Like Father

Her office wasn’t quite what I expected. Namely, she didn’t have one of those ‘lay down’ couches, just a couple of leather-back chairs. I thought her desk would be less cluttered. Papers and folders piled together; it’s a wonder she could find anything in that mess. I thought smart people were supposed to be organized. The books on the shelf looked neat and tidy. So did the papers framed on the wall. I wonder why not her desk.
“Are you ready to get started?”
I turned to face her. She dressed nicely, despite her weight. Her long, black hair that curled at the ends stopped just above her thin, gold chain necklace. Painted nails held her clipboard in place. I felt more like a patient at a doctor’s office than someone about to tell his deepest secrets.
“How do I even? Start, I mean. How does this work?”
“It’s pretty simple. Our sessions will be fairly short. You talk, and I listen.”
“And then what?”
“Then,” she said, lowering her clipboard and cocking her head to the side, “I try to help you find a way to move forward and feel better.”
I thought about that for a second. “You got your work cut out for you then.”
She chuckled at that. “I usually do.”
I sighed. “So, what should I talk about?”
“Whatever you think is important.”
“Well, there’s a lot of that. I’m gonna need a walk-through. Never done anything like this before.”
“Okay. So, why don’t we start with whatever made you decide to come here today.”
“Just to make sure, you’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right.”
“Right. It’s all confidential. I can’t tell a soul unless there’s a legal conflict or you give me permission.”
“Alright,” I said. I hoped she didn’t notice my hesitation. “Then I guess I’m here because I hate myself, and I want to be better.”
That didn’t phase her in the slightest. She just scribbled something on her notes and asked, “When did you start feeling this way?”
“I don’t know. I guess one of the bigger moments was a couple months ago. My son turned six years old. I couldn’t afford a party; hell, I couldn’t even afford a cake. No presents, no friends, and instead of trying to make things better, I was passed out on the couch.”
“You drink?” Something about the way she said it, the tone or inflection in her voice; she wasn’t judging, and she wasn’t really asking. It was like she was admitting it in place of me. For someone I’d never met before, she’d definitely impressed me. It made me feel like I could trust her with anything. I’ve gotta wonder if that’s something she learned or just inborn talent.
“Yeah. A lot. Way too much, among other things.”
“Other things?”
I nodded. “I don’t think I wanna talk about that today, though.”
She readjusted in her chair and wrote some more down. “That’s okay. One thing at a time.”
I started realizing what was really going on. That this woman, a complete stranger, was making a record of all of my darkest issues and biggest mistakes. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. It was weird. I felt weak and open, vulnerable, but I was also curious. Just how many pages of notes would it take to catalog all the things wrong with my fucked up life?
“The uh… drinking started when I was twelve. I had a few older friends that helped me get my hands on it. They had no idea why I needed it so bad.”
More scribbling. “Why did you need it so bad?”
That wasn’t a question I was prepared to answer, though. I’d spent my whole life trying to keep the root of it a secret. I stayed quiet for a long time, just sitting in the office chair, staring at the floor, empty-headed and locked in place. More than anything, I wanted to escape from my childhood, and everything I went through. After a while, I came to my senses enough to look up. She was still there, patiently waiting. She was nice enough to let me gather my courage at my own pace until I could talk again.
“I didn’t have a stable family situation. Every memory I have from when I was growing up is pretty much the same. I’d come home from school with a bad grade and a teacher’s note for my parents telling them about the fight I started. I always had to dodge the broken step leading up to the porch. Sometimes, I had to catch myself on the rotting beam that barely held up the roof. The door would creak open, and the stink would waft out. Old beer, piss, and shit. We never had any pets in the house, so I guess it came from the rats and raccoons that wandered through. And there he’d be, sitting in his musty old chair, beer can in hand.”
“Your father?” she asked quietly. I lost my nerve, the courage I’d pulled together all spent. I felt tears rolling down my face. I felt pathetic in that moment. But she didn’t try to comfort me. She just let me be, like it was okay, like it was normal. I took some comfort in that. Eventually, I dried my face, calmed myself back down, and found my voice again.
“I don’t think I can talk about him,” I choked out while my throat remembered how to work, “but, yeah, he’s the big reason I hate who I am.”
