Another Kind of Happiness
The streetlight shone in the window, staining the limp white curtains a ghastly orange. Light shone in a young boy's eyes as he stared out into the artificially illuminated night.
I'm so hungry, he thought. Has he passed out yet? I can't tell.
He crept in stocking feet to the door, slightly ajar. The light from down the hall, the flickering colors of the television, cut a narrow strip into the dark of his room. Pressing his face to the crack, he peered into the light and the noise, trying to discern if there was any real life present in the room. After a moment of straining, his hunger overruled his caution. With one hand trailing softly along the wall, he padded down the hall, toward the cave of light and canned laughter.
I can't hear anything...
A silhouette in the dim hall, light shone through his thin T-shirt, and revealed the stains on his shabby pinstriped boxers. Skin already pale by virtue of birth now seemed to glow blue in the television's glare. Lank blond hair gleamed palely against an equally pale brow; long overdue for a trim, the thin strands trailed to thin shoulders.
As he entered the den, the room seemed empty. The flickering light washed over shabby vacant furniture. The sofa, a pew at the altar of the television, showed its torn, stained back to him. He suspected his father to have by now fallen unconscious, and was probably lying right there, on the other side of that low upholstered barrier. Not daring to check, he continued to hug the back wall that led to the kitchen, and the end of his hunger. Not wanting to risk waking his father, the boy snuck silently through the dark kitchen. Moving by feel to the refrigerator, he wrapped thin fingers around the handle, and yellow light poured cold air onto him as he opened the door. Somewhere in the back of the house, a toilet flushed. He spotted one last package of string cheese, and reached out for it.
With a loud click, the kitchen was suddenly flooded with cold fluorescent light. He flinched in the sudden glare, dropping the snack on the linoleum. He spun around defensively, squinting in the bright light.
"What...the fuck...'re you doin'...outta bed?" Rearing up tall and intimidating, the light-bringer was a tall, fair-haired, well-muscled young man, unshaven and tattooed. Puffy eyes and a horrendous stench communicated his drunkenness, if his slurring speech did not. His son cringed back against the fridge, averting his face from the stink of old beer and cigarettes.
"I, I, I was hungry, Daddy," he stammered.
"'I'm hungry, Daddy, I'm thirsty, Daddy, I'm a little bastard, Daddy'," he mimicked cruelly. "You're always fuckin' somethin', too much fuckin' trouble, that's what you are." Almost casually, his hand swung out, connecting with his child's face. "I never wanted to have a kid," he commented, continuing to rain easy, almost playful blows on the boy's head and face. "Too much fucking trouble. But she wouldn' get the fuckin' abber...abb...fuckin' surgery." He frowned, swayed, while he tried to think of the word. "Whatever." Advancing on his son, he added, "An' even if I had wanted a kid, I wouldn't want one like you. Fucking useless little wimp." With a crack to his ear, he sent his son to the ground. Drawing his foot to kick, he hissed, "I swear ta God, one day I'll do the whole world a favor, and kill you."
Before he could swing, however, he was pulled back. "Duane, what're you doing?" cried the boy's mother.
"What the hell does it look like I'm doin', woman?" he said, pulling away. "Teachin' this boy a lesson."
She hurried to her child's side, pulling him to his feet. "You cut his lip, you bastard! What's his teacher gonna say? Drew, honey, go to your room," she added to her son.
Drew darted from the kitchen. Then he stopped, remembering his much-coveted snack; he could see it, still lying in front of the fridge. If only he could sneak back in...
His parents' argument flowed over him. "You're always hurtin' him," his mother shrieked. "He never does a thing, but you're always hittin' him, callin' him names. He's your son, Duane!"
As he shoved her aside, she staggered to keep her balance. Drew watched his mother as she swayed upright, glaring at her husband through the stringy hair that hung over her face. Long and blond, just like his, it was falling out of a clip, and hung in a greasy curtain in front of her eyes. Red and swollen eyes welled with tears of anger.
"Don't push me, you prick!" she screamed, shoving him in return. "You're always pushin' us around, like we're not real!"
Duane, who had been rummaging in the refrigerator for a beer, staggered at her pathetic assault. Straightening slowly, he turned to his young wife, who cringed away in anticipatory fear.
"Did you just push me, bitch?" he growled, slamming the fridge door. Backing toward the back door, she whined, "Now, Duane, you shouldn't be hittin' me. You know the judge said you shouldn't hit me no more."
With an evil, drunken grin, he grabbed her wrist. "That's right, bitch," he whispered. "'M a lover, not a fighter, now." Dragging her close, he kissed her hard, holding her by the hair, while with the other hand he still gripped her wrist, twisting it painfully above her head. She whined in pain, trying to pull away.
While his parents writhed and murmured, Drew crawled stealthily across the floor, eyes fixed on the forlorn plastic packet of cheese. Carefully he scooped it up, it scurried to his room. Silently he devoured his hard-won meal, and lay quietly on his bed, listening to the all-too familiar sounds in the kitchen until sleep claimed him.
Posted at 07:29 pm by
Ashen
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