ZEN Bitchin'

Jay looks at me, biting his lips. That look tells me to be quiet. That I let him handle the situation. I broke Ma’s favorite vase and she told Pa. Jay admits to Pa that he was the one who broke it. Pa doesn’t say anything. He leads Jay to our room and shuts the door behind them. Then I hear Jay’s screams. He’s still wiping his tears when they step out of the room. For three days after that Jay can’t sit straight. His pinky finger is bent unnaturally. Pa is suddenly attentive to him and me. Ma doesn’t say anything.

There were times when my mouth would hurt, too. He’d slap or punch me if I refused to take him in my mouth. It was filthy. It smelled of urine and sweat. I didn’t like it. But I didn’t like his slaps or punches more so I took him in my mouth.

He holds the sides of my head, pushing it down till there are tears in my eyes. He doesn’t stop, though. If he sees my tears he’d only ram my head further, making me want to throw up. I don’t want to throw up. When I did the last time he punched me so hard my nose puffed up and bled so much I thought I’d die. Maybe it’s better if I died. He pulls and pushes my head unto his lap and groans so I know this will be over soon. He pushes my head so close my face is buried in his stinking hair. My mouth is flooded with his goo but he doesn’t let go. I swallow some of it. He pulls himself out after a few minutes. I spit on the floor. My spit is white and thick. I try not to think that I swallowed some of it so I won’t throw up.

I throw up when I think of it. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and turn away from its sight. I look back at the house. Silent. Dark like the sky. My hands clutch the grass tightly. Tears flow down my face. I’m sorry.

With great difficulty, I get out of bed. My whole body aches. Especially my legs and face. I look into the smudged mirror and see the bruises on my cheeks and eye. My front tooth is chipped and blood has clotted along my gums. The right lower half of my face is swollen, giving my head an odd shape. I see Pa’s razor lying by the dirty sink. A drop of dried blood clings to the blade. I pick it up. I limp my way to the living room. I see him lying on the couch, his head and feet on each armrest. His mouth is open, his scrawny chest rising and falling as he snores. I hold his forehead, tilting his chin towards me so that the top of his head touches my chest. I put the razor just below his left ear, dimpling the flesh then draw it swiftly to the right. His neck opens up like a red flower. His eyes open wide. He clutches his throat then rises to face me. His other foot kicks a half-empty bottle of rum and sends it rolling to the other side of the room. He looks at me and at the razor in surprise, then in anger, then in pain. Blood flows down his chest; reddening his white shirt and shorts. They’re soiled with all sorts of stains, anyway. His thigh and leg are streaked with blood, too. Like he was pissing blood. He tries to speak but only gurgling sounds come out of his mouth. I step back. He reaches out to me and I see that his hands are wet and red. He moves towards me but before he reaches me he slips and falls to the floor. An electric current seems to pass through his whole body.

He’s still looking at me when he stops moving. A pool of blood forms around his head like it was a dark halo or something. I drop the razor and run out of the house.

I stand. I can hear Jay. He’s calling me. He wants me to come to him. He loves me. I know he doesn’t blame me for all that’s happened. It’s not my fault. He’s waiting for me. Wait for me, Jay. The clouds move slowly, heavy with rain. I run towards the burnt mango tree.

I run and run, ignoring the pain on my legs and face and the back of my head. I can hear thunder rumbling just above me. The wind is colder and sharper against my skin. I’m not that scared anymore.

Small streaks of lightning slice the bruised sky. Thunder. Closer now.

I’m going home.

***

copyright Michael P. De Guzman