“I understand. I think that in order for you to start to recover, we’ll need to go into more detail about him, but it can wait for another day. I think that’s plenty for this session.” She stood from the desk and led me to the door. “Between now and next session, I want you to find ways to drink less and make it through the day. You should go do something fun with your son if you can make the time. It’ll help take your mind off of the worrisome things.”
I gave a short nod and a handshake. It’d been only a short time, fifteen minutes at the most, but I actually did feel a little better. She closed the door behind me, but I didn’t leave for several minutes more. My eyes were trained on the little brass nameplate just below the window.
Janet Descher
Was there any chance in hell that this woman could fix me?
I got home almost an hour later. Manny was already back from school. His sandy hair and freckled face reminded me of his mom. Even after everything, I still missed her. She made things better, more bearable, but I couldn’t let her back in after all that had happened. The pressuring sadness returned. I needed a drink to make it go away again. But I couldn’t. I was supposed to try to do better. I went and sat in my chair, trying to think of something else to make me feel better.
“Hey, little man. Do you wanna go do something today?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Go to the park?”
“Yeah. Sounds fun.”
And he went and ran around and played. I sat on a bench and watched. He asked me to come play with him, and I lifted him up and swung him around. I pulled him in tight for a hug. He laughed, and I felt a tear well in my eye.
Then the old water stain on the ceiling came back into view as I opened my eyes. The tear had rolled down my cheek. Night had fallen, and it was very dark in the house. I was still feeling good and wanted to see my boy. I got to my feet and stumbled through the darkness to his room, leaving my glassware behind.
----
“How are you feeling today?”
“U-uh, fine, more or less.”
“Good,” she said in that familiar, comforting tone, “How is your son? You said he’s six, right? That’d put him in Kindergarten. Does he like school?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I shifted in my chair.
“He doesn’t talk to you about school?”
“No.”
She looked up from her notes. “Do you ask him about school?”
I shot her a nasty look. “No, I don’t. I just read the notes his teachers send home with him.” I was starting to get aggravated with her questions. 
“What sorts of notes?”
“Misbehavior and bad grades, usually.”
“He’s acting out at school?”
“Yeah, he is.” I raised my voice, offended. “He’s fighting kids and sucks at history and math, alright.”
She seemed taken aback, but just for a second. Then she started looking, searching for a reason, I think. She was trying to figure out what set me off. And she found it.
“What did you take this morning?” she asked, gently, like she was stepping around a wild animal. The comparison wasn’t far off. Five minutes in and we were already talking about how shitty my son was and, by proxy, how shitty I was as a parent. What did she expect?
“I haven’t been drinking,” I answered.
“That’s good. Trying to stop is difficult, and if that’s all this is, then I’ll leave it be. But if there’s something else going on, if you’re doing something else, you should tell me so I can help you.” She was sharp as a tack, and yet soft as a pillow at the same time. And she was right. I was trying to be better here.
“I smoke pot pretty much every chance I get,” I admitted. It didn’t feel good to say like I thought it would. I just felt ashamed.
She wrote it down on her clipboard. “That’s understandable. That sort of thing is becoming more and more common, and it explains your eyes.” She looked back up at me, and I stared at her. I knew she was just analyzing me, probably thinking about how bloodshot my eyes were, but in hers, I was finding kindness and care like I’d never known. She was genuinely concerned for me, genuinely worried about my well-being.
I felt like I had to tell her. “Sometimes, when that doesn’t work, I try other things. Acid, usually. It makes me feel better, happier. I’ve done a few other things too.”
She wrote a lot down this time. I didn’t think I told her that much, but maybe she found something else. “I need to know what you’ve used and how recently. Work your way backward. Tell me all of it.”
I started to get worried. She said everything would stay between us, but only if it wasn’t illegal. Was she going to turn me in? Call child services and take Manny away from me? I couldn’t let her do that. Even if it was better in the long run, I just couldn’t let her take him away from me.
She realized that I wasn’t talking, and tried to coerce me. “You don’t have anything to worry about. You can talk about anything here.” But this time, I knew she was lying. She told me so herself. Anything illegal, and she tellsit to the cops, and I go to jail. It wasn’t going to happen, not on my life.
