Only The Trees Know, page 3
“Get away from there,” my mother said.
I turned.
She stood in the doorway between the front room and the hall. Ice clinked in her lowball glass as she gestured with it. Her voice was already slurred even though it was just after five. She looked past me as if she could see out the curtain into the driveway, almost as if I weren’t here.
I ignored her. Instead I turned my back to her and pushed the curtain farther out. We needed floodlights so that I could see better.
She hitched a breath. “Josiah, if they see you, your father will be angry.”
My stomach soured and I gripped the curtains, my fingers twisting in the heavy fabric. She was right, but perversely I couldn’t pull myself away. Let him be angry. He deserved it, even if I knew she was right.
I swallowed. “They can’t see me.”
“Close the curtain anyway,” she said. “Watching the hyenas will only make you crazy.”
Too late, I was already crazy. That’s what they’d said on the news, anyway. Sometimes I believed it, because how else could my life make sense? My friends had been murdered, I was the only one who’d come out of the forest alive, and somehow I’d been made into the pariah. It felt like I lived inside an upside-down dream.
It was hard to think about them. The emptiness they’d left inside me was too large, especially for Liam. I missed him in a visceral and aching way that I had no idea how to manage. I’d kept the vastness of the wound under control so far, but I knew that my feelings were leaking. He'd been my crutch and now I was lost. What was I going to do? This was too complicated to figure out without him.
Even if I wanted to leave, there was nowhere to go. My friends were dead. I’d been abandoned. They’d left me here to deal with this shit all by myself. Loneliness would hit in waves, often when I least expected it to. Sometimes it was warm and soft, leaving me with a depth of sadness that felt like a vast lake that I could swim in. I was able to deal when it felt like that, letting the sadness settle into part of my soul as I learned how to navigate it. Other times, like now, it crashed with a frenzy, stealing my breath. That was much harder because it hit with no warning and made me realize the uselessness of my life.
“The neighbors keep calling.” She spoke with a strung-out hysterical quality that had become her new normal. “They’re upset that the street is blocked.”
“And probably fishing for information,” I said.
I’d appreciate any news too. Knowing what was happening beyond these walls would help me feel less desperate. I couldn't even escape to the pool house. My father had argued that a photographer with a long lens could snap a shot of me, or a drone could fly overhead, and then who knew how they could spin the photo. Maybe he had a point and yet, I felt that it was another way to control me.
There was no escaping the media onslaught, not even chemically. My stash had run out days ago and when my father was home it was too risky to pilfer my mother’s supply. Plus, there was also the threat of mandatory court-ordered drug testing when my original drug test had popped. Until that issue could be decided either way, I had to keep my system clean.
The need for something to take me away was hard to control. It itched in my teeth and gums and made my fingers shake. I tried not to think about it, but that was next to impossible. Every day became worse than the day before. It was always there like a constant scream in my head.
All of this added to my stress.
The walls of the house pressed in. I could feel them getting closer. My mind spun, rebelling at being caged. My skin felt tight, squeezing, and I could hardly draw a full breath. “I need to get out of here.”
I hadn't realized I'd even said the words out loud until my mom asked, “To where?”
I couldn't stop myself from directing my anger toward her. Snarling, “You can’t keep me locked up. You can’t stop me from leaving.”
She didn't seem surprised at my outburst, just sad. “You’re not the only one who can’t escape.” Then she turned and left me still staring out the window.
It was just like her to make this about herself. I should have expected it. She couldn't ever think about anything that didn't directly affect her. I was the one being threatened with the death penalty, not my mother.
Swallowing my frustration, I focused on the calming exercises I’d been taught by my quack psychiatrist. Exhaling in a concentrated stream did little to cool my anger, but it did force my lungs to work slower and in turn, my heart rate to steady.
Feeling more composed, I turned back to the commotion in the front yard. As much as she pissed me off, my mother was right. Watching would make me nuts. I let the curtain fall closed and I was once again swallowed up in darkness.
The house was much too quiet. Internal thoughts that I wanted no part of were louder in the silence. The voices pleaded with me.
I made a decision then—conscious or unconscious, I didn’t know— and ended up outside my father’s office. The tension in the house made me sick. I needed punishment, to release what festered inside my head. If I hurt, the pain would help me cope if drugs couldn’t. And I wanted control back. I knew the beating that would come from this would eventually help me to think again.
His door was open, which seemed like a sign. From inside his voice steadily rose. “They should have never questioned him without an attorney. Why haven’t you gotten that interrogation thrown out?”
It confirmed to me that he was on the phone with my lawyer, Frank Dawson, the top defense attorney in our state. Dawson had been a guest on TV shows, known for breaking down current cases. If I was indicted, he’d promised I’d be eligible for bail within a day. And yet, I still feared being stuck behind bars because my father needed to prove a point. That he owned me no matter what.
Knocking was the wrong approach. It was safe, even if I interrupted his phone call, which would not progress things how I wanted. The goal was to piss him off enough so that he reacted. I needed to wrestle control from him. Otherwise he’d string me along like this for days. He’d wait until I’d worked myself into paralysis before he’d make his move. It was always worse then, when I had no defenses. I had learned some coping skills over the years. Taking this bit of control helped. Deciding the time of the punishment and then goading it to happen. I needed it now, while I was mentally strong and prepared for the fallout.
