The mystery of Love

The furious yelling and the heavy pounding reverberated, a harsh sound that clawed at the ears and seemed to vibrate the very air, refusing to stop. I could smell the scent of old cigarette smoke seeping underneath the crack of the door-still hanging in the air. Fear — an icy dread — clawed at my insides. My vision blurred, a tunnel closing in, while a silent scream echoed in my ears.

“Why is this door locked, boy?” my drunken father slurred, rage thickening in his voice, which boomed through the doorway. The rough scrape of his boots echoed, followed by a jarring thud as he kicked the doors splintered lower panel. An aroma of his aftershave seeping through the cracks of this old house permeated the air, a familiar scent that always surrounded him.

“I’m tired,” my voice quivered, its faint sound reaching, snaking through the cracks around the door. A rather suffocating silence hung heavy in the air. My trembling fingers performed a nervous drumbeat on my leg, a display of anxiety. The sound of my heart pounding, deafening and tangled, reverberated in my ears, serving as a ceaseless reminder of the tension saturating the room. I could not summon the bravery to utter another word. My silence was overwhelming.

The heavy weight of regret settled upon me like a suffocating blanket, as if the air had turned dense and oppressive. Was this the right decision? He’ll kill me when he gets through this door, whether it’s today or tomorrow.

Exhaustion pulled at my features, lines of weariness etched around my eyes as they begged for rest. The imminent threat pressed against the door, and the sound of his voice, laced with disdain, cut through the quiet: “What you thinking, locking a door on your dear old dad?”

“What do I do?” I murmured; the words hung in the air, unheard but felt; my mind was a whirlwind of unanswered questions. My desperation was palpable as I searched for the elusive answer. “There! “ I gestured as though an ally existed within. Against the wall sat a vintage ladder-back chair, its aged wood and worn upholstery telling stories of the past. I remembered what dear old Dad taught me during our stay at a motel in Dawson, Illinois. The place was a dump. The broken locks in our room were an open invitation for anyone with malicious intent to enter.

“Watch and learn, son,” my father said. He positioned the back of a chair under the doorknob to prevent anyone from entering while we slept. “It’s better than any lock,” he said, smiling with a hint of wisdom, as he gestured towards the obstacle that would prevent anyone from entering the room. “Your great Dad!” flopping my head on the pillow.

That’s it! I’ll wedge the chair under the doorknob to create a makeshift barricade; I’ll show him.

Facing pressure, I slid out of bed, being as quiet as possible, tiptoeing across the room. Floorboards creaked beneath my feet, sending shivers down my spine. My face muscles tightened with fear, yet I kept repeating to myself, “One step at a time,” Shaun. With careful precision, placing my hands on the sides of the seat, maneuvering the fiddleback chair beneath the knob to secure it. “The chair is slipping.” I whispered, hoping he didn’t hear me. A cold sweat formed on my face from fear. A wave of nausea, like a rogue tide, crashed over me, pulling at the already fragile threads of my composure.

The banging stopped. My eyelids drooped, heavy with weariness, while every muscle ached with the weight of the turmoil that had consumed my life.

“I’m back!” “Did you miss me?” he said, his voice a low growl that vibrated through the wooden door. His rough beard scraped like aged oak, a harsh rasp that announced his presence. The threatening words spilled out, thick with venomous anger.

“What’s wrong with you! Little shit?” His voice rose, cracking with contained fury. “Open this fucking door!” I could visualize his furrowed eyebrows, like a crinkled map etched by time and worry, scrunched in a permanent expression of disapproval. I could picture stale beer and cheap tobacco clinging to his powerful body, a familiar, and unwelcome aroma that often permeated the surrounding space. The silence that followed his outburst hung heavy, thick with unspoken accusations and the palpable fear of the unknown.

The silence hung thick, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart. I stared at the empty space, my breath catching in my throat. Had it worked? Was he gone?

I couldn’t help but question whether he had provided me with solace. He must’ve been quite drunk, one pondered. As I gained my vision, I looked around the room. Dim lighting casts ominous shadows, hinting at a presence in the room. As I glanced over, my bed seemed to beckon me with a muted plea for return, promising a cozy refuge from the brute. I rose from the door, sensing the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. My body still trembled as if caught in a storm; fear and exhaustion swellings within me. Yes, my bed, the familiar comfort of the worn mattress and faded floral sheets, was a beacon in the storm brewing within.

I crawled in between the sheets, lowered my head into the comfort of my pillow, experiencing its coolness against my skin. The softness embraced me, easing my body into a state of pure relaxation. The gentle scent of fresh linen wafted through the air, adding to the blissful atmosphere. With eyes closed, surrendering to comforting oblivion.