“You need to tell me what you did, Nick.” Her tone didn’t seem so comforting anymore, but it was still all too familiar. I’d used it with my son so many times. I always knew when he’d done something bad at school, and this was no different. She knew I fucked up, and she just wanted to hear me say it so she could get more angry with me. She sounded just like…
She sighed loudly. “Fine, I’ll just make a note of it here. I already know what it is anyway.” Of course she did. He always did too. “Long sleeves in the middle of Summer. What else could it be?”
I stopped, dumbstruck. “What?” I asked, entirely confused.
“You don’t need to play dumb with me. I know enough to spot a heroin addict.”
I started shaking. “N-no. No, no.” I had trouble forming any proper words.
“Why are you still lying? If there’s something else, you might as well say it, but we both know it’s true,” she said with disgust.
I lost it. I shot up from the chair, knocking it off its wheels in the process. “No, dammit! I never, never did that! I can’t!”
She had leaned back in her chair, but I found my face just inches away from hers. I hadn’t realized that I had slammed my hands on her desk. A cup of pencils and pens had tipped over, spilling its contents onto the floor where they scattered everywhere. I was sweating profusely, but not from effort. I could feel my face contorted, my eyes open wide. I was still horridly afraid. She was too. She held the same expression as me, though hers was due to the threat of violence, the suddenness of my outburst. Mine was just a remnant of my past.
I pulled myself away, still terrified, both at what she had said and what I had done. I piloted my trembling body back to the chair, nursing my stinging hands that ached in all the little joints. Her chair gave a quiet squeeeaaak as she returned it to its upright position. She retrieved her clipboard from where it had fallen on the floor, grabbing one of the pens that had tumbled out nearby.
“Why not?” she asked simply.
“Why not what?”
“Why not heroin? I mean, I’m not advocating it, by any means. But you said you were looking for something to feel better, so why such an aversion to heroin specifically?”
The more she talked about it, the more I squirmed in response. I realized what she was trying to do. “There uh… were needles all around the house when I was growing up. I didn’t know what was going on at the time, but eventually, I put two and two together. I never wanted anything to do with it after that.”
She talked as she wrote. “Who was the one using it? Your father?”
I shook my head, both in denial of her question and to erase the image already coming to mind. “Mom. She handled it enough to get around, but I definitely remember the marks on her arms.”
“You didn’t mention her last time we talked.”
“Well, she wasn’t really present in a parental sense. More like a wanderer that came and went, and happened to sleep in our house. I don’t think she ever said a word to me in the entire time I knew her.”
“’Knew her’? Past tense?”
“Yeah. She died about five years ago. Went in her sleep.”
“I see,” she said in a mournful tone. I almost told her not to bother. The way I saw it, my mother wasn’t really much of a person by that point. Closer to a brain-dead, scabby husk in human shape. Still, there was something else gnawing at the back of my mind that I had to get answers for.
“I don’t think I ever got over her. She never really tried to be a mom, but she was still my mother. I think I gravitated toward that.”
“What do you mean?” She suspended her writing for a moment.
“Manny’s mom, Lex. She had the same issues. I found out later, a short time after Manny was born. I didn’t have to fight her for custody of him; she just didn’t really care. I think that hurt the most. Not everything she lied to me about, not the drugs, none of that. Just the complete lack of care or compassion for her son.”
“I can understand why. I’m willing to bet it was a familiar feeling,” she replied carefully. I gave a short nod in response.
“I always wanted to be there for my son, to at least offer him that. But I’m failing. I’m becoming something I never wanted to become, and I’ve realized that there are things worse for a child than not being there, things that are more damaging. And I knew it the whole time. I just lied to myself about what was happening until now.” The words flowed out. I just rattled off the thoughts that I’d been keeping down, one after another as they came into my head. My stream of consciousness was just the ramblings of a failure, and this poor woman had to make sense of it all. I think I felt worse for her than for me.
“What have you done to hurt your son? What could be so bad?” She leaned forward in her chair, expecting some grand explanation that would put it all in perspective. I didn’t give it to her.
“No. Not today. That’s just too much for me to deal with right now. I- I think I’m done talking.”
