8. Jimmy
Jimmy
A drenaline crashed through me the second I opened my eyes.
Today, I would stand before what had haunted me every day since I’d left Pippen Creek. Putting off the inevitable any longer wouldn’t gain me anything but further panic over what was to come.
A cold sweat broke out over my body as I climbed into my car, my stomach a rock.
Beads of moisture lined my upper lip and forehead as I drove through town then southwest. Gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white to keep from scratching at my arms, I rounded the final turn onto the dirt road I hadn’t traversed in nine years.
Breath burst in and out of my squeezing lungs as Dad’s house came into view.
Muscles twitched, my instincts demanding I swing my BMW around and get the hell away from there.
Doing so was certainly an option. I could have hired a contractor to do what needed done in order for the house to sell without having to lay eyes on it.
A cleaning company could have righted the mess inside Gram had warned me about.
But for me to move on, to get rid of the nightmares that riddled my dreams and controlled a lot of the processes in my mind, I had to face this shit.
A real man wouldn’t tremble beneath the weight of nightmares.
I would stand tall. Take care of business.
Finally find healing through staring down my fears.
My wheels rolled slower on crunching gravel as my shaking leg attempted to press against the brake.
The car stopped.
I shut off the engine.
Suffocating silence flooded the BMW’s interior, and I swallowed hard, rubbing damp palms down my jeans. No words to amp me up filled my mind, and no encouragement rose to give me energy to move.
I stared at the peeling front door, the crooked steps I’d spent countless hours sitting on with Sutton by my side while we’d shared chocolate bars loaded with delicious caramel and peanuts.
His warmth had always radiated through the space between us, offering comfort I couldn’t derive from anyone or anywhere else.
Clinging to the pleasant memories of my hero, I climbed from the car on weak knees. Every shuffle closer to the house made my guts clench and shoulders roll inward. I bit my tongue to keep from whimpering but could do nothing to stop the tremble in my lower lip.
A dog barked, and I flinched at the intrusive sound, another fresh rush of adrenaline racing through my system.
One step at a time.
One breath, one blink.
Tearing my gaze off the house, I focused on the fake rock beside the stoop and the key that Gram had assured me still rested inside it.
My fingers shook terribly, and it was a solid two minutes before I managed to retrieve the key from its hiding spot. Blowing out a slow exhale, I forced my feet to lift toward each tread until I reached the landing.
I jolted at the loudness of the key sliding into the lock. The click caused another flinch, and my muscles jerked.
The door creaked open beneath my firm shove, and I gripped the metal teeth digging into my palm, the slight pain giving me something to focus on.
Closure , I reminded myself of why I stood on the edge of possible insanity. Pull up those bootstraps, as Gram would say, and face the shit head on.
I stepped inside, the scent of stale cigarette and rancid grease assaulting my nose.
My entire being froze as the blood drained from my face and left me lightheaded. Lungs attempting to instinctively draw breath, I struggled, blinking flashes of memories, loud and vivid, ripping through my mind.
Smacking face-first into the doorjamb.
The stained, filthy couch Dad had bent me over while whipping my ass and back red with his belt.
A single corner of the room without furniture where I’d knelt, nose against the wall, having to hide my ugly face from him when he couldn’t bear the sight of me. More often than not, dry rice had been beneath my knees, digging into tender skin.
Worthless worm.
I blinked hard at the voice in my head that had gone to more of a whisper than scream over the years, but I cringed all the same.
On wooden legs, I passed through the mess of trash, piles of newspapers, and clothing. Detouring past the kitchen entrance, I headed back the hallway I’d crawled dozens of times in attempts to escape that damned leather belt he had wielded like a whip.
I stumbled to a halt at the open bathroom door, the stained tub bringing even more flashes of beatings on my bare skin, a constant rain of hurtful words that tore me down until I had no sense of self outside being a waste of sperm, the cause of my mother’s death and of Dad’s heartache.
Two more steps landed me in front of the door I’d silently shut the night I’d turned eighteen.
Dad had passed out in his bedroom across the hall, his drunken snores assuring me he wouldn’t have heard me slam through the house as I left him behind.
I twisted the handle, pushing the flimsy particle board door inward, and scratched absently at my forearm.
The room had been turned inside out. Mattress flipped against the wall riddled with holes that looked like fists had punched through drywall. The few personal belongings I’d left behind scattered over the floor along with the clothing I hadn’t taken with me.
My gaze drifted toward the right—a discoloration of the flooring smashed into me like the memory of Dad’s fist into my temple, and I staggered on my feet, a whimper slipping past my lips as it’d done the night I’d finally become a man.
I’d lain there, my mind fuzzy and eyesight bleary as he’d stood over me, kicking me where my oversized sweatshirt would cover whatever bruising he inflicted on my body.
It was the first time I’d begged whatever supernatural being or possible god might exist to end my life.
Not even the plans I had set, the freedom I would soon experience, made the beating bearable.
If Dad had hated me as much as he’d claimed to, why not just end me with a bullet to my brain then his? Put us both out of our misery?
I never fooled myself into believing that at some deep level he cared for the only son he’d created with the woman he’d loved more than anything on earth.
The man had been a coward through and through, unable to cope with his brokenness over losing my mom.
He’d turned to alcohol, and I’d paid the price for being the cause of her death.
“Never should have been born.” He’d spat on me that night, eventually leaving me more alone than I’d ever felt in my eighteen years.
Other similar sentiments whispered on the heels of Dad’s final words to me like ghosts from the grave, tearing me down as effectively as they had done years earlier when spewed from his hateful lips.
Worthless.
Stupid.
Ugly.
Unwanted.
Would I never be free of the man I’d tried so hard to please?
Fingernails digging into my left forearm, I stared at the bloodstained evidence of what I had endured. I hadn’t grown, hadn’t escaped the horrors I’d faced every day as a powerless child when all I’d wanted to do was give my dad back some of the happiness I’d stolen from him by being born.
Uncontrollable shaking took over my body, and I curled in on myself to find some sort of stronghold to lean on—the only person I could trust to hold me tight.
But I couldn’t voice bullshit words to edify myself.
Couldn’t grasp onto any hope of rising above the trauma I hadn’t escaped.
The demons from my past still dug their claws into my psyche, owning my focus.
“Jimmy?”
Tears welled in my eyes at the kind voice echoing alongside Dad’s in my mind. The room in front of me wavered as wetness gathered enough droplets spilled from my lashes and over my cheeks.
Weak.
Pussy.
Faggot.
I choked on a sob, clinging to myself tighter.
“Jimmy?”
He’d always been the light in my darkness, the hero I’d mentally clung to whenever Dad stripped me down to nothing more than an instinctive creature who froze at the first hint of anger or trouble.
Even now, I couldn’t move. My legs refused to lead me outside to safety where every stuttered inhale didn’t coat my lungs with stale cigarettes and decay.
“Jimmy.”
My eyelids slammed shut at the relieved tone behind me.
Sutton had shown up when I needed him most.
Of course he had—and there would be no hiding the crumbling facade I cowered behind this time.