Thinking of school as my sanctuary, I faded from the violence. The sole spot where I experienced a feeling of security, guarded from the harsh realities that troubled my life at home. The chance to escape the suffocating fatigue. I’m exhausted, I confessed. I couldn’t take another night of card games, cheap booze, and his slurred tales. The most undesirable part was his ongoing perception of his arm muscles. I then prayed.

God, I see it in other homes with other kids. You know, Beaver and Andy and Mayberry have great families that say the words to each other, I love you. Is love real or is this reality? I always prayed, wondering if God was listening. It often seemed he was too busy to worry about my problems.

Drifting away like a rowboat on a peaceful lake, hoping to avoid becoming a human practice target for my father’s knife-throwing expedition. Paring knives were the weapon of choice, tossed at a defenseless basement door that left a silhouette of small holes around my naked upper extremities. Sometimes, even the master of knife throwing missed the outline of the target and hit the real thing . . . me . . . resulting in wounds and contusions. It’s no wonder I had nightmares.

A sharp crack sliced the air, followed by the shattering crash of glass, a tingling spray and then the heavy thud of impact of something heavy crashed through the bedroom window. Startled, my mind scrambled, trying to make sense of the jarring sounds. The familiar feel of cold air. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the sudden silence that followed the initial chaos. Dust mites danced in the slivers of moonlight that now streamed through the gaping hole in the window frame, illuminating shards of glass scattered across the floor.

The sharp sound of Dad’s voice sliced through the air, laced with a bitter blend of anger and dread. “How do you think you’re going to like sleeping in the cold, asshole!” His words hung heavy and cold in the sudden silence.

“Son of a bitch, that fool intends to return to the entrance and breach it.”

“I need sleep!” I repeated over and over again.

“I have got to get out of here.”

“Why can’t he just drink by himself?”

“ His bullshit fighting stories, and making me feel his muscles.” My anger and fear compelled the art of rambling with fatigue.

“If I have to feel his muscles one more frigging time, shit...I dont know.

“I just have to get out of here!”

I prayed. “Dear Lord, where is the love?” “Please help me escape this house of pain and violence.”

“Year after year after year of torture.”

“Send an angel, please, God?”

“No answer.”

“Wait,” I said.

“He isn’t coming.”

“It’s quiet.”

“The asshole isn’t coming, yay!”

“I am going to bed and get at least three Hallelujah hours of shut-eye.”

I crawled into my bed and was sound asleep before you could say, I love you. whatever that means.

I tried to escape dozens of times, running into the frosty nights, hoping to find a place, a person, anything that would offer solace. But I always got caught, his shadow stretching across every horizon, his voice echoing in every silence. My mother tried too, shielding me with her body, her voice cracking as she pleaded for mercy, but her efforts were in vain. He was a force of nature, a storm that ravaged our lives, leaving behind only wreckage and despair. There is no other way. The walls are closing in; the air is thick with dread, and the future stretches before me, a barren wasteland.

Tomorrow after school, I will do it. The only escape. No future, dreams, or hope remains. As God is my witness, I’m coming, Lord. My desire is your companionship, seeking peace, love, that flees me. I need to be loved, to feel the warmth of a gentle embrace, the comfort of belonging. There is none here. The world provides no warmth, and I am isolated. I can no longer bear the perpetuating moments of violence, the stinging beatings perpetrated by the wooden croquet stick; my mother’s screaming, the terror that claws at my soul, the fear that has become my constant companion. I am tired of fighting, tired of hurting, and tired of living a life that is nothing more than a slow, agonizing death. It seems to be a good plan.

It’s morning; the house was still hushed in the deep slumber of dawn; I prepared my plan. The stale air of my bedroom hung heavy with unspoken anxieties and the ghosts of past failures. I walked towards my dresser, the familiar oak wood a silent witness to countless sleepless nights. The cool glass of the mirror reflected my weary face.

There stood a seventeen-year-old body, a canvas of suffering, filled with the jagged, disfiguring scars left by the infamous knife thrower, Dad. Each line, a testament to his cruelty, told a story of pain and betrayal. Tears, hot and unwelcome, trickled down my face, tracing a path down my cheeks and onto the most prominent scar, the ugly, puckered stab wound on my chest. The salt in my tears stung the delicate skin. A burning sensation that felt like the sting of a swarm of wasps, a familiar reminder of the constant, gnawing pain that had become my companion.

I addressed the mirror: “That one is quite the friend.” I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the tears flow. Then, I met my gaze in the mirror, searching for any flicker of hope, any sign of strength. The reflection stared back, a mirror of my despair. “Love is a myth, a brief whisper painting unseen passion.” Condensation formed. The words were a bitter mantra, echoing the emptiness that defined my existence.