I wondered who else knew about his abuse besides my mother and grandfather. There was evidence. Bruises couldn’t always be hidden. He was careful not to break bones other than the one time when I was seven and the doctor in the emergency room almost didn't buy his story. And still, no one had questioned him in all these years. It was as if they consciously ignored all the signs.
My father walked the line between respectability and cruelty so well. Though lately I wondered if I could push him over it like I did with the beatings, if it was possible to make him lose his shit in a spectacular way. One that would expose him for the monster he was.
“Get those tapes thrown out,” my father yelled in a voice that said heaven and earth better be moved to do what he wanted.
I took a deep breath, swallowing back the spit that gathered in my mouth. It felt like acid, stinging my throat as it went down. Then I reached forward and pushed the door open.
My father looked up with a glare. He didn’t ask why I was there. We both knew. He growled into the phone and then hung up, his gaze on me the entire time.
I stayed rooted in the doorway. Even though I’d pushed this, there was a piece of self-preservation that had kicked my thoughts into a fast tumble. It made me dizzy and insisted that I run. Knowing I needed this didn’t stop me from standing outside the door questioning why I tortured myself this way. If I spent hours thinking about it, I wasn’t sure I could come up with answers. There was too much messed up inside me for it to ever be clear.
Instead I raised my head and pulled back my shoulders, stepping into the room like I owned it. I tried to act as brazen as I wished I felt. To show him that he couldn’t intimidate me.
“Listening at doors again?” he asked, his eyebrow raised and a mean smirk lifted his lips.
I didn’t bother to correct him. His plans for me meant little. I was much more focused on surviving the next half hour.
He’d been waiting for this confrontation as much as I had so he was already angry. “I’m constantly cleaning up your mess.”
That was true. I hadn’t figured out how to keep my life quiet. I’d tried but it seemed like every time I thought I’d managed to clean it up, something happened to explode it.
“Do you see the news vans outside?” he asked, as if I could miss it. “We’re the laughingstock of the neighborhood.”
My lack of acknowledgement irritated him more.
“I give you what you need, don’t I, Josiah? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
I hated him so much in that moment. More so because it was the truth. I did need to be punished, to hurt, it was the only way to make the voices and the anger stop. He knew it too, probably because he was just like me. Or rather, I was as twisted as he was. My father had made me into this monster.
He nodded to himself as if he’d come to a decision, then he stepped around his desk. “Inside, shut the door.”
His command hit me with a thud making my pulse jump and sweat break out.
I moved forward as I’d been trained. It was automatic. Something tight and hot twisted inside me as I turned the lock.
Reaching over my shoulder, I took hold of my shirt and started to pull it off without being told. My skin was slivered with old scars. Some of them were smooth with age, and some were bumpy knots that I was sure would never go away no matter how many years passed.
Pushing a breath out, I allowed myself to go to that place where anger and coldness made me numb.
Chapter Five
THEN…
SIXTEEN-YEARS-OLD
My sixteenth birthday was a disaster. I hadn’t been stupid enough to think that my parents would remember. I had thought I’d at least get a quiet dinner before escaping to my room to listen to music and smoke the weed I’d stashed in my underwear drawer. Then my father had come home in a rage, shooting that plan to shit.
I’d decided that it was better not to eat dinner than to be in the line of fire. It had been the right decision since he’d moved on to harassing my mother. I could hear them from my room with the door shut and music blaring. It would start out like this, with screaming, and then usually deteriorated to something more physical.
“It’s all your fault,” my mom said before I heard the wet sound of a smack followed by a thump.
“I told you to shut the fuck up,” my dad yelled.
I agreed. My mother was stupid. She should keep her mouth shut, or attempt to leave him, and maybe she’d be okay. But she didn’t do either, so anything that happened was her fault.
In any case, I couldn’t worry about her. She’d made her choices. The only person I could protect is myself since no one else would.
The screaming only got louder and the sound made me spiral. Each second the constriction on my lungs tightened and I knew I’d eventually be swallowed by it. The pot I’d smoked hadn’t been enough to keep me calm. Perspiration dotted my forehead and my vision darkened. I felt as if I were about to pass out.
Need to go… need to go… the words pumped through my head, urging me to flee before I’d be left to vulnerable to fight. Each beat of my heart emphasized their urgency. Anger felt thick as it expanded inside me. It had become more difficult to contain. It seemed as if it always simmered under the surface, waiting to snap. Too often I wondered if it would ever explode. And if it did, would I regret it?
Clawing at my head, I scraped the tips of my short nails into my skin. Digging as deep as they would go and dragging them against my scalp. The bite of pain was enough to remind me of my purpose even if it did nothing to lessen my frustration. My stinging flesh created a momentary silence that had me gasping and blinking into the dark hallway. It wasn’t enough.
