Before I Fall - 2. Running

Running

The first time it happened, I was ten. I remember that day like it was yesterday, no matter how much I try to block it out. I guess back then, I considered myself to be like any other nine or ten year old kid. Other than the fact that my parents weren't divorced, my dad was Mayor, and I was an only child, I didn't think I was all that different from any other kid. But that day—my tenth birthday—everything changed.

It started out good. Really good, actually. My parents woke me up to a steaming hot tray of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and a chocolate milkshake in bed. This was a real treat for me since I wasn't usually allowed to eat in my room or have chocolate as part of my breakfast. But today was special, Dad told me. And, oh, was it. But I just enjoyed the treat. I was a real big kid now. I was a two-digit age and soon I'd be out of elementary school and into middle school. Not soon enough for my liking, but soon.

School that day was great. My mom drove me to school with a plastic container of her homemade cupcakes for me to pass out in school like I did every year. This year, I knew would be better than all the rest. I was so sure of it. Everyone in class sang happy birthday to me and I felt like I was on top of the world. I knew my best friend Ethan was slightly jealous of the attention I was getting but I tried to make him feel just as special as I was feeling and we celebrated that day like it was both our birthdays.

When I got home, my mom told me that she was making me my favorite meal for dinner—spaghetti—and I got to open one present that day and the rest at my birthday party that weekend. Opening a present early was a tradition and one that I particularly loved. I hurried and finished my homework, which was always pretty easy for me, and then begged my mom to let me open my present before dinner. She gave in, of course. She always did.

Mom went into her room and came back out with a brown box with holes poked at the top. It wasn't wrapped and as she got closer, I noticed it stunk slightly. I tried not to show my disappointment but I was sure I wouldn't want whatever it was in that stupid brown box. Mom pushed the box across the living room table, towards me and said, “Come on, open it. You'll love it.”

I lifted the box up, regarding it cautiously and heard something slide along the inside, a sudden weight causing the box to tilt slightly to the right. There was something moving inside the box, shifting it while I tried to hold it still. I had the urge to drop the thing but I knew I shouldn't so I just pushed the top back a little and peered inside. Inside of that box was the cutest little hamster I had ever seen. It was a ball of tan fur with little hands and beady black eyes and I couldn't believe that it was mine.

“A hamster? Mom, I love it! Thank you guys so much!” I exclaimed. Both of my parents beamed at me and I couldn't help but grin right back at them.

The rest of the day was great and as I settled into bed, I reflected on my day and imagined how great my next birthday would be. Dad came into my room a little while after I settled into bed, not yet being able to fall asleep. He slid into bed with me, which wasn't unusual for me then. He'd made it a natural occurrence since I was eight and now I was used to sharing a bed with my dad. “Tommy, you're a big kid now, right?”

“Yeah, I really am!” I replied, almost defensively.

“I think you're ready for me to show you something. But you have to keep it between us, okay? It'll be our little secret. Promise you won't tell,” he said.

By now I'd turned to face him and I was staring into his eyes with anticipation as I said, “I promise I won't tell. Show me!” God, I wish I'd never said those words. I'm not sure if it would have changed anything if I hadn't but maybe it wouldn't seem as if I'd gone along with it. Maybe then I wouldn't feel like I was just as bad as my dad.

“We're gonna need to take our clothes off. Can you do that, Tommy?” I just nodded. I didn't question him, I didn't even wonder why he would want me to take my clothes off. I just complied. He started to touch me all over and I didn't know what to do. I didn't really know what was happening. Dad had touched me through my clothing before and even asked if he could look at me naked but he'd never touched my naked body like that.

That night he had sex with me for the first time. I won't even call it rape. I didn't resist, I didn't tell him no. I was scared and it hurt really bad but I didn't say anything. I just wanted to please my dad. I just wanted to be a good boy. After all, he'd been so gentle. Told me to relax and that it wouldn't hurt for long. Told me he loved me. And I believed every word.

