Over time you can get used to anything. As a consequence, the first slap made him flinch but he didn’t leave. The yelling didn’t bother him nor did the occasional household object shattering against the wall. He had learned to ignore those assaults that were not directed specifically at him. Thick-skinned, maybe. Interested in other things, definitely. More to the point, interested in the now forgotten pot roast and mashed potatoes on the stove.
He had learned not to bring undue attention to himself though. To bide his time. Knowing there would be food left in the pots helped still his hunger. He hadn’t eaten in two days.
The adults had gone out of town and he had been left locked inside the house. Forgotten. Drifting aimlessly from room to room. Unable to prepare food for himself. Never mind being unable to open a can of food, he couldn’t even get the cabinets open. Now he steeled himself against the gnawing pain in his stomach.
The man’s rage usually wore itself out quickly. If he could just avoid getting noticed and avoid getting hit, then he could eat. The last time he got hit he was unconscious for an hour and a half. When he finally came to, his head ached terribly and when he tried to move, his legs, at first, had disobeyed. Fearing paralyzation and undoubtedly the end of his life, he had lain on the floor hoping he wouldn’t get stepped on like his younger sister. He had watched her get hit and stepped on. Her crumpled body lying in the doorway until the woman had come home. He hadn’t seen her since.
When he first came here he had called them mother and father like they were his. He barely knew them. Only knew one was an alcoholic wife-beater and the other just happened to be a wife. If he had his druthers he would be outside but he had had to come here when it got cold. Luck of the draw really. This was probably the worst house he had ever lived in but it was preferable to freezing to death. All he had to do was survive until spring. Then he could find someplace to go outside. Meanwhile, he tried to stay as incongruous as possible and avoid getting hit.
He had held out hope when the adults had come home happy from their trip. But as soon as the man got back on his home turf, with his home-field liquor cabinet, it was more of the yelling and crying and broken household things. Now that the promise of a peaceful dinner was broken, it seemed the man felt he had made his point. Getting up from the table, he fixed himself another drink and angrily threw food onto a plate, dropping some on the floor. Walking out of the kitchen without a backward glance he told the woman, “Get off your fat, lazy ass and clean up that mess on the floor”.
Wordlessly she obeyed.
When he was certain things had died down, he went to the stove. To the mashed potatoes. The woman ignored him like she always did. He looked down at her back as she washed the floor and almost felt pity. Almost. She should really stand up for herself. He had no use for a creature such as her: One that didn’t even value its own freedom enough to fight for it. Looking back to the potatoes he began to eat, slowly at first then speeding up as his hunger overcame his caution. He didn’t notice the man until it was too late. The last thing he saw was a shadow as the man neared the stove. And then he got hit.
Lee Halliday looked down at his wife Christine as she silently cleaned the floor in front of the stove. “Worthless,” he muttered under his breath.
He went to the fridge and got a beer. As he left the kitchen he said to Christine, “Since you’re in here cleaning, throw away those mashed potatoes, there’s a goddamn fly in them. When you’re done, come in the living room ‘cause we’ll need to talk about that.”
Christine nodded without looking up, “Yes, sir”, she said as she continued to clean.