She re-positioned herself to write her final notes for the day. I could see a fleeting glimpse of disappointment cross her face, but the tone in her voice didn’t betray that at all. “You did good today. I think we’ve made a lot of progress.”
She stood up from her desk, stepping out to put a hand on my shoulder. “I know this isn’t easy, but talking it out with someone can help you feel better about it, even if the past can’t change. Once it’s all out on the table, we can start to sort through it all and find ways for you to improve, like you wanted to.” I nodded in response. I didn’t have much choice anyway. I had to trust her. I had to hold out hope that there was some way that I could be a good person.
“You need to start working to stop the drugs too. It’s just masking the problems, not helping them. They’re also hurting your relationship with your son, and I know you don’t want that.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” I got up from my chair and wrapped my arms around her. I didn’t even think about it, I just needed the comfort of holding someone in my arms. I probably surprised her, but she surprised me right back. She returned the hug, no questions asked. It’s a feeling I hadn’t experienced since Lex left, and it was nice.
I started to get self-conscious after a bit and let her go before I thought it would be awkward. “Sorry.” I offered.
“No need to be sorry.” she replied with a warm smile.
I excused myself after that, stepping out quietly and shutting the door behind me. I started to walk away, but hesitated for a moment. I turned back to the door and spotted the tiny plaque again.
Janet Descher
What was I feeling like this for?
Manny was late getting home from school that night. That was fine by me. He walked in, sulking. He’d gotten into trouble again, and was kept late as punishment. I should have walked him home. I think it would have made him feel better.
“Hey, little man. Come over here,” I said, mustering the nicest voice I could. He dropped his bag and took my instruction. I picked him up and set him on my knee. “You know I love you, right?” I asked, looking him in the eyes.
“Yeah, I know,” he replied. I gave him a hug, and he hugged me back. It was different than with Janet. Her hug was warm, full, earnest, and unconditional. Somehow, I could tell this wasn’t the same. I could feel hesitation. Manny’s hug wasn’t wholehearted. It was reserved, and frightful. My smile dropped, and tears fell. I don’t know if he noticed.
I sent Manny on his way to work on homework. Meanwhile, I retired to my room. My head was filled with swirling emotions while I tried to figure out what to do. Opening the drawer set into the end table, I started wondering if I had done the right thing. I doubted myself, doubted the decisions I had made.
After a long time, staring at the object of my greatest misstep, I hadn’t made any headway. I retrieved it from the tiny drawer, into which it only barely fit. I remembered how surprisingly heavy it was, how I felt holding it, both powerful and powerless. I checked it again, as I did most nights. Two left. One too many, but perfect if I messed up.
I forced my mind to quiet for the time being. I wasn’t going to get anywhere like this. She would be able to help me sort things out. It was her job, but that didn’t even really matter to me anymore. I had stopped thinking about her as a professional. She was more than that, more meaningful to me than that. If she couldn’t fix me, then…
After a few hours, and a couple of drinks, I went to find Manny. He had already put himself to bed, but I’m certain he knew that I would still be there. I still loved him, even if he didn’t know how to love me. It killed me inside to know how he really felt, and I knew it was my fault. I should have just left him alone for the night, should have just gone to sleep. But I wanted to tell him, one more time.
----
“I think I’m ready to talk about him now.”
“Are you sure. You don’t have to today. We can ease into it…”
“No,” I said, certain of my decision, “No, I want to do this. It’s the thing that’s haunted me the most.” I leaned forward in my chair, fingers laced together and overlapping one another. “Just so you know, this isn’t going to be pleasant to hear, and it might take a while.”
“That’s okay. Take all the time you need.”
I accepted her offer gratefully. Gathering my thoughts wasn’t easy. Organizing them was even harder. Even at that point, I wasn’t fully sure how it was going to go, what order I would tell things in, or what I would leave out. But she assured me that I had full reign to decide on the fly, and it was something I would be doing a lot of in order to get everything out there.
“I already told you that my father was always there when I got home from school. I told you he drank, and that the house always smelled like beer. What I didn’t tell you was that I would always, every single time, try to sneak past him to my room whenever I had to be home. He always, every single time, caught me before I could get there. Sometimes, I thought I’d made it once I was out of sight and down the hall from him, but then I’d hear those thundering footsteps behind me, so loud it physically shook me.
