Page 11 of The Sound Of Us

Axel

Frank’s big, fat fingers sink into my hair, yanking my head all the way back. My skin stretches over my Adam’s Apple. It’s hard to swallow the lump of fear in my throat.

In the absence of the usual stench of alcohol, it occurs to me how much worse it is when he’s not drunk enough. That there is an element of clarity in Frank’s actions. That he wants to do this.

“Why do you think James is still talking about your cock after all these years?” Frank hisses in my ear.

“I don’t know, Frank.”

“You know what your problem is, Axel?” Slobbering words. Spit leaks into my ear.

“No, Frank.”

“You think your cock is too good.”

He means too big. He’s just too mad to say it. Before Frank, I couldn’t have cared less about comparing dick sizes.

But these last ten years, Frank’s hostile obsession with my looks, the size of my penis, the color of my eyes have become unbearable. All the things about myself I can’t change have, over the years, become a spark quickly exploding into an inferno of rage.

I hate everything about me now. I wish I had no eyes, since my gray ones, too big for my face, make me look like a wolf in lamb’s clothing—innocent on the outside but a filthy whore on the inside.

I hate my blond locks, since they make me look like a girl. I should have been born taller than my meagre five foot eight inches. Lips less pink, so I wouldn’t look like I’m wearing makeup because make up is for girls, not real men. I hate the deep dimples that won’t stay away, even if I just press my lips together. Even now, they must be on full display to make Frank even angrier.

“Frank, please don’t be mad,” I beg like a dog.

With my curls still bunched inside his fist, Frank shoves my face into the table. My well-developed reflexes kick in and I miss my still-full plate by an inch, and my nose, this time, remains intact.

“Why not, Axel? You like it when I get jealous, don’t you? When I have to be reminded of how you used to suck James’ cock.”

My cheekbone throbs against the table and my upper lip slides up comically. I can’t breathe through my left nostril.

“You like it when I’m like this, all possessive of you, don’t you, Axel?”

Tears during a beating have long since dried up, stolen years ago by hopelessness. By helplessness. Tears are now reserved for the unjudging toilet seat and all-forgiving shower, where the only one to judge me for what my life is, is me. “Yes, Frank,” I whisper.

He eases his grip, but I know the drill. I keep my head close to the table. It takes a second and then it comes. Boom. Frank slams my head into the table a second time.

Fear breathes through the pores on my skin, pulsing with anticipation and priming me for the coming onslaught.

Alive and alert, my body engaged in full survival mode. My chest closes up, like a demon is sitting right over my heart, sucking all the breath out of my body, forcing me to breathe in short, controlled gasps until the heavy thump of my heart begins to calm down. It’ll be some time before my heart eases itself out of the terror so I focus on controlling my breathing. My finely tuned ears are alert to Frank’s movements: the thump of his boots means the gun. The drag of the boots means more of his hands.

Please let it be the drag of his boots, I beg internally.

It is, and my relief is profound.

Still unmoving, I listen for his breathing. Harsh and heavy means the dishes will also suffer his wrath. That’s also okay. If he breaks the dishes again, I’ll just clean it up when he goes outside for a smoke.

But it’s not the breathing that makes me tremble inside my skin. It’s the low mutterings that are most dangerous. Like he’s having conversations with some invisible person. The low mutterings are the reason for the three pairs of pants and sweatshirts and socks.

Frank once told me that his father had lost his mind. If you look through our house, you’ll find the windows barricaded with iron bars. The front and back doors have three different locks. That’s because Frank’s father used to think people were coming for them, so he turned this old house into a kind of prison. The big window in our bedroom has been sealed shut for probably thirty years. Only the smaller window on the side works, but that one also has those iron bars. If you came into our house and we didn’t want you to leave, you’d be stuck. I’d begged Frank to seek therapy after things started to change early in our marriage. He just barked at me, saying he was not mad like his father.

Now, his low mutterings increase in intensity.

“You little fuckin’ liar.”

“I’ll bet you want James’ cock.”

“Do they know how fuckin’ useless you are? You’re like a fuckin’ corpse on that bed every fuckin’ night.”

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