the blood running down my cheek from the gash in my face caused by the big skull ring he always wore. “Don’t you ever shake your head at me. If you got something to say, fucking say it. You’re not a mute, you little bastard. Do you hear me?” I try to talk, but I have no air in my lungs. I draw in a deep breath, but before I can speak, he is kicking me. I curl into a ball, holding my stomach. I’m coughing, struggling to breathe. My brain ignores the pain and focuses on his words. I have to answer him. I have to.
“I’m not a *,” I say, forcing my eyes to look up at him. My tears have died, but the reason for them is still very much alive in my head. The nightmare. The one that kept coming back.