Chapter 5 Mommy, I Miss You
The letter of the day is A. A is for Abandonment.
Life at the house changed a lot. Mum always had to give all her attention to him when he was around, and there seemed to be an influx of visitors at all times of the day and night.
He always required that I be present when people arrived, bending us into performing as a loving family and me the obedient, quiet son in his evil theater.
He’d introduce me as his son, ruffling my hair.
I’d greet everyone coldly and try to walk away, but sometimes, he didn’t allow it, so I’d stay silent and still for hours as they talked about business.
We’d become trained actors for him to use.
While I sat like a still doll, I imagined ways I could kill him.
Poison. I envisioned him grabbing his throat, his tongue out, his eyes rolling back, and his body convulsing then dropping to the floor.
It brought a smile to my face. Stabbing.
I could grab a big knife from the kitchen and push it into his stomach.
Blood would rain all over my face and the floor, then he’d drop dead.
The more times he dropped dead in my imagination, the easier it was to smile.
But underneath the smile that his visitors praised was a continuous river of rage that rushed through every one of my veins, warming them right under my skin.
Sometimes, it would leak, and I would find myself angry at Mum, having to remind myself she was on my side and not to blame.
What used to be long sessions of conversations with tea or drinks and cigars then dinner, mutated into parties that ran from Friday to Monday every weekend.
At first sight, one could mistake their fancy clothes and cars as a sign of grace and morals, a sign these were good, intelligent people of a higher class than Mum and me.
Then I started finding them naked, sleeping in piles in the living room every Monday morning on my way to the kitchen.
The first time, the unfamiliar disgusting odor kept me from checking if they were alive.
The next time, I stared at them sleeping with all their private parts exposed.
There were piles of a white powder on the coffee table that had been moved to the side, and goblets with wine and flutes with stale champagne everywhere.
Some of the glasses lay broken on the floor, staining it with the liquids.
The parties were so often, but it surprised me how quickly I became unfazed by it.
On those Mondays, I’d stay in the kitchen with the servers and cook so I wasn’t alone. After my experience with that weird man on the wedding day, I didn’t feel safe with these people.
A few months passed, even my birthday passed without anyone noticing, Uncle Ricard stopped caring about introducing me.
Thank God. As soon as I’d see or hear his buddies talking, I’d lock myself in my room.
It was boring in my room. I would try to read the few children’s books Mum had collected to read to me, would watch the cars line up the front of the house then obsess over that sinister tapestry and fall asleep out of boredom.
Only once did I gain the courage to check on Mum by sneaking to the end of the hall and peeking from the dark corner of the stairs down to where they were all laughing, drinking, smoking, and kissing.
It was early in the night, so there was only one naked woman.
She was loud as several men touched her. It all looked so disgusting, so I left.
Although I was relieved Mum was safe, I couldn’t stand how comfortable she was among them, how well she fitted in.
She was nothing like the woman I used to know; she’d become a stranger I wasn’t sure I liked.
I had watched her place her purse on a side table next to the grand couch, then walked back to my room and didn’t come back out until Monday.
I was grateful every time the cook brought me food, but when I looked into her eyes silently asking what she thought about the state of the house, she stayed expressionless.
Mum’s purse was in the same spot when I came down, so I opened it and grabbed her cell phone.
It had the option for the camera without needing the passcode, so I took pictures of their faces, their bodies pressed against one another, skin upon skin.
One young man was splayed open like a sea star, his hairy, sagging balls and small penis in plain view, allowing me to take pictures of them.
After taking as many pictures as I could of every face and body.
The old cook came into the living room and called, “monsieur Killian...” Startled at the sight of her while I was doing something dangerous made me forget the phone on the coffee table.
I followed her, knowing she had my breakfast ready.
There were two stools against the wall where there hung a long narrow shelf for the servants to eat.
Seconds later, we all lifted our heads when a female scream filled the house. “What the fuck is this!” I didn’t recognize her.
The servants and I stayed unfazed by the growing commotion on the other side of the house, until I heard my uncle’s voice, “Star? Care to explain why there are pictures of my visitors on your phone.” Then, I sat up oh so rigidly straight when his question reminded me where I’d placed the phone.
I had not planned for anyone other than my mother to see those pictures.
“Is this what you’ve been doing? Taking pictures of us to blackmail us later on?
I trusted you, Ricard!” the stranger yelled.
The old white female cook standing next to me looked at the gardener across the room as if they were having a silent conversation.
Here we go again is what I read from the gardener’s expressions.
But when I returned to her gaze there was a judgement.
Without a word, I could already tell from her judging eyes that she knew I’d done something wrong. I swallowed deep.
“How could you do this to me?” Uncle’s tone was too even, calm, and deep.
There was a particular pitch to it I had only heard once before when we’d first arrived, and he’d lectured her in his office or library.
“Do you understand how much this disappoints me? After everything we’ve worked on.
” It set my heart racing. Fuck. Although I’d done it to show her a lesson, I was no longer sure I wanted to teach her anything.
I hadn’t thought it through. How can I fix this? The panic didn’t let me think.
Suddenly, I didn’t care what she’d turned out to be anymore or that she’d stopped caring about me, I still cared about her even if I was angry with her.
As long as she wasn’t suffering, nothing else mattered.
I was about to walk out of the kitchen to tell him it had been me when a pair of hands touched my shoulders, startling me and pulling me back.
“No.” The cook had a really thick French accent. I looked up at her but still couldn’t stop myself from taking a peek out the door. “Stay here. Not safe,” she added.
What have I done? Regret wrapped itself around my heart and throat, choking me. I was breathing fast through my mouth, with my eyebrows a little wrinkled, quivering. I had once again forgotten to not be angry with her. Mum!
Sounds of slapping accompanied by guttural screams and collapsing furniture filled the house.
I couldn’t help it. I ran out of the kitchen through the short halls to find him still punching her.
He held her arm while punching her with the other fist. She hung limp from his grasp, but I heard the moan that followed every punch.
No one did anything. No one even bothered looking aghast by the violence. They were too busy getting dressed and talking among themselves about the weather and how they weren’t looking forward to going to work.
She was bleeding so badly I ran and hung from his arm until he somehow pushed me away. “Stop! She didn’t do anything wrong! Stop!” I fell on my butt a few meters back but jumped up and once again held onto his arm like a small rabid monkey.
“I was the one who did it. Ssstooooppp!” I confessed.
He was just about to punch her again when I bit into his arm.
Her body dropped to the floor, and instead of hitting her, he hit me again and again.
The ring he wore crashed against my cheek and loosened a tooth.
The pain radiated through my gums straight to my head.
The next impact forced the tooth from my mouth.
A warm river of copper filled my mouth and trailed out then sprayed when he hit me again.
One hand gripped the collar of my shirt, and the other kept punching.
I wailed and screamed with each punch to my eye, nose, and cheek.
I tried to cover my face but his fist was like a hammer, heavy and powerful.
When it hit my fingers they cracked. The collar tore as I turned, trying to crawl away.
Then the tip of his shoe crashed against the sides of my body.
In trying to to find a way to breathe, to withstand the sharp acute pain, I lost count of how many times he kicked me.
“Ricard! Stop! You’re going to kill him!” she screamed at the top of her lungs while trying to pull him away from me. I was sure I was dying, but it was worth it because I had gotten a chance to see her again, my real mum.
Even with the cuts to her cheek, she looked gorgeous.
Mommy, I missed you so much.
For two weeks, we were free. We lay on my bed, locked away. The only people who had access to us? The doctor who had to put stitches on my body and face, and the cook who brought us food. No more parties, no more meetings. The house was empty of him and his demons.