“He would grab my arm before I even had a chance to run. He was never in a good mood, in part because he hated his job, whatever that actually was, and in part because he knew I’d messed up at school. He was big, three hundred pounds at least, and when I was a kid he seemed even bigger. Despite that, he was also way stronger than you would expect. I don’t know how; I never saw him lifting weights or going to the gym. But anyway, that’s when it would start.”
“When what would start?” She wasn’t even writing at this point. Instead, I looked up to find her watching me, a visage of concern all too evident. I half expected this, but had never seen it before. I’d never talked about my father to anyone. I didn’t want to be weak or pitied. But I was, right there in her office. She saw me as weak and pitiful, and I didn’t even care. I still felt safe, like I could talk without fear.
I took a breath to steel myself for what I was about to admit. “He would throw me to the floor. Sometimes, the old hardwood would splinter up into my hands. He would kick me over and over while he took off his belt. He didn’t need it, since he was so big. He just kept it on hand, for me. I thought I would get used to it eventually, but I never did. It still hurt just as much on the day I left with Lex. No one ever stopped him. Mom was always high. No neighbors ever called to complain. The teachers never saw the bruises. No one called the cops. Nothing.”
I could feel the tears welling up, but I was trying to keep them back. I knew I was going to talk about it, but I didn’t expect my chest to ache so much. I knew she could see it. She was watching so intently; hadn’t even touched her clipboard. “How long did that go on for?”
“Eleven years. From the time I was old enough to be in school all the way up until I left. I can’t remember a single day that I wasn’t at the buckle end of his belt.”
She sat back in her chair. I noticed her sad expression. We were both quiet for a long time. Then, to my surprise, she broke the silence.
“I did some digging into your father. He was a contractor. He worked around ten hours each day, seven days a week. His pay wasn’t great, but I think he worked so much to make up for it that he scraped together enough to get by, keep food in the house, put you through school. I got curious when you said your mom was a heroin addict. I couldn’t imagine her with a stable job.”
That made a lot of sense. I should have guessed it was something like that. “Yeah, I guess so. But, what does it matter what he did?”
“It doesn’t, really, but it does matter why he did it. I think he was trying to be a good father. He just didn’t know how to show it.”
“He wasn’t a good father. He was the furthest thing from.” I could feel my teeth grinding down.
“But he was trying to be. He wanted you to go to school, and to be good at school.”
I think she really tried to construe this monster I’d described as just a normal guy doing his best. I’d tried before too, but I knew better. I knew just how cruel and disgusting he was. I knew what he did to me, and I wasn’t about to forgive him. She realized she was wasting her time and dropped the topic.
“He hurt you for so long, I understand why it’s hard for you to see him any other way. But, I can’t help but feel like there’s something more to it than that. There has to be a reason you’re so afraid of him, and more importantly, why you’re not afraid of your mom by comparison.”
“There is,” I said flatly. “It’s the whole reason I came here in the first place.”
She sat up again in her chair, at rapt attention. Her clipboard lay unattended, entirely blank. She wasn’t just trying to help me in a professional sense at that point. It was personal. I looked up to meet her gaze again.
“Do you have kids?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “N-no, I don’t.”
“Do you think you would ever want to, even if they weren’t technically yours?”
That just caught her even more off guard. “What are you asking, exactly?”
“Nothing more than what I just said. Would you want kids, even if they weren’t yours?”
“I-I don’t know. I guess I never really thought about it that much. I mean, I like kids well enough, so I don’t see why not.”
“I see.” I just had to be sure. The next part was entirely dependent on that answer. I’d been going back and forth for the last couple nights, trying to decide what to do.
I’d made my decision. “Do you think it’d be alright if we just stopped the session here, and just went somewhere? Got some coffee, lunch, something?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “I suppose if you’re really that hungry. We can just pick up next time, when you feel like talking again.”
“Great.” I stood up and stepped over to the door. Opening it, I turned back, expecting her to be there at my side. But she hadn’t even gotten up from her chair. She was scribbling away, catching up on the notes for the day. Obviously, I should have expected that. She might not have remembered later. I waited patiently for her, kind of like she did for me.
