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great. I crumbled to the floor.
By now, my shirt was saturated with blood. As I tried to
regain my footing, I felt Father s strong hands helping me. I
brushed him away. Give me the dishes, he said. I ll put them
away. You better go downstairs and change that shirt. I didn t
say a word as I turned away. I looked at the clock. It had taken
me nearly an hour and a half to complete my chore. My right
hand clamped tightly onto the railing, as I slowly made my way
downstairs. I could actually see the blood seep from my Tshirt
with every step I took.
Mother met me at the bottom of the stairs. As she tore the
shirt from my body, I could see Mother was doing it as gently as
she could, however, she gave me no other comfort. I could see it
was just a matter of business to her. In the past, I had seen her
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treat animals with more compassion than she did me.
I was so weak that I accidentally fell against her as she
dressed me in an old, oversized Tshirt. I expected Mother to hit
me, but she allowed me to rest against her for a few seconds.
Then Mother set me at the bottom of the stairs and left. A few
minutes later, Mother returned with a glass of water. I gulped it
down as fast as I could swallow. When I finished, Mother told
me that she couldn t feed me right away. She said she would
feed me in a few hours when I felt better. Again, her voice was
monotone completely without emotion.
Stealing a glance, I could see the California twilight being
overtaken by darkness. Mother told me I could play outside with
the boys, on the driveway in front of the garage door. My head
was not clear. It took me a few seconds to understand what she
had said. Go on, David. Go, she persisted. With Mother s
help, I limped out of the garage to the driveway. My brothers
casually looked me over, but they were much more interested in
lighting their Fourthof-July sparklers. As the minutes passed,
Mother became more compassionate towards me. She held me
by the shoulders as we watched my brothers make figure eights
with their sparklers. Would you like one? Mother asked. I
nodded yes. She held my hand as she knelt down to light the
sparkler. For a moment, I imagined the scent of the perfume
Mother wore years ago. But she had not used perfume or made
up her face for a long time.
As I played with my brothers, I couldn t help but think about
Mother and the change in the way she was treating me. Is she
trying to make up with me? I wondered. Are my days living in
the basement finally over? Am I back in the family fold? For a
few minutes I didn t care. My brothers seemed to accept my
presence, and I felt a feeling of friendship and warmth with
them that I thought had been buried forever.
Within a few seconds my sparkler fizzled out. I turned
towards the retreating sun. It had been forever since I had
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watched a sunset. I closed my eyes, trying to soak up as much
heat as I could. For a few fleeting moments my pain, my hunger
and my miserable way of life disappeared. I felt so warm, so
alive. I opened my eyes, hoping to capture the moment for the
rest of eternity.
Before she went to bed, Mother gave me more water and fed
me some small bites of food. I felt like a disabled animal being
nursed back to health, but I didn t care.
Downstairs in the garage I laid on my old army cot. I tried not
to think of the pain, but it was impossible to ignore as it crept
throughout my body. Finally exhaustion took over and I drifted
off to sleep. During the night I had several nightmares. I startled
myself, waking up in a cold sweat. Behind me I heard a sound
that scared me. It was Mother. She bent down and applied a cold
wash cloth to my forehead. She told me that I had been running
a fever during the night. I was too tired and weak to respond. All
I could think about was the pain. Later, Mother returned to my
brothers downstairs bedroom, which was closer to the garage. I
felt safe knowing she was nearby to watch over me.
Soon I drifted back into darkness, and with the fitful sleep
came a dreadful dream of sheets of red, hot rain. In the dream I
seemed to drench in it. I tried wiping the blood off my body
only to find it quickly covered again. When I awoke the next
morning, I stared at my hands which were crusted with dried
blood. The shirt covering my chest was entirely red. I could feel
the dried blood on parts of my face. I heard the bedroom door
behind me open, and I turned to see Mother walking towards
me. I expected more sympathy like she had given me the night
before, but it was an empty hope. She gave me nothing. In a
cold voice, Mother told me to clean myself up and begin my
chores. As I heard her march up the stairs, I knew nothing had
changed. I was still the bastard of the family.
About three days after the accident , I continued to feel
feverish. I didn t dare ask Mother for even an aspirin, especially
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since Father was away at work. I knew she was back to her
normal self. I thought the fever was due to my injury. The slit in
my stomach had opened up more than once since that night.
Quietly, so Mother wouldn t hear me, I crept to the garage sink.
I picked up the cleanest rag I could find in my heap of rags. I
cracked the water faucet open just enough to let a few drops of
water spill onto the rag. Then I sat down and rolled up my red,
soggy shirt. I touched my wound, flinching from the pain. I took
a deep breath and as gently as possible, pinched the slit. The
pain was so bad I threw my head back against the cold concrete
floor, almost knocking myself out. When I looked at my
stomach again, I saw a yellowishwhite substance begin to ooze
from the red, angry slash. I didn t know much about such things,
but I knew it was infected. I started to get up to go upstairs and
ask Mother to clean me up. When I was halfstanding, I stopped.
No! I told myself. I don t need that bitch s help. I knew
enough about basic firstaid training to clean a wound, so I felt
confident that I could do it alone. I wanted to be in charge of
myself. I didn t want to rely on Mother or give her any more
control over me than she already had.
I wet the rag again and brought it down towards my wound. I
hesitated before I touched it. My hands were shaking with fear,
as tears streamed down my face. I felt like a baby and hated it.
Finally I told myself, You cry, you die. Now, take care of the
wound. I realized that my injury probably wasn t
lifethreatening; I brainwashed myself to block out the pain.
I moved quickly before my motivation slipped away. I
snatched another rag, rolled it up and stuffed it into my mouth. I
focused all my attention on the thumb and first finger of my left
hand, as I pinched the skin around my slit. With my other hand I
wiped away the pus. I repeated the process until blood seeped
through, and I was wiping away only blood. Most of the white
stuff was gone. The pain from the pinching and wiping was
more than I could stand. With my teeth clamped tightly on the
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rag, my screaming was muffled. I felt as though I was hanging
from a cliff. By the time I finished, a river of tears soaked the
neck of my shirt.
Fearing Mother would catch me not sitting at the bottom of
the stairs, I cleaned up my mess then halfwalked, halfcrawled to
my assigned place at the foot of the staircase. Before I sat on my
hands, I checked my shirt; only small drops of blood escaped
from the wound to the rag bandage. I willed the wound to heal.
Somehow I knew it would. I felt proud of myself. I imagined
myself like a character in a comic book, who overcame great
odds and survived. Soon my head slumped forward and I fell
asleep. In my dream, I flew through the air in vivid colors. I
wore a cape of red & I was Superman.
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6 While Father Is Away
After the knife incident, Father spent less and less time at
home and more at work. He made excuses to the family, but I
didn t believe him. I often shivered with fear as I sat in the
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