Steve, He Says, Too Softly

“Steve, He Says, Too Softly”

You spit into the sink as you ignore your father's reflection staring you down in the broken bathroom mirror. He's not dead tonight—his eyes actually got some shine to 'em—and in the silver fissure of the mirror his everlasting frown is split in two.

You grimace at yourself, inhaling shards of air deep into your stinging lungs. You grip the sides of the sink with white writhing hands. Hehe—you're getting smashed just breathin'. Your eyes are swimming in the back of your head. Sober up.

Your bare feet pad the floor. Ten thousand veins in your broken tooth throb against your gums. You know you're gonna be hacking up red tonight. That's the price you pay for looking tough.

Steve.

You get halfway up the stairs when your father says your name. Your name. Your own name crawls up the crevices of your spine; the minute he says it, it's no longer yours. It's something he gave you, probably only one of three things he ever gave you, one being his name, the other two being the two lungs he gave you so you can breathe in razor-sharp threads of air. The sound of your own name lodges at the bottom of your spine like the slow twist of a sumptuous paring knife.

You freeze as he says your name again. If he opens his dirty yaw just one more time—

He gets up, and walks around you slowly, like a cat. Your muscles stiffen. You are the rat.

He asks you what the hell is wrong with you. You're bloodied, torn-up, and your eyes are hard and sparkling.

You flash him a wide grin, wide enough to bare all ten thousand veins throbbing in your broken tooth. Ain't you preachin' to the choir, Dad.

His nostrils flare. You know exactly what's next. Now he's gonna whale on you, you no-good dirty low-down bag of thieving scum. He's gonna beat you with every weapon at his disposal...and he won't even have to raise his voice.

Then you'll casually lift an eyebrow and say, Thank you. One of my friends died in that fight tonight. God's finally taken his giant foot and crushed me into the dirt. But even then, I'm still a better bag of scum than you ever were.

And any other night he'd say, Good-night, Steve. But not tonight. No. The old man actually looks like you got through to him.

You blink.

He reaches over to touch your broken ribs. You smack him down. You won't look him in the eye.

You don't know what's come over him. He's sober. He's home. He's like a puppet, staring bleakly into your hard sparkling eyes. It's the first time you notice that you two are the same height. You can't look at him, but now you can't look away. You're feeling like a puppet, too. Who's jerking you by your strings? Your heart flutters to the bottom of your broken ribs, descending like a wind-tossed leaf into the depth of a pond. The pain ripples.

You swear at him because it's the first time you notice he's got water sliding down his face. He's a melting ice statue, leaking straight from the shining pits of his eyes.

Steve, he says, too softly.

And he sinks back down into his chair, shaking his head at the floor. You watch the slow moonlight as it streams in through a nearby window, and finally settles in a glowing square upon his left leg.

Right now, he's so fucking beautiful and distant you want to explode. And you will. You'll rip open the car door, get in, jam the key in the ignition with your white writhing hands, listen to the engine scream, and then leave black steam melting onto the curb. This time, you will. No more saying you will. This time, you fucking will.

Steve, he says, too softly.

You see your reflection staring your father down in the broken bathroom mirror—your hard, sparkling gaze is split in two in the silver fissure of the looking glass.

You never feel as alone as when you're with your father. You know he'll never give you what you want. He's too selfish to. He'll never give you anything but—

He'll never give you anything but yourself. You'll never have anything but his own little puppet dancing around inside of you.

Dad, you say, too softly.

Your father looks up.

And you run off into the pale blue moonglow of the night, the pads of your feet bursting like wings unto the world's eternal stretch of blacktop.