Note: This went in a direction I didn’t expect. You should recognize where. Also…I know I was being in character…but there was still a word I couldn’t bring myself to write.
“You look happy, mijo.” Maria said, smiling as she looked at her son.
“I am, mom.” Lucas replied.
“Did you have a nice night with Michael?”
“I did.”
“You didn’t have to clean up dinner – I could have done that for you, mijo.”
“I know, mamá. But he helped, then we went out.”
“You’re both good boys. I take it the relationship is going well?”
“Yea.”
“You being careful?”
“Mamá!” he said, somewhat shocked. He felt himself blush a little and then he sighed. “We haven’t gotten than far. I’m still a virgin, I promise.”
“Is Michael?”
Lucas shook his head. “No, he has prior experience.”
She walked over and kissed him on the forehead after he put the last of the dishes away. “It’s alright mijo.” she said. “Just be safe when you do, please?”
I will, mamá. Promise.”
“Buenas noches, Lucas. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Buenas noches, mamá.” he said. He stayed up a little while after she went to sleep, idly sketching whatever came to mind before putting things aside when he started to feel tired. Checking to make sure doors were locked at the thermostat adjusted properly, he turned off the lights and went to sleep.
For a while, he slept fine. Dreams were the typical jumble of oddball subconscious sifting and nothingness. It was when he got to his deepest sleep that the problems began with the dreaming of a memory. He was in his old house, and couldn’t have been more than six or seven at best. He was laying on his stomach, coloring with the crayons his abuela had gifted him for his birthday just a few days prior, when they had visited her in Mexico.
His older self recognized the background noise of his parents fighting upstairs in their room. Listening to it now, he wondered how he ever could have tuned it out, as it wasn’t subtle. There was a sharp sound, followed by his mother’s quiet crying. A door was yanked open, and his father’s heavy footsteps started down the stairs. There was a moment before he heard his mother running behind, begging him in Spanish, but the words were hard to make out through her sobs.
I don’t want to remember this he thought, trying to turn away. But then the dream shifted, and he was no longer a passive observer. Instead, he was his younger self, with the knowledge and memories of his older self in tact, but unable to react to what was about to happen next. His father stopped just out of his line of sight to chug his upteenth beer, before tossing the can aside. His mother clung to him, still begging, until he shoved her off of him, and back into the wall, where the back of her head hit with a dull thud.He then felt his small body being picked up by his criss-crossed overall straps, to be dangled in front of his father.
“Daddy, your breaf stinks.” his smaller self said.
“Shut up you useless little maggot.”
Fear coursed through the small child at the tone in the older man’s voice. “I’m sorry papi.” he said, his voice small. The man looked at the child with sheer disgust, something Lucas had never noticed before. The child repeated the phrase, still meek. The man shifted his hold, grabbing the child by the shoulders and shaking him, violently.
“Why can’t you be the son I always wanted?” he screamed. “Instead you’re just the spawn of a filthy river n***er!” he dropped the child, who by this point was crying for his mother. “Shut up!” he yelled at the child. Little Lucas was to scared to try and scramble past his father…he just kept crying for his mother, who was lying on the floor, unconscious from the hard hit her head took against the wall. At first, it was one fist that came flying at the little boys face. But it was soon followed by another, and another; on and on until the man’s rage was spent.
Little Lucas tried to block the hits but wasn’t very effective at any of it. After a while, his father stopped. “Fucking immigrants.” he muttered, getting a beer from the fridge and chugging it as he walked back through the living room. “Never should married one.” he grumbled. He finished off the bottle, then chucked it over his shoulder as he looked down. “Her own fault for bein’ a good cook and a great fuckin’ lay.” he said, grabbing his keys and heading out the door.
Lucas was a passive observer again, but the memory dream was fading. He didn’t remember much about this time – only that he’d been very badly hurt, but he could remember to what extent. He drifted off into dreams of normalcy for a while, before his brain decided he needed a repeat experience. This time, he woke with a jerk as his father’s fist came at his face. He was covered in sweat, and felt sore everywhere. Slowly, he pushed himself up, and gradually got out of bed in order to take a hot shower.
The hot water ran over him for a few minutes before he just leaned against the wall. He couldn’t shake the memory – it just replayed in his head, with other incidents that occurred after playing out until he started to cry. He was thankful for the water, then. With luck, he wouldn’t wake his mother. The memories were painful. There had been so much physical and emotional abuse – and that was just what he could remember. There was also anger – anger at his father, and anger at himself for not trying to do anything about the abuse when he grew old enough to start being able to do so. His mother had always told him; begged him to escape. How much had she suffered because he couldn’t stand up for them?
