The Beginning: 1960's
The earliest memory of his parents were of them fighting. He doesn’t remember how old he was or even what the fights were about, but he knew to hide. He would sit on the back steps and daydream. His mother usually sat him in front of the television while they fought. One day after a big fight his mother’s face was blackened and his father was gone.
"Mommy can we do something today?" Christopher asked.
"No," she answered.
“Okay mommy,” he said
She would grunt, almost like an animal.
This summed up the way they talked to each other. He was always by his self so he made up games and friends in his mind to help occupy his self. His mother kept him inside and never let him leave, only to the back porch and back steps.
His relationship with his mentally-ill mother was as dysfunctional as they come. He pleaded for his mother's attention by following her whenever she got out of bed, or sitting next to her bed while she laid there in a daze. No matter what he tried to do she would never give it. She was mean and unloving. She wasn't how the mothers were on television Christopher remembered, but now he didn’t have those stories to see.
Their house was a small bungalow with one bedroom and a den. Christopher slept in the den on a small pallet. There was a beat-up couch and huge mirror on the wall behind it in the living room. There was a small table in the kitchen that they hardly used, but this is where he would gobble up scraps that were tossed to him. What he was familiar with was the pain in his stomach that he felt almost daily.
When he walked by the mirror he would stare at his reflection. He hadn't had much playtime outside so he was pale with dark circles around his eyes. If he wasn't so malnourished he would be cuter. He had dark hair that needed washed and cut, and his eyes were a chilling blue, but dulled by lack of everything that a child thrives on. His teeth were straight but yellowing. His lips were cracked from dehydration. He was the size of a typical nine-year-old. Mentally he was behind a typical nine-year-old, but this was not his fault. He would know more if he wasn’t a hostage in his own home.
His mother was deeply depressed. As long as Christopher could remember she drank her medicine. She did as little as possible with him, just enough to keep him alive. Her guilt and disdain for her son took her to bed, her depression kept her there. Christopher almost wished that his dad was there even if they fought all the time, at least she had words to speak then. Sometimes it would be days that maybe two words would float between them.
Since he was allowed to go to the back steps that is where his boundaries were. There he would imagine what life was like outside his boundaries. He wished for a life like the ones he used to watch on t.v. He hoped that it would happen one day.
He still never wished harm for his mother. He loved her, but he didn't know how to save her. So he took his beatings as quietly as he could. He heard her sobs regularly, but stayed clear during those times. He daydreamed about the world outside and about having friends. He was giving up hope for a normal life.
"Do you want to go in the yard today, it seems nice out?" She asked emotionless.
"Yes," he answered, maybe too quickly but he wanted her to know his answer. He thought she might change her mind, because she's never asked before.
"Let's go then," she said. She was always so cold and distant when she spoke to him.
When they went out they saw in the distance a construction crew building the start of a highway. They both stared in that direction for a while. Both seemed to be soaking up the air, it was almost like freedom for the both of them. Christopher was the first to go down the small set of concrete stairs from the small back porch. It was almost like a time stood still as he stepped down each step since he had spent so much time at the top of them he was new to the feeling of going down them and being at the bottom.
He stood in the backyard taking in the outside, wishing he was a normal kid. He started twirling in the dirt-filled backyard. He didn't mind what the yard looked like he was just glad to be out of the house. He twirled until he fell from dizziness he couldn't help but giggle, it was the most fun he'd had.
As he laid on the ground he looked at his bruised wrists and remember how they got there, then he remembered all of the other bruises and cuts he had on his body that she inflicted all the times before. She would cut him and take chunks of flesh from his body, and the scars remained all over his body. He wondered why she was outside with him today. But he didn't dare ask he didn’t want to have to go back in.
"I wish I never had you, I hate you, you ruined my life," she yelled. Her veins popping out of her neck and forehead. "This is it you little bastard, this is it, I'm so sick of looking at you."
As soon as they came back in the house her mood went from okay to mean. He must’ve been too happy outside and she just snapped. Christopher cowered on the ground, usually when he laid low, the whoopings didn’t last that long.
She slapped him in the face and as he laid there on the ground she kicked him in his stomach. She was relentless when she beat him and this time wouldn't be any different. She whaled on him as he laid there gasping for air, choking on his tears and the bile that came up in his throat after being kicked. He felt the heat from his cheek after getting smacked and felt the wetness of the blood on his mouth. He was pleading with his eyes for her to stop.
"Please mommy," they said, "don't hurt me anymore, please..."
It didn't work. She kept going until she stopped and walked away. He laid on the floor sobbing from the pain. He heard his mother open the basement door and walk down the stairs, what was she getting? He heard her pushing things around and then her footsteps back up the stairs. He heard her approach with a table saw and then blackness.
Pulling…ripping…unconsciousness…
When Christopher came to he realized something wasn't right. The pain was unbearable and numbing. He was in and out for the next few minutes maybe seconds, he just knew it felt like hours.
It was almost like a dream: His mother covered in blood and hammering away with a saw at his body. He was beaten and the recognizable spots on his face were swollen and red, the rest of him was covered in blood. His mother had a smile on her crazed face as she kept hacking away. Each piece she cut and sawed would be strewn around the room. Blood splattered the walls, and around the spot where there had once been a boy.
Why was he seeing this?
She seemed almost content with her mutilation, but as if something invisible was pulling her she dragged herself to her bedroom. He followed her. She reached to her top shelf in the closet and pulled out a box. Inside was a shiny black revolver. She held it in her hand with the love that she never gave to him. He felt the jealousy rise in him. She ran her fingers over the trigger and held the gun to her mouth. She opened her mouth, smiled and pulled the trigger without hesitation. He saw her brains release from her head and splatter on her bed and her body fell limp.