Suicide is the only answer.

After school, I walked the streets, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows that mirrored the lengthening darkness in my heart. Each step was heavy, each breath a struggle. I was hungry, with no money. I was contemplating some way to end it today, a desperate plea for an escape from the relentless torment that had become my life. The vibrant city, usually a symphony of sounds and sights, now felt like a suffocating cage. Buildings loomed like silent judges, and the bustling crowds were a blur of indifference.

I began a conversation with myself, the silent dialogue a desperate attempt to find a reason, any reason, to keep going. “I can’t go back home,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. “I would rather starve.” The thought of the house, once a sanctuary, now a place of dread, sent a fresh wave of despair crashing over me. “I can’t bear another moment in that house of pain.” The memories, the arguments, the silence, the constant feeling of being trapped, threatened to consume me. Each shadow held a memory, each street corner a reminder of the life I couldn’t escape. The burden proved overwhelming.

“Where is the love?” I blurted, the words hanging in the air thick with the smell of exhaust. People, a blur of motion, walked and stood in the bustling streets, their faces a mix of shadows and sunlight. The city hummed with a low, constant thrum.

I perceived the Walgreens sign above. “A drugstore,” hope inspired me. “I can get something here to help me finish my mission.” My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drum against my ribs. The fluorescent lights of the store hummed above me as I pushed through the automatic doors, the cool air conditioning a stark contrast to the sweat beading on my forehead. I walked in, my eyes scanning the aisles, a desperate hunter searching for its prey. Toothpaste, Band-Aids, jock itch—the mundane necessities of life mocked me from the shelves. I grabbed a tube of toothpaste, the peppermint scent doing nothing to calm my racing thoughts. “None of this is going to help me die,” I muttered, tossing the tube back into its place. My hand hovered over a box of bandaids, picturing the futility of such a small measure. I moved on, continuing to grab items off the shelves, my fingers tracing the cold plastic and paper, reading the bottle labels with a growing sense of desperation. Each label, each worded warning, fueled the fire in my belly. “There has to be something in this store; it’s a frigging drugstore after all,” I whispered, my voice cracking with a mixture of frustration and a strange, morbid anticipation. The weight of my mission pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating.

“Look, I think this will do!” Nytol. The label read, “A nighttime sleep aid. Ingredients include diphenhydramine hydrochloride, 50 mg per tablet. “Hot-dam,” I whispered, a surge of desperate hope coursing through me. “Sleep,” I murmured, “I am going to sleep.” My fingers brushed against a few lonely coins and a worn-out gum wrapper. Panic clawed at my throat. Would I have enough? The price tag was a blur in my weary state. I held my breath, calculating, praying for a miracle. There it lay in my palm, $2.49.

I stood there, the pharmacy’s fluorescent lights buzzing a sick yellow above me, the sealed box of pills clutched in my trembling hand. The buying felt strange, a distant trade within existence dissolving. The cashier, a bored teenager, hadn’t even blinked, taking my money and pushing the bag across the counter.

Now, outside, the cool night air did little to soothe the frantic hammering in my chest. I fumbled with the packaging; the plastic crinkling in the otherwise silent street. With trembling fingers, I tore it open, the small white pills spilling onto my palm. They looked so insignificant, yet held the promise of oblivion.

I raised the handful to my mouth, my throat constricting with a mixture of fear and a strange, desperate resolve. The first few slid down easily enough, followed by a wave of nausea. I crammed more into my mouth, forcing them past the gag reflex, swallowing until my throat ached and felt raw. No water. Each pill was a hammer blow against the dwindling hope that had kept me going. My vision swam, and the world tilted.

The metallic tang of the pills lingered on my tongue, a bitter taste that mirrored the despair that had consumed me. Tears streamed down my face, hot and stinging, as the reality of what I was doing crashed over me. “This is it. I die tonight.”

The words whispered on the frigid air were a final, desperate prayer, a surrender to the overwhelming darkness. The cold concrete beneath my feet felt distant, a silent witness to the end I was choosing.

“My sole desire involved being cherished, loved,” I vocalized during my descent. The longer I walked, the darker the world became.

Concrete clicked underfoot, a rhythmic beat accompanying the disembodied voice. Sunlight warmed my face as I walked, guided yet unbidden. The air smelled of distant bakeries and unseen flowers. A sense of peace, of complete trust, settled in my chest.

Darkness. A firm grip on my arm, the only sensation. “Hello, are you an angel from God?” I think I shouted. Silence, then my own voice, echoing in the void. Panic clawed at my throat, fear a cold wave washing over me. Tears streamed, a futile plea against the inevitable. A hollow certainty settled: I was already gone.

I pleaded with the Lord to give me another chance to live.

No answer.