by Rudy Fuzaylov

Today, it was the belt. I walked into the house, and he was waiting for me, ready to go. He grabbed me by my collar and threw me down to the floor. Then I felt the familiar stinging pain of leather on my skin. Wpshh. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry, so instead I laughed. Wpshh. Which, to him, was a slap in the face and he began whipping me faster. Wpshh. I tried to stay out of his way as much as I could. Wpshh. I would avoid coming back to my house every way that I could. Wpshh. Staying after school for various clubs and organized events or even just reading in the park. Wpshh. After he was finished, I lay there, a broken, bloody, bruised body, breathing slowly so as not to feel the stings. I never yelled. I never resisted because I think it would have made him angrier. I just tried to cover my head as much as I could and curl up in the fetal position. I found this to be the most effective strategy.

As his heavy footsteps became fainter, I gathered my thoughts and slowly exhaled, closing my eyes for a second, just to slow down my pulse. I remained on the ground and let the wooden floor cool my body. I gently touched my lips and felt warm thickness of blood. My face must have hit the floor on the way down. My back felt hot and raw. My thick hoodie had absorbed some of the blows but some managed to break through the cotton fabric and reach my skin. I slowly got up. He usually never touched my face. Never hit any part of me that could be seen by others. He loved my chest and my back; he would thrash me as if he were trying to break through.

Each breath caused me to wince. I walked to the bathroom to wash my face and inspect the damage done. The time it took for me to remove my shirt felt like an eternity. Slowly, I lifted the sweater and shirt off, just enough to see what was underneath and it exposed the crimson red back that seemed to be steaming. The belt’s width imprinted on my back added to the collection of conversations my dad and I had on my body. When you see it for the first time, every single centimeter of the lashes come to life and they begin to curse the creator who put you in this place.  They battle with your inner psyche, constantly debating whether this was allowed or not, and if it’s justified. The last shot is never fired and there are no flags waved; the war moves from your body to your mind.

From underneath the sink, I pulled out the formerly gray rag that I kept hidden behind the bleach. It was still damp. I ran the cold water and dabbed the weak cloth underneath it and brought it up to my back. Being very gentle, I slowly tapped the new wounds and retraced some of the old conversations. I put the rag down and let my fingers feel the cool flow of the faucet, and I watched the colors jump from my hands onto the porcelain sink. The swirl that it made looked like a candy cane. I looked to my right and saw the window that lead out onto the street. I was two blocks away from the subway and it would only be a short jump from the windowsill to the grass lawn out front. My palms started to go numb and burn from the cold water. I could leave. I could absolutely jump out and run away, far away. The grass would make the landing pretty soft and from there, I’d be free.

But where would I go? Who would take me in? Was I supposed to go to the police and then have to deal with the courts? And from there do what? Bounce around from foster home to foster home until I turned 18? What kind of life was that? Plus what am I going to do, tell the police? They’re so mean and all they want to do is arrest people, never help them. They would arrest my dad and put him in jail. What would I do without a father? But it’s not always his fault. Sometimes, it’s mine. I make him angry, I think. And it’s really not all that bad. I eat, I’m not starving, and I have a roof over my head. Nobody’s family is perfect. Besides, I couldn’t leave him alone. What would he do without me?

In a weird way, I could understand why he loved me this way. He saw so much of me in him that he was trying to prevent me from being like him. Or maybe he just hated himself so much that when he saw my mannerisms and our likeness, it aggravated him. I don’t think I was ever bad; I tried to be good as much as possible. I never talked out of turn, never was rude, and I was always obedient. I did what I was told; I never tried to be overly happy. I stayed away from the teachers and the police officers. I never told anyone what happened, partially because it was none of their business but also because I never wanted to get him into trouble. Some people aren’t the types that hug when they show affection; maybe he was one of them.

But it most likely was my fault. I did have a tendency of coming home late. I guess that could have contributed to it. But I think more than that was my smile. I always liked to smile. Maybe that was it. Maybe he heard about how often I smiled with the girls in my class. Sometimes smiles aggravated me too. It always seemed like the people who would smile knew something that you didn’t or thought they were better than you. I hope he doesn’t think that. I don’t think I’m better than him, not at all. In fact, I think we’re so similar to one another. I wonder if he smiles when he’s away from home too?

I scooped the cold water into my hands and brought it to my face. I tried to wash any of the remaining evidence of today’s misunderstanding from my face. I looked up at the mirror and took a good close look. Proud of the cleaning I gave myself, I ran a towel over my forehead and cheeks and spit into the sink. I opened the door, and said

“Dad, are you hungry?”