Wilson

Wilson

KJ Boisson

Copyright 2014 by KJ Boisson

a Project Junkyard production

Smashwords Edition

Get out of here.

Dedicated:

To those living without happiness, one day it will come and when it does, never let it leave.

To everyone who had the patience to stick around me, I needed you.

To my mother Cindy-Ann Jane, thank you. Really; thank you.

To Dayna, Dylan, Daniel, my family.

To Brittany, my spark.

To Luka, for giving me new life.

Always appreciate the view; many never get the chance.

Get out of here.

Wilson

Some magician, mind-reader dude acting all cool approached me at the carnival. It was the annual county fair, the location looked as if it had been ravaged by a fire mere months before but they went ahead with it anyway. Everything seemed so bleak, it resembled a wasteland; there was the feeling of thin smog lingering over everything. I found it ironic that the Carnival of Life was going on. I sat away from everyone; not being a fan of crowds, too many variables. You never know when someone would try to talk to you and I couldn’t take that risk. Magic-man obviously did not get that memo. He drew nearer to me. He thought he was all smooth, with his black painted finger nails, and his cape and long straight hair. To me he looked like he belonged in a circus, not surrounded by a gaggle of busty blondes hanging on to his every word and psychic reading. I guess some people had it that way with the ladies and others didn’t. I never did. As he approached me I sat there judging him. Who even wears leather pants? I distractedly began staring at the chests of the girls surrounding him, would I ever be able to have what he had? My mind was always sporadic. In my distraction I hadn’t realized how close he had gotten until he put his hand on my shoulder. I startlingly jerked and let out an embarrassing yelp. A unanimous round of female giggling ensued. That must be a personal record I thought, I didn’t even say anything and they already laughed at me. The psychic hushed them and stared at me.

Let me read your mind he said way too confidently; the air of someone who spent lots of time building his own ego. I wondered if this was how he naturally dressed and carried himself or if it was some type of act. Had he seen a mirror? I wondered if I was about to be the center of some type of joke. Why me? I wasn’t bothering anybody.

Let me demonstrate a reading! he pressed again after he realized I had zoned out.

You… you don’t wanna go in there, I was able to mumble out eventually. I was fairly certain that the guy in front of me was a phony. He reeked of mustard, hair spray and one other very unfamiliar scent; I guessed it was some shitty perfume. The combination was putrid. I assumed the ladies with him were either paid escorts, deluded druggies, or were distracted by the thickness of the man’s make-up. Why was the smell not bothering them? Truthfully, I had no definite opinion on whether or not I believed in psychics. But apart from the fact that I hated just about any kind of public confrontation, I didn’t like the idea of someone seeing me so naked, I was mortified. I had been through some things, I knew for a fact, that my mind was not a safe place. I did my best to stay out of it myself; I was not exactly sure it would be a good idea for a complete stranger. He was speaking but I was consciously aware that I was in a daze, lost in thought, paralyzed with fear as the thought crossed my mind that another person could be able to see the monstrosity I called my conscience.

Hey kid, are you listening to me? I’m not taking no for an answer, he was beginning to get pushy, he seemed relentless.

After a pause, I swallowed heavily.

Okay but it’s a waste of time, I said nervously, adding in a half laugh, half scoff so it could seem like I was calm. The sound that emerged was more of a scared snort. Thankfully my dark complexion prevented the showing signs of blushing; I didn’t want to sink even lower in front of the girls. Right now I guessed they viewed me as a solid three, any lower and I would have no shot! I cracked myself up sometimes, I knew there would be no shot regardless but a guy can dream. The magic-man placed his hand on my temple; I had concluded that there would be no deterring him, so allowing him to run his ritual and leave me alone as soon as possible would be the next best option. I had also concluded that he was a phony anyway so he would say something generic and I would act amazed. Even though I basically hated his existence (mainly for the glitter patterns on his shirt), I would try to make him look cool in front of the girls, he better get lucky tonight I thought, for me. I missed the first bits of the prophetic spew but when I finally tuned back in he was saying things like You have an ill relative in your family; you are having money problems, blah blah blah. As I was sporting a breast cancer awareness wristband and dressed in torn and tattered jeans and shoes I was not surprised at the so called predictions which were basically just inferences from limited information.

