Left Drowning

After the church episode, Chris and Sabin talked it over and agreed: they shouldn’t try for help. Besides, even if help came, it would mean they would be split up. Who would take four children? And older children at that? No one. That’s who.

And they refused to be separated. That would be worse than this life. Together they could stand, divided they would fall.

Now that Chris is well past middle school, and fully grown, he has more self-control than he did during that episode with the mallet years ago. That self-control is what allows him to absorb his father’s blow without comment when a second hard hit lands on the side of his head. It’s not as blinding as the first. The repeated direct physical hits are unusual. And scary. Chris recovers quickly and continues moving the concrete and stone blocks from one side of the studio to the other. The underside of his hands is red and raw, and his legs and back hurt, but he is going to be fine. The lashes on the back of his legs sting something awful, but that’s what happens when you stumble, crack the corner of a stone block that could have been used as part of a multimedia art piece, and then get lashed with a piece of plastic cord. Who knew plastic could hurt so fucking much? It’s like that rubber mallet. It was just rubber, right? But his middle knuckle still shows the effects.

Chris drank a ton of water and ate well last night and this morning because he knew he would need to stay hydrated and need as much energy as he could find. He is seventeen years old, going into his senior year of high school, and he is strong, he reasons to himself. Mentally and physically. He can let this crazy bastard do what he needs to because there is no other choice. So when his father a

Rote, exhaustive, pointless tasks are his father’s preferred method of torture. Long hours prove a capacity for physical endurance, or so he says. The lashes and getting knocked around are not typical, though. This could be a very bad day, Chris knows, but he finds comfort in his belief that the others will not be touched. His father’s attention will be only on him today; he can feel that.

So far it’s been three hours, hardly a record. Eventually, this will end.

When the heavy blocks have been moved to his father’s incomprehensible degree of satisfaction, Chris is instructed to put his back flat against the wall and kneel with his arms out. Most important, he is to watch while his father continues to design the nine-foot-tall metal sculpture that occupies the center of the room. He is to watch while the artist lights the blowtorch and while he passes far too close to his eldest son. The heat from the flame can be felt with too much clarity, and Chris repeatedly tells himself that his father would not actually burn him. It’s the game that the artist likes, the taunting and the terrorizing. The utter exhaustion he causes. The breaking.

But I will not break, Chris screams in his head.

It’s been a while since Chris has had to prove his stamina like this, and he curses himself for having slacked off on working out. He is already worn out from the past few days, and his legs are shaking as a searing ache runs through his quads. Eventually his father has him stand up fully and raise his arms out to the side. The smell in the room is noxious, chemicals and burning metal. It’s adding to his queasiness. His arms are past the point of hurting. They tremble, but Chris will not let them drop, especially not while his father still holds that blowtorch. There are risks worth taking and risks not worth taking.

Chris is not sure how long he spends in the studio with his father, but his vision is blurred as he is led out of the room, so he knows it has been a long time. That first hit to the head was probably harder than he realized. He is taken out of the house and across the property. He is given instructions and then kicked in the direction of the ocean. It is when his father kicks him that Chris hears a small sound that is cut short. Before his father has a chance to make sense of the noise, to understand what it is or where it came from, Chris distracts him. He turns boldly to his father and finds the courage to mouth off. “What the hell is the point of this?” He earns a third hit to the head and double the task ahead of him. He has also spared the others. Getting caught hiding in a tree could be very bad for his siblings.

Before he returns to his madness in the studio, Chris’s father reminds him that he will be watching periodically. There will be no rest and no varying from the routine.

Chris walks ahead, relieved to be on his own for the rest of the afternoon, despite what he still has to do. He looks up into the tree and manages a smile. “It’s all right.” Chris knows it’s not all right that he is almost seeing double, but that will pass.

“Chris?” Sabin is crouched on a large branch against the trunk of the tree, and he has a firm hold on Eric and Estelle, both of whom look ungodly confused and terrified. The twins are not that little anymore—they are in middle school now—but they are not used to this. Chris and Sabin have protected them too much, so when they do see the truth, they freak.

“It’s okay, Sabin. He’s gone. I’m going down to the beach for a while. Why don’t you take Eric and Estelle to the movies? And di

“I’m not just going to leave—”

“Sabin, don’t! It’s not that bad this time. I promise you.”

Sabin pauses. “You sure? I don’t have a good feeling.”

“It’s almost over. Go on. I don’t want you guys around, or I’ll just worry. Please take them out of here. For me, okay?” He turns for the beach before his brother can protest.

“Chris!”

“What, Sabe?”

“Take this.” Sabin tosses down a red baseball hat. “For the sun.”

“Thanks, bro. Now go!”

“And here!”

Sabin drops two bananas into Chris’s outstretched hands. “Sorry. I didn’t think to grab anything else.”

“It’s all right, buddy. Thank you.”

Chris hesitates before putting on the hat. His father sent him out here in cargo shorts, no shoes or shirt. He’ll notice the hat for sure if he checks on Chris, but whether he’ll care or not is unknown. There are no guarantees, no rules. Chris decides it’s worth the risk because the sun is glaring today.

Chris scarfs down the bananas and then takes the two metal buckets from their spot on the boulder and begins. He starts at one end of the rocky shore, trudging through the heavy sand of low tide and into the salty water. The sting from the lashes on his legs is infuriating. This is a shitty enough day, and it would be slightly more manageable without the added pain. He berates himself for cracking that concrete block. He is strong enough not to have stumbled. Chris fills both buckets and walks to the other side of the shore where his father’s property ends, and dumps them out. He reloads and repeats the walk. This might not be so bad. Despite the circumstances, Chris loves the ocean. The smell, the sound, the view. It’s sensory overload, and it might help divert his mind, let him dream and fantasize about the good things that might come in the future. After this, everything will be exceptionally wonderful.

The first hour is tolerable. The salt water eventually feels soothing on his legs, and it’s probably good for cleaning his wounds. Plus, it’s helping to keep him cool on this hot July day. The water, despite providing the problematic weight in his already tired hands, is also his ally. He and the ocean are partners in this hideous day. It is not the water’s fault that Chris is suffering.

The second hour is tougher because his body is already so worn out. The past three days have been filled with grueling tasks, belittling comments, and threats about what will happen to the others should Chris fail at what is expected of him. As easy as it would be to let his mind take him somewhere else, into an imaginary world where this is not happening to him, he refuses to go that route. Escaping, blocking this out, will make him insane, he’s sure of that. Reality is crucial, he believes. Prayer will get him no relief. Begging the sky for a miracle won’t work. Chris is able to handle what his father throws at him, and he will just continue as he always has, shielding the other kids. The truth is that the gaps between his father’s episodes have gotten greater and greater over the years. It’s not as though every day in the house is filled with gruesome beatings. Save for a handful of physical incidents over the years, it’s all just a mind-fuck, and Chris will not let that drown him. He’s done everything that he can think of to take care of his brothers and sister, and he’s done a damn good job, too. Chris can’t exactly replace their mother, but he cooks, helps them all with homework, and does the laundry when his father lapses. He even walks Estelle to that church she insists on attending.