“Someone's in a better mood,” Ethan says as I set my tray down across from him and sit down. He's right, I am in a much better mood. Dad didn't come in my room last night or this morning and I had time to pull myself together and act normal. It's working, so far.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I shrug, but give Ethan a half smile.

“So I hear you're going out for cross country?” Connor comments, half-question, half-statement. He trains his forest green eyes on me and smiles.

“Yeah, I am,” I tell him.

“Same here. You want to practice the 5K after school today? Tryouts are in a few days,” he says casually as he takes another bite of his sandwich. I can't help the way my eyes widen in fear before I compose myself and slip back into the mask of calm.

“Yeah, sure. I just have to ask my parents,” I mumble. Dad shouldn't mind. I'll just tell him some teammates asked me to practice with them and that if I'd said no, they'd ask questions. He couldn't say no to that, right? Dad would do just about anything to keep up this perfect Mayor, husband, and father, charade. Plus, I'm actually looking forward to running. The physical discipline might have the same effect that math does on me. Stress relief.

“Cool,” Connor smiles. I smile back a little. How can I not smile at him? Something about him seems slightly fragile. I guess, being a more than fragile person myself, I can sense things like that in a person. He seems like one wrong thing could bring him down. Like he has a spark of hope in life, but only a spark. Like me, a few years ago, before I'd realized how pointless hope was. Maybe that bit of hope will actually get him somewhere. Staring at his lightly freckled face, I hope it will.

Kristen, a girl who sits with us, starts up a conversation with Connor and I fade into the background, like I do most days. I wonder briefly if all this fading is starting to have a lasting impact. I wonder if soon I'll be transparent.

Hours pass like minutes and it isn't long before I'm home. Mom's home with Dad. I take a moment to thank my lucky stars because if Mom wasn't home, I'm not sure what Dad would do to me. “Hey, sweetheart,” my mom smiles. Her gray eyes are so kind and so innocent. Spared of the sadness that must lurk in my eyes, way too far back for anyone to see. I smile back. Give her a hug. She looks so perfect in her apron, cooking dinner for her son and husband. Her husband who is lurking by the kitchen table, eying me like I'm a piece of meat and he's starving.

“Um, do you guys think I could practice running with some teammates in a little while? Cross country tryouts are in a few days and I need to condition myself,” I ask cautiously, pulling on a stray string hanging from the hem of my t-shirt.

“Of course, honey,” my mom beams, giving me that 'I'm so proud of you' look. She shouldn't be. She shouldn't be proud of me.

I look up and meet Dad's gaze. If looks could kill, I'd be dead. He glared at me, probably for asking in front of Mom and not allowing him to give the answer he wanted to, which was probably no. “I didn't want to say no, even though I could do it by myself. I guess I'll have to meet my future teammates soon enough,” I continue, laughing a little shakily. Please take the bait, I silently beg.

“Be home by dinner. And don't go too far,” my father replies simply. His voice is calm, and I can see he sees the logic in my case, but I can tell he's still pissed. I've slightly overstepped my boundaries. Just a little. Shit.

“Okay.” I paint on a sweet smile and slowly retreat to my room. I quickly do my homework and I'm done and rechecking things when my phone rings half an hour later. I do have my own cell phone, no matter how crazy this seems. Dad checks it whenever he wants though, so it's not like I have much privacy with it. I look at the phone and see that it's an unknown number but answer it anyway. “Hello?”

“Hey, Tom. It's Connor. I got your number from Ethan. You ready for that run?” comes a slightly static-y version of Connor's voice on the other line.

“Yeah, I just have to change. Where are we going?” I say. I walk over to my closet, and pull out a few things before deciding on an old t-shirt and jogging sweatpants.

“Trail out in the woods a few miles toward the middle of town. You want me to come pick you up?” he offers.

I panic slightly. I would love for him to pick me up but I just told Dad I was going with teammates not a teammate. Plus, I don't want Dad to know about this boy who makes me want to smile. He'd probably just find a way to ruin whatever friendship we might have. “No, no, that's fine. I'll meet you,” I say quickly.