Whoa, I managed to spit out semi-enthusiastically. I felt like a wingman. I began to notice though, during a period of his silence, that he was beginning to sweat, as if he was having trouble with the information he was receiving. He reached for his back pocket and withdrew an item. My chest tightened and I could almost feel my eyes dilate. All moisture had vanished from my mouth and there was a tensing, stiffing sensation in my neck and upper body. It took all my power to keep my stomach from practically leaping out of my throat. Before I could respond from my shock and horror, he began speaking in foreign tongues, his eyes rolled back in his head and his nose began to drip; not snot, not blood, but instead a blackish liquid that resembled old car oil. My already wide eyes widened even more. The magic-man began shrieking hysterically; his hand, although pale in complexion now resembled that of someone very sickly but he still clutched the copper, round, coin-like item firmly. The girls began screaming hysterically; I had seen this before. As the girls ran away flailing and yelling, all I could do was stay seated on the wooden barrel and stare; trapped by fear. This couldn’t be possible I remember myself thinking. I began to grow cold, and magic-man’s shrieking sounded distant, like it was coming from a performance further off in the Carnival that was still taking place in the area. I remember I could feel my heart beat slowing and my mind beginning to float. I was standing on a cloud looking down at everything; looking down at myself. Finally some relief from my thoughts I grinned as if in a state of dazed relaxation. I slumped backwards off my seat on top of the barrel and into the shrubs around me; everything darkened and then blacked out. I was unconscious.

My name is Jamie Wilson, and this is my story.

***

Sharon! my father barged through the door.

It was about seven o clock on a Tuesday evening. He reeked of whiskey and onion rings. His shift at work ended about three hours ago. Only three hours of drinking today, he must have been running low on money, or he was kicked out of the pub, or he was chased by a bear, or he thought he was in the restroom or this was an illusion, I thought. My father never left the pub after three hours. What a role model.

Sharon, come here where are you? he stumbled and slurred like a man who had just had a couple drinks which was impressive because I knew he had more than just a couple. The man could hold his liquor. He could probably drink everything in the bar if he could afford it. What a role model.

He never acknowledged me, I always wondered if this was good or bad. Surely my mom Sharon wished she wasn’t the center of attention. She was very soft-spoken. I sometimes forgot what she sounded like for periods at a time. My mother was in the kitchen making dinner, the same place she stood every day, the same place my father found her every day. I always wondered why he always called for her; short term memory loss maybe. We lived in a small townhouse. The kitchen was very visible from the entrance to the living room where my father so gracelessly entered, every day.

Sharon you bitch you never answer me! he walked over to her and rubbed her arms. She tensed up. It was like clockwork. He kissed her neck, she tensed even more.

You missed me today darling? he would say something sweet but the phrase wasn’t always the same. He genuinely had sweet phrases sometimes. I never understood why. He pushed whatever she was holding onto the counter and became aggressive; never paying any attention to the smashing plates or ruined dinner foods. He was oblivious to everything except the woman before him. What a role model.

It was back to clockwork. He grabbed her, and he pushed her, and he hit her. He would hike her clothes up, and bend her over the kitchen counter and have his way with her. He would push her against the walls and have his way with her. He would slap her and choke her and spit on her and have his way with her. Sometimes he would turn to me and say things this is what she gets for being so stupid or all women deserve this or some other humiliating, foul phrase, all while having his way with her. What a role model.

My mother just always submitted and took the treatment. No fight, no resistance. She was his blank canvas to release all his anger or whatever sick and twisted emotion he was feeling that particular day. I sat there on the living room floor. I sat there reading on the living room floor. I sat there helplessly, on the living room floor. Books were always there for me. They didn’t judge me for being helpless. I read a lot; it helped me ignore the real world. It helped me ignore my reality. It helped me ignore what was going on in front of me. The emotions, if they could be called that, felt in those moments are hard to explain. Some days I would be angry, some days I would be afraid, but all days I would be numb. So I just sat there, and watched as my drunk of a father abused my mother. He got off on the power he possessed, on the way he controlled her, the way she subdued without resistance. What a role model.

When he was done he would grunt and get off and walk away, and usually fall right asleep on the couch until dinner was served, he was like a fucking savage. This was my mom’s chance to stab him! But of course she never would. Many nights he wouldn’t even stay awake for dinner. The man just needed alcohol and aggression to survive; very low maintenance. What a role model.

