Page 24 of Outlaw

I’m seeing red as I drive, my foot on the accelerator, speeding toward my old house. My parents’ house. I may have grown up there, but I never considered it mine. Too many bad experiences – bad memories. But my dad’s dead now, and as far as I’m concerned, the house can die with him.

As I wheel into the driveway, I feel like a kid again. The house hasn’t changed one bit. Even the old, broken-down lawnmower is still right where Dad left it by the old shed that came with the property.

The rope swing is still hanging from the oak in the front yard, but one side has frayed and snapped, and the seat is resting on the ground. The paint is faded and the front steps are caving in, and it feels like only yesterday when I decided I was going to run away.

I grab the gas can from the bed of the truck and stride quickly up the lawn to the front door. The lock never really worked, and Dad never repaired it (even though he always said he would), so I do what I always did as a kid – I shoulder the door in.

It swings open and my breath catches in my chest. Even the inside is just as it was. Only the kitchen has changed; it looks like Mom had someone replace the old sink and fix the door on the dish cabinet that always hung sideways, but other than that, everything is the same.

It even smells the same.

Memories play out in front of me like movie scenes

projected from the sky. I see myself sitting on the couch as my dad screams at my mom. I see my mom taking her anger out on me while I play with my Transformers and try to block it all out. I see me hiding by the fireplace as my dad, drunk out of his mind, searches for me.

The house is poison, and I’ve got the antidote.

I uncap the gas can and walk to the living room rug, but as I’m about to douse it, I hear footsteps behind me.

“Son.” It’s my mom’s voice. “Don’t do it.”

I turn to face her. I grit my teeth; I’m not 12 years old anymore. She’s just a woman – just like any other woman – and I’m going to treat her that way.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I snap. “This place should be ashes.”

To my surprise, my mom nods. “Yeah, maybe it should. A lot of bad memories here, huh?”

She steps inside and tosses her keys on the table like she always did. I watch her as she walks through the kitchen and living room, running her hand across things, looking at them almost sadly.

“Have…you been living here the whole time, Mom?”

She turns to me and I see she’s crying. As much as I hate her, she’s still my mom. She made some mistakes, a lot of them, but I’m not a cold-hearted bastard. There’s still love for her in my heart.

“I couldn’t leave,” she tells me. “Just like I couldn’t leave your father.”

“Why, Mom!?” I practically shout. “Why couldn’t you? He was terrible! He’s the reason I left!”

“I know!” she cries as tears burst from her eyes. “And it killed me, Christian. It killed me…”

She collapses down onto the couch, head in her hands. I didn’t think seeing her like this would affect me so much. I go over and sit down beside her. It just feels like the right thing to do. I put my hand on her back. It’s the first time I’ve touched my mother in eighteen years.

“He never would have let me take you,” she finally says. “We never could have gotten away from him.”

I start to see it now; my mom was trapped like I was, only she couldn’t just get up and run away.

“You could have been nicer to me,” I tell her. “You didn’t have to slap me.”

“I know,” she cries. “I know, Christian, I know. I just – your father never wanted to see you cry. It only made him angrier. I thought…if I could get you to stop…”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I say, wrapping my arm around her. I don’t even know if I believe it yet, but I wanted to say it, so that’s a good sign. “I forgive you.”

“You…you do?” she asks. When she looks up at me, her eyes are red, and her eyeliner is streaking down her cheeks. I brush it away with my thumb and nod.

“Yeah. And you know what? I think I also have a plan for this house.”

16

Christian

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