He gives me directions and I quickly jot them down. Twenty minutes later, I'm steering my bike into the makeshift parking lot in front of a patch of the woods that's pushed away from the road. I pedal my bike to a stop behind some cars, glancing to my right at a sign in front of a break in a trees with the name of the trail and the distance.“Tom! Hey,” Connor says. I look up and see him sitting in the baby blue pickup truck to my left. He climbs out and I see he's wearing a clingy sports tank top that shows off his swimmer's build and a pair of soccer shorts.

“Hi,” I reply quietly, pulling nervously at my pants.

He looks at me and his eyes quickly flit away as he bites his lip. My stomach churns and I swallow, hard, trying to fight off the feeling and thoughts threatening to creep into my mind. “So, um, ready to go?” he asks. I nod and we start for the entrance of the trail. The only sound are distant bird calls and dead leaves crunching beneath our feet.

We get into the gist of things quickly. The trail is pretty wide and allows room for us to run side-by-side comfortably. Connor picks up a steady pace and I follow his lead, matching his stride. I'm almost tempted to close my eyes and just feel—feel the air against my face, the ground flying under my feet—but I think better of it when I almost trip over a twig with my eyes open.

The forest is quiet as we run, an eerie sound that, in most cases, would cause my mind to race a million miles per minute but is just wonderful in this moment. The forest is filled with our now labored breathing, the crunch of leaves, skittering animals, and feet hitting soft ground, but it feels like silence. It's calming. All I think about is the thumping beat of my heart and pushing myself as hard as I can.

Right here, right now, I'm no longer a broken boy. I'm no longer anything. I'm just running. I'm just a pair of legs, running and pushing themselves to their limit. Every step ricochets through my body, causing this vibrating clarity that is almost scary. The beating of my heart is pounding though my ears and I swear I can hear my blood rushing through my veins like a waterfall sounding in my ears. The sounds of our feet make a beat, something that soothes me and fills my mind.

I suppose I should feel pain by now. We've been running a while. I don't even know how long, just a while. But I feel no pain. It's like I don't really feel anything, like I'm a controller for my body but I'm not inside of it.

I've felt numbness before, plenty of times. But never like this. Never this physical numbness that carries me away for a while. I wish for a moment that I can keep this, save it for when I really need it. Feel it all the time, when feeling anything else hurts too much.

“Tom!” Connor calls, panting. I slow to a stop and turn around, seeing that Connor's stopped and is bent over, smiling at me. “Someone's eager to run.”

“Sorry. Runner's high,” I smile.

I don't think either of us really wants to go home just yet and we start the walk back leisurely and in silence and I listen to bird songs for a while before Connor speaks again. “So what are you escaping from when you run?” he asks conversationally, shattering the calming silence. My heart stops for a moment and a lump forms in my throat. Does he know? But then I realize how ridiculous I sound. How would he know about my dad? It's just a question. A simple, curious question.

“What do you mean?” I manage to quietly ask.

“I've run for a long time, since I was a kid. I don't know, I always had a theory that all runners run for a reason,” he begins, thoughtfully. “They weren't running away or running to anything, they were just running. Escaping without going anywhere. That's what running is to me. I think that's why we all run—to escape. I know that's why I do.”

I look over at Connor, who is staring into the distance as if he's far away. His green eyes suddenly seem so deep that I could drown in them, and filled with something. Emotions—his eyes are filled with emotions. But I can't read them. There are too many and they flash too fast, but I can see that the emotions are there. He seems broken. Maybe brokenhearted, or just plain broken, but I can't tell. All I know is that in that moment, I see more of him than I expect I'll ever see of him again.

He meets my gaze and it's over. His eyes are back to normal, back to their forest green color with hints of brown and even a lighter shade of green. “That's kind of beautiful,” I rasp. I clear my throat and look away, feeling like an idiot for letting those words leave my mouth. “I-I mean it's d-deep of you to think of it like that.” Now my cheeks are just plain red and I look down at my hands, wishing I could rewind time and not open my mouth.

