Page 59 of Double or Nothing
“Better?” he whispers against my hair.
“Much better,” I answer, snuggling even closer.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping alone tonight,” he reminds me with a hint of teasing. “We all agreed. Remember?”
“No, the three of you agreed,” I say. “I don’t remember voting on the matter. In fact, I was so tired when I arrived here, I don’t remember much of anything. Besides, how can I rest comfortably, when you’re spending the night out here on the front porch? What’s going on?”
“I’m weird and fucked up, that’s all,” his words raw and vulnerable. “Same as always. Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about.”
I turn around to face him, our mouths so close we’re breathing the same air. “Talk to me,” I whisper. “Tell me what’s going on in your head. You can trust me.”
He lets out a tired sigh and smoothes my hair back from my forehead, his touch gentle. “Sometimes when I’m lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the air feels so hot and heavy, like there’s not enough oxygen,” he says. “I know there’s nothing physically wrong with the air. But the longer I lie there, tossing and turning, the more suffocated and uncomfortable I become. When that happens, I usually drag my sleeping bag outside where it’s cooler and the air is crisp. I’m able to breathe outside, which means I can also sleep.”
“Do you have any idea why it happens?” I ask.
“I have a pretty good idea, yeah,” he replies, his voice heavy with unspoken pain. “The night was when he would usually come get me, dragging me out of my bed for punishment of one kind or the other. There was a shed at the back of the property where he would take me to ‘put the fear of God in me,’ as he liked to call it.”
“Who was he?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“A foster parent, a sadist, plain and simple. An upstanding man in the community whose hobby was torturing an eleven-year-old child.”
My breath catches at the pain in his voice and my heart aches for him. “What did he do?” I ask, the horror building in me.
“Everything he could think of short of killing me. You’ve seen my scars. They’re a constant reminder of that period in my life. He got off on instilling fear in me, and the begging for him not to hurt me. When that stopped working, when I was no longer afraid of the pain, he became even more evil and violent. By that point, I no longer felt the pain, the burns, the slice of the razor blade on my skin. Whatever he dished out, I could take because I realized he wouldn’t kill me, hecouldn’tkill me,” he explains, recounting the memories that are both a nightmare and a permanent part of him.
I’m almost afraid to speak, to break this moment of trust between us. The things he’s telling me explain his irrational belief that he can’t die. Because that belief gave him something to hold on to and kept him alive when he was being abused.
The stories of his past are devastating, and I want to shield him from the memories that haunt him. But I know that’s not possible.
“How did you get away from him?”
“A teacher glimpsed my scars at school one day. He always insisted on me wearing long sleeves and pants, even in the heat of summer. He never marked my skin anywhere that wasn’t covered by clothing, so no one ever knew. I was at the blackboard reaching up high and the tail of my shirt rode up. My teacher saw the ugly purple bruises on my lower back where he’d beat the shit out of me. She immediately called social services, and I was out of his house by the end of the day.”
“How long were you with this man?” I ask.
“Two years, from eleven to thirteen. A lifetime to a child.”
I reach out and touch his face, my fingers trembling as I try to make sense of the horror he’s revealed. “How could anyone do such terrible things to a child? How could anyone enjoy inflicting pain on a child?”
“They’re sick bastards, and they’re out there. They present themselves as regular people, but they’re monsters hiding in plain sight.”
I hold him closer, blinking back the tears in my eyes, aching for the child he was and the scars he carries forever.
“Where did you go then?”
“From one family to another. From then, until I ran away at sixteen, is mostly a blur. I was damaged and fucked up, full of anger. I started getting into trouble; alcohol, drugs, stealing cars. Nothing was too crazy to try at least once. None of the foster families wanted me and I kept being passed around. I don’t blame the families that tried to take me in after him. I was too much for anyone to handle.”
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. "No one should ever go through what you've been through."
“I survived, didn’t I? And in a sick, twisted way, it made me who I am today. Strong and resilient.”
My mind flashes back to the terrifying scare of the Russian Roulette game. Vulcan isn’t as strong and unbreakable as he believes. The scars from his past are eating him alive from the inside.
“But at what cost?” I ask. “You’ve been through so much, and it left deep scars, both physically and emotionally.”
“Yeah, it has,” he admits. “I’ve found ways to cope. The outdoors, the fresh air, it helps me to breathe, to live. When I’m in bed even now, I still remember the fear of waiting to hear his footsteps coming down the hallway and opening my door. After all this fucking time, I’m still waiting for those goddamn footsteps.”
I reach up to cup his face in my hand. “I can’t take away the pain, but I can stand by you. I’m here for you and I’m not leaving. I swear to you, I’m never leaving again. You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. Let me help you.”
