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Sixteen-years-old
What’s that saying? There isn’t a love like a mother’s love? It’s true. My mom will do anything for me, but there’s one thing I’ll never be able to tell her. If I do, Dad will make me pay. And I have to make sure his abuse stays directed at me so I can protect Mom. She doesn’t know his ways or his harshness.
I have the scars to prove it, wounds that I’ve hidden from her for years. We pretend to hold hands at the table, say grace, and laugh. Dad tells us about his day at the hospital and all the lives he saved because he’s a surgeon.
And he practices his techniques on me.
Like right now.
I can’t stop the tears that drip down my face. My entire body hurts so bad. I can’t handle the pain. My skin is raw, cut open, and I know the evening is just starting.
“You were a bad boy today, Eric.” The surgical tray clinks when he picks up another scalpel, one that’s probably sharper so it can cut through my skin like butter.
I shake my head and do my best to hold in my emotion. The more I cry, the more he cuts me. Boys don’t cry. We aren’t allowed to show emotion. This is supposed to make me stronger. “I wasn’t. I wasn’t bad; I promise, Dad. I made all A’s—” My explanation dies when the tip of the scalpel digs into an open wound. I bury my face into the mattress and scream.
“You’re lying. I know you are because your teacher called me today and told me you made a B on a test. No son of mine is going to be anything less than great, Eric. Do you understand me? I won’t have an embarrassment for a child.” He slides the scalpel down my back, and I roar my agony into the pillow-top mattress. I grip the sheets with my fists until my knuckles pop.
I’m going to vomit.
No, I can’t. He’ll punish me more if I do.
“Yes, sir,” I say, blinking away the sweat stinging my eyes.
“You say that every time, and you continue to disappoint me. How are you going to be a doctor if you can’t make an A? How can I count on you to carry on the legacy? You’re weak. You’re pathetic. You’re a baby!” He stabs the scalpel into the meat of my shoulder, and a murderous blood-curdling scream leaves my throat. He’s never stabbed me before.
“Dad, please,” I beg him to stop. “It’s too much. It hurts. Please, stop!” I cry, unable to stop the flow of teardrops that seep into the mattress. On reflex, I yank against the restraints, but it only causes the scalpel to dig deeper. I bite the sheets and swallow the scream until it’s nothing but a vibration of needles in the back of my throat.
“Does it hurt? Good,” he taunts. He releases the handle of the scalpel. My flesh burns, and the pain explodes into something more, something unbearable.
It hurts so much I can’t feel anything at all.
My body is numb.
The slide of another scalpel leaving the metal tray has my body shivering. “How I raised a son like you is beyond me.” The cold tip of the blade meets my neck, and he drags it along my side. “I bet you’re a bottom bitch, aren’t you?” he seethes, yanking my pants down until my bare ass is exposed. “Is that why you’re so weak and incapable of doing anything, Eric?” The sensitive flesh stings as he cuts along the new part of me. I’d rather him cut along my back. It hurts when he opens new scars, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as when he creates a new wound on fresh skin.
“No! No, I swear. I swear. I swear! Please, stop. Please!” I sob as he continues down my right butt cheek. He stops, only long enough for me to draw in a ragged breath. He moves to my left side and cuts.
He exhales and tsks. “You know what? I don’t believe you. You’re gay, aren’t you? You take it up the ass; is that your problem? It makes so much sense, Eric. Your defiance against me, your unwillingness to do as you’re told.”
I always do as I’m told. Always. But he picks apart everything I do.