Chapter Twelve
A Monster Made
S ilas
Everything is perfect… for now.
After lunch, came the fun part… presents.
Mom got me new clothes like always. Lame, I know, but it isn’t her fault.
Sydney on the other hand, came through like she does every year.
She surprised me with not just one, but two video games for my Gameboy and a huge stash of candy.
One of the games is a brand-new release.
None of the other kids at school have it yet.
The candy is the good stuff too. Full size chocolate bars and my favorite sour candies that make your whole mouth pucker and your tongue tingle.
I’ll have to hide everything before Dad gets home from the station.
He has made it crystal clear that toys and games have no place in his household .
I used to hear mom and dad fight about it a lot, but not anymore.
She doesn’t talk back, not after how bad it was the last time.
She spent two days in the hospital after her “fall” down the steps that left her with a concussion, skull fracture, and a broken eye socket.
"I'm not raising a little pussy, Cynthia.
I'm raising a man, and he'll damn well act like one," he’d growl at Mom whenever she tried to argue on my behalf.
Always with a bottle of scotch in his hand and a beer within arms reach to chase it down.
"If he needs something to do, he can either do more work around here or get his ass out on a field or on a mat and play real sports that'll toughen him up. "
Dad is a firm believer that any activity for boys that lacks physical aggression is a waste of time. The only acceptable outlets for a growing boy are full contact sports that he deems appropriate or “manly” enough for his son to participate in—football and boxing.
"You're not a man if you can't take a hit.
" Always reminding me of his favorite mantra every time his fists connect with my body, or the steel toe of his boots find my stomach.
The words are always delivered in the same condescending tone, dripping with disgust. I learned early on to bite my tongue until it bled, anything to keep from making a sound.
If I cry, or even let out so much as a whimper, he reaches for his preferred tool for punishments, a switch. Though that's not really what they are.
Dad's switches aren't the traditional thin branches stripped from backyard trees. No, over time he’s refined his methods and prefers something more painful—car antennas.
He's amassed quite the collection, taking them from cars that no one has claimed and left abandoned in the police impound lot.
There's one mounted under the kitchen sink, another behind his bedroom door, one tucked away in the hall closet.
He has them hidden out of sight in every room of our house, ensuring he's never more than a few steps away from reaching one.
They hurt more than a switch cut from a tree.
Car antennas have much less give to them.
With less flexibility to absorb some of the impact, they cause far more pain than any tree branch could when whipped against your skin.
Just pure, concentrated agony as the metal bites into your flesh, delivering every ounce of force he puts behind his swing .
The distinctive whistle an antenna makes as it slices through air has become a sound that makes my stomach twist up in dread. Every time he makes contact, it leaves behind a thin, angry welt. Well, not every time. Sometimes it splits the skin wide open.
I made sure to always wear long sleeves to school, even in the summer. The other kids think I’m weird, but being thought of as weird is better than anyone seeing what I am actually hiding underneath.
The worst part isn't even the pain. No, it’s watching what all of this does to my mother.
I can feel every ounce of pain that I see etched across her face.
That hurts me more than anything Dad could ever do to me physically.
She is powerless in this situation, we both are.
One day, I’ll be bigger, stronger, and I will get us both out of this house and away from him.
When Dad really wanted to teach us a lesson, he would bring out the whip he crafted himself and proudly named ‘The Corrector.’ I remember the evening so clearly.
He sat in his worn, brown suede recliner, the TV playing quietly in the background.
The dim yellow light from the lamp casting shadows across his face as his calloused fingers worked, meticulously braiding strips of thin leather together.
Every so often, the metallic glint of wire would catch my attention as he carefully weaved jagged metal wire through each braided strand.
He forced us to witness the birth of our future hell, kneeling on the floor before him like disciples at the feet of their sadistic messiah.
His voice was eerily calm as he described in detail how it would feel when he used it on us for the first time.
The initial impact would make our eyes snap shut in pain.
He promised that would just be the beginning.
It would feel like a thousand needles piercing our skin simultaneously.
The way the leather would create a burning sensation that spreads like wildfire across flesh, then slowly morphs into searing agony as the braided strands split the skin open.
Then came the worst part. The threads of the metal wire he’d so carefully woven into each strand, would catch and tear at our skin.
Leaving behind ragged ribbons of raw, tattered flesh, ensuring maximum pain and suffering with each strike .
His eyes gleamed with a satisfaction only a predator would have as he watched the fear register on our faces.
Mom's hand found mine in the shadows between us, squeezing gently, silently telling me that I am not alone in my fear.
All while Dad smiled that sick smile that meant he was already imagining putting it to use.
My punishments were always delivered to my back, permanently marring my skin, leaving cruel patterns across my shoulder blades and down my spine.
But what Mom endured was far worse, a special kind of torture he reserved just for her.
The scraping sound of Dad dragging one of the old kitchen chairs across the linoleum floor was our only warning.
The sound of wooden legs scraping against the faded tiles was like nails on a chalkboard.
When he had the chair positioned exactly where he wanted it, Dad would force Mom to kneel backwards on the seat.
Her hands gripping the worn back of the chair so hard her knuckles turned white, the bottoms of her feet suspended vulnerably over the seat's edge.
I would hide in my room, the bathroom, anywhere I could go just trying to escape.
I wanted to hide and not hear the terrible whistling sound as the whip came down on the tender soles of her feet.
Again and again, he would bring the whip down until the bottoms of her feet were nothing but raw, bloody flesh.
I would hold my breath until my lungs burned, waiting for her to break, to scream, to make any sound at all—but she never did.
Not once did a single scream ever escape her lips.
She knew the rules of his sick game: No matter how badly he hurt her, if she made even the smallest sound, the punishment would shift to me, and I would be next. She never broke, always remaining silent, shouldering every ounce of pain to spare me from it. Protecting me the only way she could.
My mom and I are sprawled out on the floor taking turns playing my new games, our laughter mixing with the electronic beeps and music.
Sydney hums quietly in the kitchen, running water and piling dishes into the sink as she cleans up.
For once, the house feels like a real home, warm and safe, the kind of peace that normal families get to experience every day .
That illusion is shattered the instant we hear the distinctive crunch of tires on our gravel driveway, followed by the slam of a car door that makes the windows rattle.
Sydney’s humming stops and my heart leaps into my throat.
Mom's face drains of color, her eyes widening as she exchanges a knowing look with my aunt.
I scramble to my feet, nearly tripping over myself as I frantically gather my gifts in my arms.
"He's home early!" The birthday gifts had to disappear before he saw them, or they'd end up like everything else inside this house, broken and destroyed.
I clutched the gifts to my chest and ran towards my bedroom, my footsteps muffled by the worn carpet.
I threw open the door, diving for the loose floorboard beneath my bed.
I lift the floorboard near the foot of my bed and shove everything into my hiding spot.
If he finds them, there will be hell to pay.
Walking back into the living room, I can hear Mom frantically urging Sydney to leave while pushing her towards the front door. She keeps glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the backdoor, knowing there isn’t much time, Dad will be coming any moment.
"Syd, just go! I love you, but just go, please!
" Mom's voice cracks as she gently guides her past the threshold.
Her hands tremble on the heavy wooden door, trying to close it between them.
The late afternoon sun streams through the open door highlighting the bruises covering Mom's arms. "You have to go.
You know it's only going to be worse for me if you're here when he comes in. "