1.1

Cries and Laughters

“That terrible face. That terrible voice. You don’t blame him because of that anger, because he must’ve had cause.”

1.

Who are you?

Strange face, wide brown eyes, little fingers poking at me. See if it pokes back. See if it makes a sound. Life’s just a toy, a plaything, think you know everything already.

It’s not you. She kept all these pictures as if to prove it, but it’s not you. You don’t remember that. You don’t remember any of it. Life was never that sweet, never that innocent, never that curious.

He doesn’t even look like you. Too small. Too frail. How can he defend himself?

You must’ve been very young when Father left, not even in school yet. A fight. Mother and Father arguing about something you don’t understand. You and your sister sitting in the next room, imagining, speculating, and preparing for the worst, but too scared to find out. His anger, that’s all you remember of him before he left.

That terrible face. That terrible voice. You don’t blame him because of that anger, because he must’ve had cause. You did something, somebody must’ve done something, to make him leave, to make him shout, to make him look at you that way.

And you were glad he left. Glad to be left alone. Wouldn’t admit it, would pretend otherwise, like it was no big thing. What an awful son. No wonder he left like that.

Your childhood, it makes no sense. Somebody fabricated this ridiculous story and convinced you somehow. Places and people constantly changing, they don’t even have names. If they do, you don’t remember. Like watching a bad movie. No real plot, no point, and scenes that make no sense. You won’t find anything, not the answer you’re looking for. Why does there have to be a reason? To make it easier? Just so you can justify this violence to yourself? It doesn’t matter, it won’t change anything, you gave up a long time ago.

A spoiled brat. Well-behaved from what most people can see, you don’t throw tantrums, you don’t make unreasonable demands, you don’t really ask for anything, but you’re a spoiled brat.

Don’t play the poor kid. Don’t look at me with those weepy eyes. Crying may work on some, but I see through you. You can’t hide, you can’t escape, I can’t let you get away with anything.

True, you rarely get what you want. Your father’s gone. So is your mother most of the time. You move so much you don’t get to make friends. You’re poor, you’re alone, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Still, there’s no one more spoiled than you. Spoiled with respect, spoiled with love, with hope, with expectations, with praise. What do they think you are? A prince? What child gets respect from adults?

An amusement park. A day of fun for the kids from the church, but not for you. Something goes wrong, something really inconsequential, so trivial you can’t remember. Did someone leave you out? Did your “friends” forget to include you in something you were interested in? Did you not get your share of something?

“Where’re you going?” you hear someone say from a distance, one of the teachers.

“Home,” you say, trying to sound indifferent, trying to mask the anger. And shame because you know you shouldn’t be angry at trivial things.

“Something wrong?”

Frowning a little. Of course she’s concerned. You’re the prince after all.

“No.”

Does she expect you to complain? She obviously doesn’t know how princes are supposed to behave. But you know. You won’t embarrass yourself like that.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

Of course I’m not sure. Can’t you tell I’m lying?

You’re angry because you can’t ask for things, even things you deserve, things you should get. Princes aren’t supposed to ask, and you shouldn’t have to, they should know. What’s their problem? Can’t they read your mind? You’re such a brat.

You walk away. In that dignified, princely way that no child could know. But you aren’t really a child, never have been, with the world’s expectations on your shoulders.

Ridiculous, surely. No one asked you. No one even says it. But it’s in the air, it’s in their looks, it’s in the way the universe won’t leave you alone.

You’re better than that. You have to rise above this; you have to set an example. How can you be worthy of anything, anything great, anything truly magnificent, if you can’t overcome such trivialities? Do you expect to reach the top, be the best at anything, without the work, without the struggle, without all the necessary steps to get there?

Would like to just shrug it off. Just pretend ignorance, a false sense of grandeur. Should be easy. Should be the sensible thing to do. I’m just a child; what do you expect? Perfection? Don’t you know that’s impossible?

Wondering why you go along, why you play the role they expect. You aren’t Jesus. They can’t expect you to be Jesus. Yet they do, they insist on it, they don’t know what they’re asking. Will they hate me if I fall short, if they discover how hopelessly imperfect I am?

She splashes toward you playfully. This pastor’s daughter who’s a few years older and has been eyeing you all day. You don’t really know her; you’ve seen her only a few times. Perhaps it’s the pool and the nice summer weather. Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t know many kids of her age at the church. For whatever reason, she likes you very much even though she knows nothing about you. Except that your father is a pastor too, though of another church and another country.

You splash back. Seems like just kids having fun at the pool. But there’s something more, something only you can feel inside, and maybe her. She dunks your head in the water, then retreats so you can’t even the score, smiling a sweet smile as she retreats. You make a face as if to say, “You’re gonna get it!” But you don’t really mind, she’s so pretty, and it’s just her way of breaking through your shyness.