The sensory receptors in my body finally decided for me. I was moving before I fully considered it. My father had already fucked me up once that night and I didn’t think my face could take a second interaction. I licked out with my tongue, tasting blood from the wound on my mouth.
I swiped a fifth of vodka from the unlocked liquor cabinet on the way out of the house. Between my mother and father’s drinking habits, they never realized I stole as much as I did.
No one saw me leave. Or at least, no one stopped me. We had a housekeeper to clean and cook meals for me, a gardener and pool guy as well. None of them were here now because it was late. The housekeeper, Lucia, was in her small apartment over the garage and the others didn’t live on the premises. My parents were careful that there weren’t too many witnesses around to see the truth of our lives.
My neighborhood was quiet as I stumbled away from my house. The tight feeling in my chest loosened the farther away I walked. I was on the sober side of tipsy and I planned to get blackout drunk before the night was over. As evidence of that, I swigged from the glass bottle and finished an inch or two before I got to the iron gates at the end of our drive.
The bottle felt slippery in my hand and I almost dropped it a few times, my fingers were numb from both the drinking and the cold. I enjoyed the swallow and burn of the liquid, like it would somehow give me purpose and direction. It did neither, though it did help me to float.
It wasn’t until I felt the chill slice through me that I realized I hadn’t grabbed my jacket. I was used to the colder Eastern weather and this climate was moderate in comparison. Because of that, I often found myself without one. Tonight, though, the temperature chilled me to my bones. It was unwelcoming, like this place. It wasn’t home. I didn’t fit here and I didn’t see a reason to try.
We’d moved to the affluent side of town. The neighborhood was a nightmare. It had been a shock from the concrete jungle I’d grown up in. Suburbia turned out to be a weirdly idyllic place full of cosmetically altered people. The houses were set back from the streets as if the length of the lawns corresponded with its owner’s bank account. A few properties had gates like ours. Most had strategically manicured bushes making the homes resemble miniature castles. Mature trees lined the street creating a shaded canopy over the road. No one visited who didn’t live here except if they were invited for a dinner or party. There were no solicitors or Girl Scouts, making the neighborhood eerily quiet no matter the time of day. Not even children roamed the lawns. I wasn’t even sure if there were any besides me.
I’d been enrolled in a prestigious Ivy League prep for the last year and I hated it. I was looking for a way to get myself kicked out. Though up to this point, it was like no matter what I did, they’d impose disciplinary measures and my father’s money would grease the way to get me back in.
It was unfair that my father could rip my life apart while his stayed relatively the same. I had been the one forced to move across the country to make new friends, which had proved to be impossible. I couldn’t relate to a bunch of mindless, narcissistic, yuppie-hippy teenagers. I’d adapted apathy as a survival mechanism. I mean, yeah, I was the poster child for not giving a shit in the first place, but it was more than that now. The frustration I felt colored everything and tempted me to bring down as much destruction as I could. I wanted to rage and yell and throw things. Instead, I found silence. The place in myself where I could stew in the anger. It was peaceful there, like a pool of cool water that I could bathe in whenever the unfairness got to me.
I left my neighborhood and turned toward the university. The school was connected to everything here and located at the center of the town. A large portion of the population was either employed by or attended the university.
It was one of those cutesy towns where they used an excessive amount of stucco on the buildings and painted signs in the shop windows. The streets were clean and grassy areas dotted the walkways. All the businesses were smaller mom and pop type stuff, with the megacenters hidden at the edges of the neighborhood.
I thickly swallowed the last of the pilfered alcohol. It burned a trail from my throat to my stomach. I sucked in too much air with it and burped, sending the burn back up. Then I dry retched, my mouth open like a gasping fish. When I managed to get control, I tossed the bottle. I didn’t see where it landed but heard the crunch of the heavy glass as it hit the concrete walkway.
The town was surprisingly busy for this time of night. Car lights brightened the streets as drivers made their way to late-night festivities and clusters of students loudly stumbled to and from parties. I knew this was exactly where I could get more alcohol or maybe even something a little stronger. While the vodka had made me extremely unsteady, I could still think. Not thinking was the whole point of being blackout drunk. I wanted the pain gone.
I followed one group as they turned down a row of frat houses. The Greek letters stood out prominently on the fascia of each, their bright lights and loud music designating which were hosting that night. Outside the lawns were destroyed with patches of brown grass, red Solo cups, and other bits of discarded trash.
Several groups of people called out to me as I passed. I didn’t catch if they were greeting me or offering me a beer. Drunk students leaned over the porch railings making wide sweeping movements with their arms. If they were offering free booze, I would check it out. I stepped off the curb, heading toward the house closest to me.
Instead of going up the stairs, I detoured around the side of the house because I needed to pee. I knew from experience that every bathroom in the house would be in use, either for what it was made for, vomiting, or for some sexual encounter. Not something I wanted to deal with because my bladder insisted I needed to do something about it soon.
There were a few couples making out in the dark, uncaring about their partial state of dress. I ignored them, turning to the wall. Whipping my dick out, I wrote my name against the side of the house. I’d finally left my mark on my new town—literally—and it was immensely satisfying.