It took a few minutes for her to look up. She realized that I was still standing there, door handle in hand. “Oh, you don’t need to wait for me. Go do what you need to do. I’ll still be here next time.”
I started understanding what she meant. She hadn’t grasped what I was asking. “I’m sorry, I should have been more clear. I thought we could go and do something together, just me and you.”
That time, she figured it out. “U-uh, oh, I-I..” She fumbled with her words. I didn’t mind all that much. I did just spring it on her, so no doubt she wasn’t prepared. I just let her gather her composure, ready to go.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” she said, and I could feel the regret in her tone. “We aren’t permitted to do that sort of thing with patients.”
“It’s alright. No one else has to know.”
“Th-that’s...” I noticed her playing with her fingers. Clearly, she was worried about something. I didn’t want her to get fired, but I was certain that this was what I wanted, both for myself and for Manny.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to pull her out of whatever was upsetting her.
“I… just don’t feel that way about you. I’m sorry.”
My heart sank. The pressuring sadness returned, worse than ever. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I thought she felt the way I felt. I could see it. Why was she doing this?
“Wh-what? I-I already told you, your bosses or whoever won’t find out.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not interested in that sort of relationship with you. I like you just fine, but not like that.”
“I know you do. You don’t have to lie, you don’t have to keep quiet.”
“Please, stop. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Come on, we can still-”
“I said stop!”
I was stunned. I’d never heard her raise her voice to me. I knew she wasn’t just pretending at that point. She really meant it. She wanted nothing to do with me.
I closed the door quietly. Taking my seat again, I just sat in silence. She didn’t try talking to me. Any trust I built up with her was completely gone. I never considered how badly this could go. I was so sure of myself, of my decision, I never thought that she would say ‘no’.
It took a long time, but eventually, I broke the silence. “You were asking what I did to hurt my son.”
“What?”
“Earlier, you were asking what I did to hurt my son. The reason I came here in the first place.”
She nodded. “Are you sure you want to tell me?”
I didn’t have to think too hard about that. “I’m sure I want to tell someone.” She sat back down, clipboard in hand, as professional as the day I met her.
“You thought my father was trying to be a good parent. I think he thought he was too. I think he felt bad about what he did to me every day. He didn’t stop drinking when I got home. He’d go all day. Sometimes, I’d hear him crying in his chair down the hall. He never slept in his own bed. A lot of times, he’d sleep right there in his chair.”
I stopped talking, just for a moment. The scratching of her pen wasn’t helping. It was just adding to the pain in my chest.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with your son, or even how this is any worse than the belt.” She wasn’t trying to sound caring anymore. That was all gone. She was cold now; clinical. I was just a patient, like any other.
“Sometimes, he wouldn’t sleep in his chair. Instead… he would sleep in my room, in my bed.”
The scratching came to a dead stop. I didn’t look up, but I knew she must have been horrified. Who wouldn’t be? I was, even all these years later. But that wasn’t the worst part.
“You wanted to know what I did to hurt my son?” I said, disgusted with myself. “Exactly what my father did to me.”
This time, I did want to know. I wanted to know what she thought of the cretinous monster sitting in front of her. Looking up, I found her stagnant, shuddering, and unable to write what she had learned into her notes. I think the thought of me asking her out was still too fresh, and by revealing what I had done, she was just stuck on the thought of what could have happened, had she agreed to my proposal.
“I never wanted that for Manny. He’s still just a little kid. I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why my father did it. I don’t even know if the reason is the same. But I don’t want that for him. I need it to stop, and I hate myself for ever starting it. That’s why I’m here. To make that stop.”
She took a long time to talk again. I’d told her everything I could. I think she was just trying to decide whether or not I was worth it. When she finally came to a decision, I can’t say I was surprised. “There’s nothing that I can do to help you. I just don’t have the training, and I don’t feel like I can do it. You need help on a psychological level, not a psychiatric one.”
“Yeah, I thought so,” I said, standing up from my chair. “Well, thanks for trying, at least. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
She started getting flustered. “W-wait, what are you doing? There are still other things that we can work on here. The drinking, the drugs, the physical abuse; I can still help with that.”