Gradually, his anger became cold; methodical. Reaching over, he turned off the water. He dried off and got dressed, then readied to head out. He grabbed the keys to his mom’s car, left a note that he’d gone out for coffee because he couldn’t sleep, and left. He drove aimlessly for a bit, before finding himself on familiar roads, and parking in front of a familiar house. He got out and looked up for a moment, then turned and walked a couple blocks down. There was his house; or rather, his father’s house. He jogged up the driveway, pausing by the large semi-cab.
He paused for a moment, then looked over at the pickup parked next to it, his eyes scanning the back of the truck until he found a couple of rags. He snagged it, then used it to test and see of the pickup was unlocked. Unsurprisingly, it was. The overhead dome light was broken still, he noted, and the cab smelled strongly of beer, both fresh and stale. Still using the rag, he opened the glove box, then used it to grab the heavy Ruger that lay within. He used the spare rag for closing the glove box and the door, then darted up the sidewalk and porch to the front door.
The door was unlocked, so he guessed that his dad hadn’t gone to bed yet. He opened it slowly, though the TV was loudly playing in the other room, so it wasn’t quite necessary. He closed the door behind him, and made his way to the living room, pulling the Ruger from its holster as he did so. His Dad wasn’t in the living room, however. As he puzzled over where he might be, he heard agruff, familiar voice from behind him.
“What the hell’re you doing here, boy?” his father said from behind him. He did a half-turn, noting that his father was chewing tobacco as he stood there, staring drunkenly at him.
“You…you’re a monster…” he said.
“You come all the way down here from that fancy apartment you done got to say that or you gon’ do somethin’ ’bout it?”
“You know where we live?”
“Damn right I do. Don’t think your mom’s pretty little ass is going to get away with having the gall to divorce me, fancy ass attorney or no. I got the damn law on my side, boy.”
“I won’t let you hurt her anymore.”
“You’re just a pussy ass spic faggot. You ain’t goin’ to do nothin.” he said, turning his head to spit.
Lucas raised the gun, aiming it at his father’s torso. His father just laughed. “You think that thing’s loaded? Boy, I just keep that to scare the damn n***er kids.”
Lucas hesitated, eye widened with fear and trying to think of a way out. In the meantime, his father walked over to the hall closet and removed a shotgun. Lucas didn’t remember his father owning it, so it must have been new. His father loaded teh shotgun. No movie could accurately portray the fear that sound caused.
“I tell you what…I’m gonna drag your gay ass with me….make you watch as I beat and rape your ma…it’ll feel like old times.” he grinned. “Then….I’mma kill her. Hell! We’ll make a real fuckin treat out of it! We’ll go bust down your fucking fairy faggot boyfriend’s door and kill his sparkly ass. And then? I’mma kill your sorry, pathetic ass.”
In desperation, Lucas pulled the trigger. He watched on as his father’s throat started blooming red. He stumbled forward toward Lucas for a second, then tried hefting the shotgun even as blood bubbled to his lips. Lucas fired again, three times, into the chest. With each shot, his father moved forward, falling into him with the last shot, covering Lucas in his blood. Lucas scrambled away and looked on in horror. He shoved the Ruger back into it’s holster and shoved it into his pocket before taking off, running down the street back to his mom’s car.
He went to reach for the door bust stopped, logical enough to know he didn’t want to get blood in her car. He fumbled for the keys and opened the trunk, digging around until he found a drawstring bag that contained a towel and his trunks from the last time he and his mom went to the beach. Looking around, he quickly stripped down, yanked on the trunks and stuffed the bloody clothes and gun intot he sack and then slammed the trunk shut. He quickly got into the car, dumping the bag on the floor and drove off, managing to do so just a little crazier than the norm.
He was fighting not to panic. He didn’t know what to do, or where to go. His mind raced with possibilities, and he found himself driving aimlessly as he thought of where to get help. His mind happened to land on the outreach center that was helping his mom deal with the abuse she’d gone through. He found himself heading that way, and parking off to the side of the building. He grabbed the drawstring bag and checked the trunk again, stuffing it into several plastic bags and managing to find a pair of flip-flops and an old t-shirt that must have been left behind from some laundry day or another. He pulled it on, pocketed the keys and closed the trunk before heading inside.