mantras of past

Hendrick hadn’t meant to knock over the stack of plates from the table—he was only trying to lay out the silverware like his mother had asked. By the time the sound of the china shattering registered, he braced his arms around his head to prepare for the inevitable.

“You clumsy ingrate!” Mother Easterman whirled around from the stove, the ladle in her hand flying in his direction.

A viperous hand grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged him along behind her, bare feet trying to find its footing amongst the shards on the floor before it was too late. He didn’t need to look to know that she was taking him to his room, her shouts of disappointment bouncing off the hallway walls. The bedroom door flew open, and Hendrick was thrown along with it, shoved inside with enough force to make him fall. He attempted to catch the fall, only for his mother to yank him back to her, sharp hits landing on the side of his head. The blows made his ears ring, the blood rushing to the forming marks throbbing against his eardrum.

“Mama! I’m sorry—stop! Please, I’m sorry…!”

Hot tears streaked Hendrick’s cheeks as he shielded his face from the worst of the abuse. His mother’s voice filled the small room with her unbridled rage, spewing words of contempt and disgust. Hendrick knew he had to just take the worst of it quietly, that she’d tire herself after another minute and leave him be. With one more swift smack, Mother Easterman stood and waved a finger at him, revoking his dinner and sentencing to a night in his room alone. He didn’t dare move, like a deer watching a wolf slowly retreat away from a hunt that wasn’t worth the risk, and only blinked obediently with glassy eyes as she slammed the door shut behind her.

Then, there was silence.

Even the tears had slowed as the quiet settled, leaving Hendrick with nothing but his own shadow. He remained in the same spot for several minutes, curled up on the floor and cradling his bruised head, even as he heard his father and brother come home. Hendrick had always hated the strange numbness that blanketed him after another beating, the way it tried to compartmentalize the cruelty into something a child’s brain could reason. This dissociative mechanism played like clockwork; he wished he could scream, kick, cry…but nothing came. It’s like his body was shutting down to go into some sort of baseline survival mode, rendering him mute and empty. He wished he could understand it, and yet the idea of accepting this reality was too daunting. It was easier to retreat within, to clam up and cocoon his inner self til it was ready to come back out.

Twenty minutes passed before he garnered the courage to push himself upright, the sound of his family sitting together and eating assuring him his mother was too preoccupied to come back for a second helping. He examined the pads of his feet, the skin broken in some places from the shattered plates. Once sure there were no shards, he stood as slowly as he could, ensuring he could prevent any sound that may remind her of his existence. He waddled to a small mirror he had on a dresser, moving aside some mousy hair to inspect the damage: a blooming bruise on the left side of his face, accompanied by two welts. Little fingers poked at the injuries with apathy, as if to check if they were real, before he dropped his hand down. 

Hendrick had always been insecure about his appearance, ridiculing every freckle and slope just like his mother did. Staring his reflection down, he met his own eyes with resentment, trying to will himself out of existence. He was a burden—to his mother, to his family, to everyone that met him. He brought nothing but shame and misfortune to anyone unlucky enough to meet him, eclipsing any sunlight that dared shine his way.

His mother was right—-he was a mistake.

He was disgusting, and stupid, and embarrassing, and bothersome—-

And, he was only eight. 

How could an eight year old be such a stain? Such an egregious creature that its own mother recoiled at the sight of it?

Stanley sometimes got similar abuse: things thrown, hair pulled, marks made. But the difference was that their mother would come back to check on Stanley after a while, kiss and soothe the marks she made. With Hendrick, he was left to lick his own wounds. She was only loving towards him on her good days, and those were becoming increasingly more rare. 

But, oh, was she the best mom on those days. Mother would take Hendrick and Stanley to the cinema while Father was at work. She’d bring them to the corner store and let them pick out whatever treat they fancied. She would even let Hendrick fall asleep in her lap after the long, exciting day, humming softly as she rubbed his back.

He was a terrible son for wishing she would change.

Thoughts of hatred, envy, and anger started to wash away the numbness, his reflection in the mirror warping as his features scrunched together. He wasn’t sure who to blame: himself, his mother, or even God. The terrible, ugly feelings had nowhere to go, yet they clawed at his throat, making it burn with unsung pain. He had prayed before to God, for answers or mercy, and had gotten nothing in return. Foolishly, a prayer to God formed in Hendrick’s mind once more:

“Dear God, why me?”

Met with omnipotent silence once more, Hendrick finally found his voice in a sob. He met his eyes once more in the small mirror just as the dam broke, watching his eyes redden and lips bend to a frown as the tears came back in full force. He hurried a hand over his mouth to muffle the second sob, knowing the sound would stir his mother if she caught it. Biting down on his hand, he drew blood, the pain barely enough to keep him from spiraling. Hendrick sunk his teeth in a little deeper before the pain became too great, releasing the skin unceremoniously. He stared at the bite mark with immediate regret and shame, knowing that when the bruises on his head had long healed, the bite mark would remain for some time, and that’s what people would see instead—a self-inflicted wound with nothing to back it up.