“No, you can’t,” I said plainly. “Even if you could, it wouldn’t change anything. I can’t stop myself from hurting my son. That’s the issue here.”
“Well, what are you going to do?”
“I can’t leave Manny alone. I have something worked out, but you won’t like it.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, any semblance of control she once had now gone. “You’re not sending him away, are you?”
“No. I couldn’t, even if there was somewhere to go. I’m an only child, Lex has declined custody, and my parents...”
She could tell there was something there. “Your father would be just as bad as you. Probably worse. And your mom died years ago.”
“They both did,” I admitted.
“What?” she asked, struggling in vain to comprehend. “How?”
“I told you my mom went in her sleep. What I didn’t tell you was that I was there, in the house. I’d gone home after breaking things off with Lex, looking for any sort of help. The neighborhood had changed, mostly in the way that there wasn’t much of a neighborhood left. Most of the houses were empty or condemned. Apparently, there was a big investigation at some point in the couple years I’d been away, and most of the houses were declared unlivable. People like my parents still did it, but that’s beside the point. The economy of the area dropped, crime ran rampant, and no one really did anything about it.
“So, yeah, the neighborhood had changed. My parents, on the other hand, were no different. If anything, they were the worst they’d ever been. Mom was barely functional. I don’t think she left the house in the three days I was there. And dad; dad was still the same rotten bastard he always was. He still tried to pull the same routine with his belt and… the rest of it.
“I knew he had a conceal carry license. I knew where he kept it. I stormed out of the room, and he didn’t follow me. I took Manny out as far from my room as I could. It was louder than I expected. Mom didn’t even stir, though, she was so out of it. I just couldn’t stand the idea of them having anything to do with me or Manny.”
She stood frozen, horrified. “Y-y-y-you…” I nodded, unashamed. I didn’t feel bad about what I did. It only convinced me that what I’m doing now is the right thing.
"I was actually kind of surprised when the cops caught up with me. I'd already hidden the gun, since I didn't want Manny getting ahold of it by accident, and it took them a couple days, but still. They took swabs of my hands and confiscated some of my clothes. They searched the whole house and even brought me down to the station, but they didn't find the gun, and they couldn't keep me. I didn't go near the thing for years, just in case. Then, on Manny's sixth birthday, I finally went back out to the old tree I'd hidden it under. That's the first time I thought I might need it again."
I left her office soon after that. I told her not to bother calling the police, that she’d be hearing from them soon anyway. Shutting the door, my eye caught that nameplate once more.
Janet Descher
I should have known it couldn’t be.
Manny was home early from school. I gave him a hug when I walked through the door. I told him that he could go anywhere he wanted today. He named off one of his friends that I’d never met, and I walked him to the boy’s house. It wasn’t too far. I memorized the address once we arrived.
I made my way back home and started writing this out. I wasn’t sure how much would matter, so I just put everything. I’ve been at it for a couple hours now. I made the call a few minutes ago. I told them where I was, and where Manny was. When they asked about the emergency in question, I didn’t answer. I just set the phone down but didn’t hang up. They’re still on the line, as far as I can tell.
The object of my greatest misstep, retrieved from the tiny drawer into which it only barely fit, is on the table next to me. I must’ve glanced over at it two dozen times at least while writing all of this out. That feeling of being both powerful and powerless, that inexplicable weight in the hand, that feeling of the trigger against my finger; I’d only known it one other time, but that was enough. There was no going back at this point.
As a final note here, for whoever ends up finding this, I want Manny to be placed in the custody of Janet Descher, psychiatrist at the Marlin Psychiatric facility in Jacksonville. My ex-girlfriend, Alexandra Thompson, has already declined custody, and I trust Janet to make the proper decisions with regard to Manny’s well-being. If you can’t do that, I want him put into foster care and given a home with a family that will love and care for him. Ensure that an extensive background check is performed, to ensure he doesn’t end up with anyone like me.
I checked the magazine just now. Two left. One too many, but perfect in case I mess up.
I doubt I’ll need it.
Category:Reality
Category:TheWizardOfTheWoods
Category:Mental Illness