Page 8 of However You Want Me

“What are you going to do to me?”

“The right thing.” He swings the belt in his hand. “It’s all in the pamphlet. Don’t worry. Your mother knows.”

DEAN

Present day

My dad’s had the same recliner ever since I can remember. The worn brown leather, the soft creak that’s gotten louder. The way it falls back when he drops into it. … it's all familiar.

The chair is also broken, but Dad won’t get a new one even though he sits in that chair every fucking day.

He’s the kind of guy who worries about money and decisions like that. He pinches pennies and spends forever deciding which purchases to make. The house was always the most important. Had to pay the mortgage to keep the house.

The leather on his recliner is molded to his body and shiny in the spots where he always sits. There’s a dent on the right arm where he rests his elbow when he holds his can of beer.

When he drops down into it, I let it go. He’s never getting a new recliner and it’s not like I can get him one. If I did, I don’t know if he’d accept it. He’s too damn proud.

My dad picks up the beer, balancing his elbow in that spot, and extends the footrest. The metal creaks. Probably needs some WD-40. Sometimes I think that chair will outlive me. My dad crosses his ankles, wiggling his toes and the white socks he buys in the big packs at the farm store.

I retake my seat in his living room watching whatever game is on TV. The sound is down too low to hear the announcers, and I don't’ mind. Light slants through the blinds in the living room windows onto the same carpet that’s always been here. No sense in replacing carpet when you can just have it cleaned—or rent the machine from the hardware store and clean it yourself. There’s not much pile left after all these years. The carpet is worn pretty thin.

Still better than concrete.

I stretch on the ratty sofa and try not to think of so-called classrooms with concrete floors. The floors were what reminded me for so long after I came home. If I stretch enough, I can work the soreness out of my muscles and bring my mind back to Haley. I try not to think of her when the thoughts of back then are so raw. I try… but recently, I’ve been failing.

Easy to get lost thinking about her, especially when I think this game might be a rerun. I sort of remember what the score might be, but I don’t really care. My dad isn’t paying much attention either. It’s just better to have something on then sit together with nowhere to look.

It’s comfortable, I guess. House still smells the same as it always did—a mix of old wood and carpets cleaned too many times and wallpaper glue. Not much has changed around here. Same pictures on the walls. Same disintegrating coasters on the side tables. There’s a round rug in front of the TV that used to be a mix of bright colors, but it’s faded in the sun. That’s the only sign that time has passed.

I’m the only other thing that’s different. Although when I sit here, I can almost remember how I used to feel before. If I try hard enough, I can almost pretend none of it ever happened and I’m still the same.

Like none of it ever happened. But then I never would have mether.

That never works for long. My mind doesn’t have to wander far to drag me back to the long nights and the screaming and crying and begging.

The punishments. There were always so many punishments. That shit never ended. None of us could ever do anything right.

It was designed that way. Tough love is what he called it when my father let them take me. I glance back at him and take a sip. He didn’t know.

Sit up straighter. Don’t look at them, look at me. What rule did you break? You broke it again. Straighter. You need to learn. You’re here to learn. Your parents want you to learn. That’s why they sent you here. So you’d learn. You’re not that fucking dumb. Act right! You’re such a fucking failure. You’re never going back at this rate. They’ll keep you here. Better for you here than out there where you’re always hurting people. Why do you hurt them? You hate them, don’t you? Don’t you?

The screams echo in my head.

If you hear that kind of thing often enough, it starts to sound true. My arms would burn from lifting them up and up and up while we did jumping jacks until your body couldn’t take any more. My feet hurt. Once I had a swollen ankle from when one of the teachers tackled me—damn thing was probably sprained—but I still had to do jumping jacks. Ankle’s never been the same since. The pain never really went away.

Maybe it did, but I still feel it.

Haley. I should think about Haley. I’ll never forget the rest of that shit, but I can choose to concentrate on Haley.

My memory of her is like my phone. Hundreds of images locked away even though I know they’re there.

Sometimes she pauses, and something about the way she goes still makes me think she can feel me watching.

I like the thought of her feeling my eyes on her. It’s like she saw me.

No one else really did. They looked right through me.

When her bedroom light is on, it’s like a one-way mirror. She can’t see me watching her, but I can see her. The curve of her neck. The way the fabric slides off her body when she takes her shirt off, smooth and deliberate. How she stretches her arms over her head, so beautiful, so perfect.

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