Terror Road: Part I

Mental illness is both hereditary and learned behavior

This is the beginning and the first of a three-part series which make up the first chapter of my life story, with most of the names changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty!). Links to the next two parts are just below, at the bottom of this story.

School in New Jersey was over, and the 1970 summer vacation had just begun. But for seven-year-old Matthew Devroe, it was the worst day of his life. The minute he got home, his ten-year-old brother, Lance, stole his favorite hot wheels car, his mother was sulking in her study, and his father had broken his promise to be there when school was over, again. But that was okay, Matthew had expected that. Just like he expected Lance to hold his favorite hot wheels car hostage above a sewer drain on the curb. “Come on twerp,” he goaded, “Come and get it!”

“Come on Lance!” Matthew begged, clawing desperately at his brother to get it back. But he was a good three inches taller than Matthew, and stronger to boot. “Give it back man! I’m gonna play with Stevie later!”

Lance’s cruel smirk only grew. “Then go and get it!” With a meaty paw, Lance shoved his little brother back, and tossed the Hot Wheels into the drain. It clinked and clattered, tumbling down into the dark depths of the sewer. Matthew let out a furious cry, and with the strength of a seven-year-old, wailed against his older brother. Lance merely let out a mocking laugh while tears streamed down Matthew’s cheeks and his fists pounded ineffectively against Lance’s chest. Soon enough, he grew bored of the torment, and left, leaving Matthew alone on the side of the road.

By the time his father came back from work, Matthew was no closer to finding his toy car, even after almost an hour of plunging and scraping his hand down the drain. His father saw his boy, and with a stressed bark to his voice, demanded to know why he was playing in the sewer. Matthew tried to muster a reply, but his throat was clogged with the mucous which had come from his prolonged tears. With a hand firmly on the back of Matthew’s neck, his father dragged him inside.

Ignoring his son’s cries, his dad sat him at the kitchen table, took a bottle of scotch from the counter, and poured some into a cocktail glass. He looked back at Matthew once, glancing at him like an old trophy which should be shelved and only displayed as proof of past glories.

For the past two hours, Matthew’s mother hadn’t moved much from her prone position on the living room couch, and she moved even less when her husband arrived home — in fact, she thought of herself as a voiceless statue.

But that would not work to keep the manageable silence intact. As the husband spoke to his wife, tension quickly blossomed from thin air, and the voices, which had started as quiet and forced whispers, soon became deafeningly violent and loud. It was all Matthew could do to break away when the chance presented itself, and he found the linen closet down the hallway to lock himself away. He buried himself in his arms and legs and hoped the voices wouldn’t reach him. His foot sprang out involuntarily when his mom’s voice became a shrill cry, and his toe hit upon something soft. Matthew peered through the darkness to the other side of the closet and found Lance facing him. No words passed between them, for the screaming which echoed throughout the house was quite enough.

The following day, Stevie’s grin grew swiftly as his Hot Wheels v8 raced down the plastic rails of the track they had fitted together, and he suddenly spread his arms skyward as victory’s blessing took over. “Ha, I win!” he said.

Matthew forced a smirk. “I’ll get you next time,” and as his gaze fell over the makeshift town of stick-and-stone homes, driveways, and roads they had created, he wondered if that would be true. Stevie, eight years old, was Matthew’s best friend. He lived across the road with his three older sisters and his parents, both of whom worked in the schools. All of Stevie’s family members were home most of the day during the summer as school was out. Stevie’s parents loved having Matthew over, as he was polite and well-mannered, and Stevie was always eager to spend time with his best friend. As the hot summer sun beat down on them in Stevie’s backyard, Matthew realized it didn’t matter, because they were just happy spending time together. Their next move would be to create a new race track and homes of sticks and stones in the shade beneath the large weeping willow tree way at the far end of the yard.

“Aren’t ya excited?” Stevie asked, joy in his voice.

“For what?” Matthew replied.

“Summer! Nothing but freedom and sun!” Stevie replied, and Matthew could only let out a grunt in reply. Stevie frowned and set his race car down. “Come on, what’s the matter?”

Matthew hesitated for a moment. Finding no defense in his silence, he muttered, “Mom and Dad were fighting again.” He then frowned. “Lance threw my favorite car down the sewer.”

Stevie’s expression became sullen. “I was wondering why ya didn’t have it. I know you loved that one.”

“I did,” Matthew said. “Now it’s lost, lost like a fallen leaf down into the sewer river.”

“Hah! Trying to be a poet or something?” Stevie asked with a forced grin. It was a jest, a joke, but it failed to lift Matthew’s spirits. Stevie leaned over, and patted Matthew on the shoulder. “Oh, don’t be a sad sack. Come on, mom and dad would love to have you over for dinner.”

Matthew nodded. Dinner would be good. Especially if it wasn’t at his house. But would his parents allow it?

If they would or not, his mother didn’t really care at the moment. When Matthew got home to ask if it was alright to stay at Stevie’s house for the night, he found his mother packing up a suitcase full of clothes in his parent’s bedroom. She was stuffing her clothes into it with slow, hesitant movements, like she was controlled by a nervous stage master. As Matthew watched his mother fold, then refold her clothes, his throat felt stuffed, like someone had just shoved an entire bowlful of dreaded spinach into his mouth all at once. He wanted to ask if his mother was going somewhere, if she was taking a trip and how soon she would be back. But, as her gaze finally reached him, no words came between either of them.

His mother said nothing, and Matthew’s lips were unable to speak. He broke the silent stalemate by leaving the room. From his own bedroom, he heard his mother finally shut the suitcase with a clatter and then her footsteps echoed down the hallway to the front of the house. The front door opened and his mother left, trying to silently shut the door behind her, but Matthew could hear it close just the same. When Matthew turned towards their bedroom closet, he saw his brother staring at him with wide eyes. Neither spoke; neither could. After a minute had passed, Lance shuffled past Matthew and out the front door.

Matthew did nothing until about an hour later, when he got off his bed and went into the kitchen. He sat at the kitchen table for a while until finally his father came home. Their dad asked Matthew where his mother was, and Matthew had no answer. He asked where Lance was, and Matthew had no answer for that either.

He asked Matthew, “What are you going to do now?”

Matthew answered by getting up, going to his room, shutting the door behind him, and laying down on his bed.

Thank you for reading and for your time, which I know is valuable. If you enjoyed this, please share and applaud up to 50 times. Click here for Terror Road, Part II. Together with Terror Road, Chapter One , published in Illumination Book Chapters and which comes after Part II, these stories make up the first chapter of my memoir, with most names changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty).

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