Chapter 36 Noah
Thirty Six
Noah
It’s the middle of the day, and the house already reeks of booze, piss, and dirty clothes as I enter my home, the door creaking on its hinges as if it were a horror movie.
Ha, I wish.
In all honesty, it’s much worse. Much, much worse.
The people in these walls are much scarier, much greedier, and so much deadlier.
I sneak inside, being mindful of my steps, one wrong move, one sound, and I’d be lying bruised and battered somewhere in this house if I didn’t do what they want me to.
Henry and Elizabeth Miller are the worst of the worst. For the world, they’re my parents; for me, they’re the monsters that keep me awake at night and broken during the day.
And me? I’m that unlucky bastard who has their disgusting blood running in my veins.
I take in the untidy living room littered with empty alcohol bottles, my eyes roam to the kitchen to find it unclean, the dirty dishes piling up high. An exhausted sigh leaves my lips, knowing I’ll be the one to wash those today, too.
Just like I did them yesterday, and the week before that, and the months before that, and the fucking year before that. I can’t remember the last time anyone did any chore in this house—except for me.
My fingers already go numb at the prospect of washing those dishes in the freezing winter. It’s not like we have a dishwasher or even a geyser to get some warm water.
For as long as I can remember, we’ve been poor, not being able to afford the barest of necessities. And I’ve long stopped hoping for my life to change for the better.
My only option is to endure until I can get out of this hellhole.
With a tired shake of my head, I pad into the kitchen, careful not to step over anything that would alert them to my presence. Slowly opening the kitchen cupboards, I scour each of them, hoping to find something to eat.
They’re empty—obviously.
My body stiffens at the sound of heavy footfalls, getting closer with every passing second. I feel his looming presence before I see him. I turn on my heels, my worn-out backpack hanging over my shoulder.
The body of the man who scares me the most in the world materializes in front of me, stumbling into the kitchen. He looks like the older version of me with a drinking and a getting high problem—blond hair and sunken green eyes.
Though admittedly, he looks decades older than he actually is, with his wrinkled forehead lines and slouchy posture. But you’d be a fool to think he is weak. Or maybe it’s just because I’m still a kid.
Regardless, my father’s got a mean right hook, the kind he likes to often test on me. Pain flares from yesterday’s bruise across my ribs at just the thought of his punches. I hate that I cower and stumble back into the kitchen counter when he walks closer.
“What are you doing?” He grunts, his breath reeking of cheap beer as he ruffles his unruly hair, looking at me like I am an insect and not his fucking son.
“Came in to clean the dishes,” I reply, cocking my head at the pile up.
His eyes turn to slits, my heart rate picking up as my stomach drops, already sensing what is coming. “Why isn’t it done already? Where the hell have you been?”
“To—I was at school,” I stutter, my body trembling with fear of the inevitable.
I flinch despite myself when his hand slams down on the counter beside him. “If you’re off gallivanting to school,” he spits, “then who do you think will do the chores, you brat!”
That’s not my job! I want to scream, but I bite my tongue until I swallow the metallic taste of blood I’m so acquainted with.
“Stop wasting my money on your books and give a hand around the house.” My money, I want to correct him. I’m the one who’s keeping us above water. “Your stupid ass is not gonna be the next Einstein anyway,” he scoffs.
My self-esteem diminishes a little bit more. It’s not like I’m claiming to be the best at my studies. But I get good enough grades. Though the ice hockey program at our school is what keeps me going back.
When I enrolled in it last year, it was like I was transported to an entirely different universe. Stepping on the ice made me forget that the world is trying to eat me alive. It gave me an escape.
And when the coach looked impressed with how quick I was on my feet, he suggested I stay on the team. Since then, not a day has gone by that I haven’t stood between those pipes and stopped the pucks flying at me.
Hockey gave me purpose.
Naturally, I’m not about to tell him about it and let him take it away from me. He took my mother, my childhood, and he takes away the little I earn by doing odd jobs around the neighborhood.
I don’t get paid much either, not when we don’t live in a good part of the city. Henry Miller even spends those scraps on finding his next fix. As does my mother. I remember her caring about me, but it’s all blurred and hazy memories. Probably something I conjured up to soothe myself.
Elizabeth Miller is no different now. She may not hit me, but she doesn’t stop him either. Just stands there and watches him beat the crap out of me until he’s passed out or gets what he wants.