It was a recurring theme in my house. I was 16 and I already pitied my father. He was a burly, scruffy man; his features, rough and jagged. His clothes were usually dirty and torn from working in the steel factory. He had this severe cough, I guess from the poor working conditions that made him sound like he could drop of lung cancer at any moment. I wouldn’t mind. In many of the books I had read, he would be perfect for the shitty villain character. He would get mad and call me a faggot for reading all the time, I was never the tough son he wanted I guess. I know he was ashamed of me because he used to say that if it belonged to him he would control it however he saw possible. I belonged to him but he never hit me though. Actually one time I tried to talk to him about books and received a swift slap to the back of the head. I rationalized that by saying maybe he couldn’t read; maybe he was just jealous of me you know? Despite the pity I also hated him, on occasion. He would be passed out on the recliner, and I would look up from my book and find myself day dreaming about bashing his head with a rock or some other blunt object. Those impulses, although fleeting, were compelling. Once, subconsciously, I even picked up a nearby ashtray. But of course I never would. Despite all the violence done to me, I had never committed a violent act myself. My mother I loved but I pitied her too. She was a very petit woman. Her red hair and freckled skin made her seem younger than she was, her kind eyes made people at ease, her soft-spoken voice didn’t gain her much respect; I had seen how people interact with her. In many of the books I had read she would be perfect for the victim character. I wished she would just snap one day and poison my father’s meals. But she never would. Despite the pity I also hated her, on occasion. I felt like I got my helplessness from her. I just wished she would retaliate one day and it would fuel me but the day never came. She was just a rag doll.

It was midnight, I had fallen asleep in my book and my father wanted me to get away from my gay book and go to bed. Jamie, wake up and go get me a beer, then get to your room. What a role model.

I hated going to bed. I hated being at home; the shelter was almost not worth the conditions. Several times I contemplated running away. I stayed because even with what I had to look to at home, I was safe there. But there was school. Oh how I hated school.

***

Wake up faggot! Time for school! How affectionate. My father was a very efficient alarm clock he would never let me stay away from school. He was a firm believer in the system for some reason but he seemed to barely be educated himself. He believed that school would steer me in the direction he wanted, to be more like him.

My old man never let me miss school and look how I turned out! he would brag. I would gag at the thought of that. School was repulsive enough; I didn’t need the image of me being like him in my head. Like clockwork he woke me at seven. As much as I hated getting out of bed, I shuddered at the thought of what he would be like if I disobeyed him so I dragged my limbs from under my covers and sluggishly, unwillingly, reluctantly found myself downstairs. Breakfast was always the same, porridge and dry toast. Didn’t we have any actual food? The breakfast table was always supercharged with tension. No one spoke. It was oddly eerie. Every now and then father would cough his hacking, near-death cough. I was always tempted to crack some jokes, I always thought I was particularly funny but I didn’t think they would appreciate my humor. I never spoke. The atmosphere continued to the van on the way to the bus stop. Here I was 16 years old and every spoken interaction I could remember of me and my father could probably fit on one page, wide ruled, double spaced, size 18 fonts. Thankfully I was very good at zoning out. The radio was always on some talk show and the chatter was occasionally shattered by that deadly cough; it kept it from being completely silent. With every cough it seemed as if the grim reaper got closer to him. Right now it must be hanging out in the backseat of the car. As he dropped me at the gates, I thought I heard him attempt to say something. Involuntarily my heart skipped a beat, and my eyes widened. I would have been happy if he said have a good day, I would have even settled with a see ya later faggot.

*Cough* *Cough* *Spit* and he peeled off. I hung my head and walked to class. I really didn’t know what I expected; through the hate and pity I guess there were some rays of hope that maybe things could change. As I walked to class I wondered how I would feel if he died that day and I never saw him again. I wondered if I would feel remorse. Probably not, I rarely ever felt emotions. The last time I felt anything would have been…

Jamie! Wait up! my buddy Daniel came running up to me. It was comical to see him run, he was just as skinny as I was and similar height but unlike me he cared about school so his backpack was twice as big. It jumped up and down on his back, threatening to tear at the strap with every lunge forward. A dark-skinned Spanish kid, he came from wealth but for some reason he ended up in the same social circle as me in high school. I belonged in it; he just didn’t belong anywhere else so he fell in. I use the term social circle very loosely. Daniel had a knack for popping up just when I was about to delve deep into my conscious, at least in school anyway. I liked Daniel; he was my escape from myself.

Did you watch the game last night? The Jets look good this year dude. He was really into sports, but he would never understand that I never watched a sport event in my life. Unless Harry Potter quidditch counts, but if not then I’m at zero. He didn’t care though, he didn’t care that we were different. Either that or he didn’t realize, either way I liked having him around. He was the type of kid that enjoyed the sound of his own voice. I rarely needed to contribute, and I learned a lot from him because unlike what I did for most people I never zoned out with him. I learnt that day in particular that Geno Smith threw for two hundred passing yards and had