Chapter 26 – Prescot
It was worse.
So much worse than before.
I wasn’t sure if it was from the accident or the stress and pain the accident left me in, but it was worse.
My thoughts.
The memories.
The pain.
It’s more intense. Rapid fire. I struggle.
Every second. Every breath.
New thoughts. Old memories.
Can’t focus. Sharp pain. Dull pain.
Everything. Hurts.
Ki.
I hurt her.
I banned her.
I can’t focus.
She needed more.
So much more.
I’ve been told I’m using too much morphine.
I needed it.
I needed to sleep.
It’s the only peace I have.
Old memories.
My mother.
“Speak!” she yelled with a whip in her hand. “You ain’t no fucking mute boy!”
She always wanted my voice.
My words.
I never gave them to her.
But she gave me hers. So many nasty words and the bruises to match.
The worst memories came at night. When the morphine wore off and I was lucid, hallucinating that she was there with me.
And then I was eight years old again.
Tied to a chair, in our dirty kitchen, roaches were skittering against my feet in the dim light. My mother’s face the only thing I could see.
Her eyes wild, a snarl on her face.
Spitting as she talked, vodka on her breath.
A cigarette between her lips, her fingernails yellow.
“If you don’t speak to me, I swear to all that’s holy, I will beat those words out of you!”
Still, I stared, my throat dry, my words stuck.
I never talked.
The rope was itchy against my wrists, and I squirmed, terrified when I saw the whip next to her.
She flicked her cigarette, the ash landing in my lap, burning holes against my underwear.
She inhaled, chuckled in my silence, and stepped toward me as if my silence was a challenge against her.
She put her cigarette out on my chest and lit another.
Still, I wouldn’t scream.
I had a voice, but I chose not to talk.
I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.
The scariest was when her voice was eerily calm.
“Boy, I’mma tell you somethin’. I don’t give a fuck if you are the smartest goddamn kid in that whole school. You ain’t shit to me. You’ll never be nothin’ but a goddamn disappointment and mistake.”
I heard the sharp crack of the whip before it struck my back, lashing up and down my back. The whipping went on for hours, days maybe. She would hit the same spots, repeatedly.
Still, I would not scream.
Not when she would put her cigarettes out on my arms and legs because she ran out of chest space.
Not when she would whip me.
Not when she would smush rock salt onto my back.
The darkness came for me, but my thoughts remained.
I would not scream.
I would not give her my voice.
My mother didn’t deserve them.
She didn’t believe me.
Thought I was crazy.
I was young, couldn’t handle all the things going on in my head. It took a long time for me to learn how to function and think at the same time.
I still have problems with my words, my thoughts.
But not as much.
Ki.
She deserved them.
I just can’t give them to her anymore.
It’s too many.
Too much.
Burden.
Weak.
Coward.
“Hey stranger, fancy seeing you here.”
I knew she’d find a way. Sooner than I gave her credit for.
“Ki.”
My words were shit.
But she smiled.
God, her smile.
Always hypnotic.
“I told you the other day I wasn’t going anywhere, but I guess you weren’t listening, so I’m here to tell you again.”
“Ki.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Prescot. I’m fighting for us; whatever we had I liked, and I want more. There could be so much more,” she kneeled in front of me, and I gave her my eyes, “for us, Prescot.
Old memories.
New thoughts.
My mother.
“Speak!”
Her words hurt.
And so did mine. “I can’t.”
Defeated.
Useless.
“We can. I’ve been here every day for you, praying for you, waiting for you.” She grabbed my hand. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Pain.
Suffering.
My head hurt. Legs. Hips. Feet.
My words.
She wanted my words.
Her hand touched my cheek.
The elevator dinged.
Her eyes.
Tears.
I hurt her.
“Please, Prescot.”
No words.
“Speak!” my mother’s voice shrieked again.
No words.
It was better this way.
She didn’t need complicated.
She was simple.
Easy going.
Laid back.
She didn’t deserve this shit.
I left her in the elevator.
After my pothead therapist helped me to bed, he spoke, “I don’t know much about your relationship man, but that woman . . . she’s a keeper.” He pulled the covers up so I could reach them. “Not many people are cut out for the long haul, but she is.”
No words.
New thoughts.
Old memories.
“She’s not that bad to look at either.”
I cleared my throat, and he got the hint.
“I get it. But since you can’t unhear my words, I’m going to say this – it could have been worse. I see people in all kinds of conditions, and you were lucky. You have your legs, you just have to learn how to use them again, and that’s what I’m here for. It’s not the best time to be pushing people away because as strong and independent as you are, you still need someone. And that girl, she’s it. Don’t let your ego or pride get in and fuck it up.”
Regrets.
Ki was now my biggest regret.