I hate her more.
“Don’t just stand there and gawk at me. Get to work,” he barks, his tone making me jump.
Without another word, I drop the bag and turn to wash the dishes. He swoops up my bag without wasting another second and empties it right on the floor.
With wide eyes, I go back to stop him. “What are yo—”
He silences any protests with a smack of the back of his hand right across my face. The shock registers first and then the pain, my head whipping to the side with the force.
The man doesn’t hold back.
“How many times do I have to tell you to pay me for the roof you have over your head?” he sneers, bending down to pick up the thirty dollars and some coins that fell out.
I look at him with all the disgust and hate I feel. Let him see how much I abhor him for everything he is.
“Huh? Tell me,” he demands, getting in my face.
I don’t answer, knowing that it grates his nerves. Mother barges into the kitchen, her dark hair in a disarray. The commotion most likely woke her up.
He swishes his head back to look at her, as do I. She has bones protruding out of her body, eyes dead, just like the man in front of me. Marks of all the needles she stuck in herself.
His face turns red when I don’t let him intimidate me in front of her. He reaches past his boiling point and strikes me in the ribs again. Pain at yesterday’s bruise flares unrelentingly.
When I still don’t let a sound out of my mouth, he becomes unrelenting too, pushing me down on the floor and hitting me with whichever limb of his he can. Unsurprisingly, his belt joins too.
In the heat, he picks up a broken glass bottle and throws it at me, my eyes scrunching in pain at the cut along my neck. My hand instantly covers it, and the warm blood slides between my fingers as it seeps down my clothes.
I don’t know how many lashes he gives me after that, or how long I grunt and whimper in pain on the ground with tears streaming down my face as I cover my head with my hands, my eyes trained on the woman who wouldn’t do a damn thing to stop him, to protect her son.
Yes, I break too. There’s only so much of his torture I can handle.
Once he’s done spending what’s left of his energy on beating me, he stumbles away, taking away the money I sacrificed my night’s sleep to earn.
Taking a deep breath, I stagger back up, leaning my broken body on the kitchen counter.
Mother walks closer to me, and for a second, my breath hitches, wondering if she’ll show the tiniest bit of remorse for being unable to defend her son from the monster she married as her fingers feather over my bleeding split lip.
I beg her to apologize. To say she cares for me, loves me.
But she doesn’t, no matter how desperate I am for my own mother to revert to the woman she was before she decided it would be better to walk down the path father did and drown herself in cheap alcohol.
“You know,” she begins, her voice low and scratchy, “no one’s ever gonna love you, right?”
I don’t hear it, but I feel it all the same. The ache of my heart shattering into a million little pieces.
How can she say something like that? She’s my mother.
“You’re the reason we’re the way we are. You pushed us into this drunken life by being born. We never wanted a kid or to get married.” She twists my ear, her glare searing through me. “But I got pregnant with you, and we were both forced to marry each other and raise a child we didn’t even want.”
“You could’ve had an abortion,” I say, trying to hide all my emotions but failing miserably.
“Oh, trust me, I wanted to,” she says on a humorless laugh, “but it was too late when I found out I was pregnant. Do you know how expensive it is to raise a child if you’re jobless?
” she spits, shaking her head as if I am the reason she didn’t have a job.
“Your father wasn’t much better either, couldn’t hold onto a job for dear life. ”
I stay silent, swallowing everything I want to complain about, too. Not sure what I can say to alleviate either of our pains.
She clutches the front of my shabby, two sizes too small shirt and pulls me closer.
I’m almost taller than her now. “You’re worthless, unwanted waste of space, doomed to spend the rest of your life alone.
If your own parents couldn’t love you, no one would,” she curses at me, pushing my chest at the end of her words as contempt radiates from every pore in her body.
Turning on her heels, she follows her husband out of the kitchen. I turn toward the sink, my hands gripping the ledge tightly until my knuckles turn white, and my head hangs between my shoulders.
My eyes fall shut, cursing the day I was born. Tears fall from my eyes freely in the safety of privacy, my split lip and bruised cheeks stinging when the salty liquid touches them.
She’s right. If my own parents couldn’t love me, why would anyone else?
I’m an unlucky bastard who brought misfortune upon my parents. And my presence would do the same to anyone who got too close to me.
I’m no good to anyone.