It’s a portrait of how childhood should be: the unfettered blue of the pool matching the sky, water droplets on her skin sparkling like crystals, a boy and a girl skirting the edges of innocence and possibility. A happy childhood is made of days like this, just enough days like this.

“You miss your father?” she asks one lazy Sunday afternoon, swinging back and forth from the swing set. Just the two of you on the church grounds because everyone has gone home. Including you two.

“Yeah,” you say without really thinking. You’re supposed to miss your father, aren’t you?

She looks at you silently. You can tell what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling. It’s not a bad thing for someone to feel sorry for you. You would’ve let her but it’s not true.

“No, I don’t miss him.” I don’t even think about him anymore.

“You don’t?”

A little surprise on her face; maybe she doesn’t believe you.

“I didn’t know him. I don’t think you can miss someone you don’t really know.” Or I’m just making excuses why I don’t miss him.

She thinks for a while, still swinging back and forth. Maybe she doesn’t approve; what kind of son doesn’t miss his father? Probably not a good one.

“Will you miss me when you leave?” she asks abruptly, her expression unreadable. The tickling wind is distracting. So is her swing.

“What’re you talking about?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“I heard Father talking. Your mother is going to work for another church.”

“Of course.”

Shouldn’t be surprised. She always does this. Another school to get used to, another church to get used to, what’s the point of making friends if you’re just going to leave them? Still, you wish you’d known this girl better.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“She never tells me.”

Quiet. Just the idle motion of the swing and the air making space for her. The world changing wholesale during the silence: it’s not the same ground, not the same sky, everything’s alien, even her. You wish you could hold on to her, take her with you to the new world. But she’s slipping, slipping away as surely as everything else has in the past. Soon she won’t know you. Soon you’ll be strangers.

“So will you?” she asks finally.

“Will I what?”

“Miss me.”

“Maybe a little.” You smile.

“Just a little!” she says with mock outrage.

She starts to tickle you, she knows exactly where, she tickles you until you finally agree.

“Ok, ok! I’ll miss you a lot!”

“That’s better,” she says, satisfied.

But she’s not really; you can tell it’s only a facade. Oddly that makes you feel better. You meant something to her, however briefly. You think you see her one last time before she fades away to this stranger sitting next to you on the swing set. Just a glimpse of her true smile. Then she’s gone.

Wherever you go, whatever you do, it’s the same. Always the same respect and hope. They’re always so nice to you, always treat you like you’re special. What do they know that you don’t? They think only good things of you, they think you’ll become a great man, perhaps a man of God. How little they know.

If there are heaven and hell, you’d be lucky to avoid hell, a downright miracle in fact. Yea, you’ll go to hell. No doubt about it. Born in a devout Christian family as a preacher’s kid, no one would suspect. But you know better; you know the truth. Not that it matters anymore, but it took a long time not to matter.

Always on the brink of hell. So close you can sense it. The smell of your flesh burning, the feel of the eternal fire as it consumes you again and again. Never getting used to it, never a chance of escape. Pain so terrible there’s no time for reflection, no time for regret, no time for repentance. Not that it’d do any good. There’s no parole or time off for good behavior. No second chance, no rehabilitation.

What better torture for a kid with an overactive imagination and a transparent conscience? Almost as good as the real thing. The smallest wrong, the smallest sin sending you to the brink of hell. And the big sins, well, forget it. Belief is all you need, they say, but that’s one thing you don’t have. You suppress your doubts, but you know they’re there. You bury yourself in prayers, hymns, Bible studies, the works, but you still have doubts. You want to believe so badly, but you have no control. You try to make up by repenting every little sin, over and over. Maybe God will take pity on you and let you get by without belief. No, no chance of that. How ironic: you can believe in hell but not in salvation.

You wake up one morning (or is it night?), completely paralyzed. Because you think you see Satan looking down at you, dark, red, and forbidding. He’s here to claim your soul; he knows where you belong. You’re so scared you can’t move. Maybe it’s just a bad dream, but you can’t shake it loose. You’re too early! Come back when I’m dead!

They’re just trying to be good Christians. Or maybe because you’re a pastor’s kid, though your father is gone they still know. Or because your mother is practically a pastor herself, doing everything a pastor does except to deliver the Sunday sermon. Or because they see you only on the outside, only your seeming devotion. They don’t know it’s just a desperate, pitiful attempt to stay out of hell. They don’t know the monstrous sins you’ve committed. They don’t know you at all.

A serialized coming-of-age novel about a boy who must decide whether to live or die after surviving an abusive family and the death of his love. Next: 1.2