The Childhood of Mr. O'Connor

I never had a father.

Instead, I got some drunk who barely lived in my house. If you could call it a house…but that’s not really important. I could’ve lived in Buckingham Palace; if it was still with that man, I would’ve wound up just the same. I guess you could say I believe in that thing called ‘fate’, but I just think it sounds the most reasonable. That man ended up with me for some reason, whether it was a divine joke or a crack head’s blessing. Can’t change that.

I remember so well his drunken swagger that always carried with him the nauseating scent of vodka and cocaine. It was like a putrid wall that constantly surrounded him – as thick as iron and nearly as impenetrable. I had always imagined myself hugging him, but I could never gather the courage –or stomach – to even get within four feet of his sickening self.

I’d hug my blanket instead.

That grubby old piece of shit got me through some rough times. Whenever my old man would come storming in my room come three o’clock in the morning – yelling at me for something we both know I didn’t do – I’d stuff that old rag in my mouth so Mama wouldn’t wake up from my screaming. At least, that’s what I would tell myself. I knew that I did it so the old man wouldn’t hear me cry.

But boy did that man beat the ever loving crap outta me. I swear. My backside must’ve been bright red for the first whole nine years of my life. Even as a young man I can’t look at a black leather belt without cringing. Though, looking back on the whole episode, it does have a somewhat sick and twisted humor to it: A skinny white boy in the dead of night, tears running down his flaming cheeks, gnawing on the corner of a blue and battered blanket just so he won’t make his daddy ashamed.

I put up with that man’s beatings until the day he
drove off.

I don’t know why, but he came home one day and just decided that he didn’t want to be there anymore. Of course, he didn’t leave without giving my mother and me a goodbye present. Mama had a broken arm and I had a black eye as well as a chipped tooth. Regardless of the pain, I still didn’t want him to go. I fought him back so hard; he thought I was disrespecting him. He hit harder. He didn’t see I only wanted him to stay.

Swigging down another Jack Daniels, he lurched through the front door and made his way down the porch steps. I threw myself at his feet; his God-awful feet, and I begged him not to go.

“Daddy, please don’t leave me and Mama! We’re a family!” I could barely utter the words—my throat was almost too swollen from crying.

He kicked me off of his shoes, of course. I wasn’t really shocked. But it still hurt. And I don’t mean the bruises that showed up afterwards. Though what he said next branded itself into my very soul, completely shattering all remnants I had left of my ‘innocence’:

“From one bastard child to another—don’t think for a second you have a ‘family’.”

So that was it. He left me with the only honest thing he’d said since the day he was born. And as I stood on the front porch, clutching my filthy blanket, the only person I had ever secretly looked up to staggered into his car and drove away. Away from me.

In that damned car.

I hated that car. It just made my blood boil looking at it. Even thinking about it just pisses me off—the rusted bright red paint coated in an inch thick of dirt, those raggedy gray tires that always seemed to be flat, that loose license plate that always seemed to hang on by just a thread…and those seats.

Cracked and faded in the more handsome areas, those leather seats were disgusting. The back seat was by far worse than the front two. The leather was nearly shredded and the seats absorbed the indescribably harsh scent of sweat, stale beer, and vomit. Sitting back there was a nightmare. But it wasn’t really the car itself that I hated—no, it was much more than that. It was what the car had done.

Or rather, what the car had allowed.

The car allowed my father to stay out as long as he wanted, leaving my mother and I home alone. The car allowed dad to waste money that he should’ve used otherwise for the house. The car allowed him to leave.

I sit here now, thinking about these things. Thinking about my past. My life. What I’ve done, what I haven’t. Whether or not it was all worth it; the choices I made later, I mean.

Ah, man. Do I have some stories to tell about my teenage years—

“O’Connor. It’s time. Get up.”

Time to go? Already?

Well, looks like story time is gonna be cut short. Sorry, kids. The Chair is calling my name. Guess I don’t have any more time to regret all that stuff. But you know what? After all this thinking, I’ve come to the conclusion:

“Come on, O’Connor. We’ve got to go.”

Sorry about that. Let me get situated for these nice officers. They’ve been my only company for a few months now. I wonder how they feel, knowing that they’re looking at someone who’s about to die? However, now is not the time to be talking about that. Allow me to continue with what I was saying before.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I probably would’ve turned out just the same way even if my old man was normal.

“Alright, let’s get you out of here.”

“Yessir, Officer Marsh.”

I don’t have much time left for explaining things. Dread is starting to creep into my thoughts, and I can’t think straight while I’m fussing over death.

So let me say this before I leave for good: My fate was probably sealed from the day I was born. That’s that. No matter how I grew up, or what decisions I made, I most likely would’ve ended up in the exact same way I am now.

But a hug might’ve helped.