“I guess so,” he says quietly. Silence stretches on for a while before he speaks again. “So, what do you like to do? Aside from running.”

“I like to read,” I tell him.

“Like fiction books?”

“Well, anything. But mostly I read nonfiction. I like learning, everything and anything. So I read and I learn.” Mom always tells me I should go do kids' stuff, and stop reading so much, that I get enough brain stimulation from school. But there's always more to learn. Always more that I want to learn. “What about you?”

“I don't know, I guess I like sports. But I'm also really into technology. Computers and programming and stuff. I'm a nerd at heart,” he chuckles. I smile and glance over at him again. I can't imagine Connor sitting at a computer desk, doing the coding for a website or running new software that boosts internet speed or whatever it is he did. But I liked the idea of him being different than other people—and not minding.

“That sounds cool. I read this article about careers in technology and the necessity of people for jobs in technology is rising,” I recall. “You'd probably make a killing.” I turn about twenty shades of red when I realize how dumb this sounds and keep my eyes trained down.

He smiles. “That's the best part. If I could get a job in that industry, I'd be getting paid to do what I love to do.” I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when I realize I'm not doing so bad at this whole holding a conversation thing.

“That's the best kind of job,” I whisper. We don't talk for a while, just walk the rest of the way in comfortable quiet of the woods.

Too soon we arrive back at the makeshift parking lot. Connor glances at my bike in the bed of his truck and says, “You want a ride home, man? It's a little dark to be biking home alone.” I don't hesitate to say yes and soon I'm climbing into his baby blue truck. It smells woodsy, with a tint of cologne and natural man-scent. Just like Connor. The ride home is short and I spend it covertly glancing over at Connor's face. Every time he bites his lip—which he does often, when in thought—my heart thumps a little harder and a little faster. It scares me. “Is this your place?” I'm snapped out of my thoughts when his voice slices through the air.

We're sitting in front of my house and I so don't want to go inside but I nod at Connor. “See you later,” I say quietly and he smiles and waves. As I'm walking up the driveway I realize that Mom's care isn't in the driveway and I want to turn around and run back to Connor's car but I don't. Once I'm inside, I hear Connor pull off.

“Who was that?” a voice questions. I turn around and Dad is there, at the end of the hallway, staring me down with a predatory gaze.

“One of my teammates,” I whisper. I curse my voice for coming out shakily.

Dad rolls his eyes and walks towards me. My heart is pounding painfully. “You're late,” he says, leaning in close to tell me this. He grabs my throat, pushes me up against the wall. “What the fuck took you so long?” My chest is heaving as I'm struggling to breathe. I try to push him off but he's so much stronger than me so I just flail around idiotically. Dad lets me go but grabs my hand and rubs his crotch with it. He's staring me in my eyes so I look away, staring at the wall across the foyer. He starts kissing my neck, rubbing my crotch. His hands dip under the elastic band of my pants and then go all the way in and he starts playing with me, massaging my prostate and stroking me while kissing and sucking my neck.

Just when I can't take it anymore, the sound of a car pulling in the driveway causes him to stop. “We'll finish later,” he whispers. I want to vomit. Not just because of what he just did but because of the fact that my pants are now tented with an erection. Then I realize I'm actually going to vomit. I run to the bathroom, catching the sound of Dad saying, “Hi, sweetie. Find everything okay?” to Mom before I close the door and start puking my guts up. Any remnant of the erection I'd just had is gone but I can't shake the feeling of his hands of me, his fingers inside of me, and the fact that it got me hard. I briefly greet Mom and crawl into bed, laying awake for hours before finally falling asleep.

I wake up to a weight settling on my legs but I really wake up when the blows to my stomach start. The room is still dark so it must be the middle of the night and Mom's asleep, just down the hall. My eyes fly fully open and I realize the weight on my legs is Dad, and he's punching me, over and over. I can feel the bruises forming already but he keeps punching. He's drunk, that much I can tell, even though I can barely concentrate on anything but the pain in my stomach. He reeks of vodka and beer.

The punching lasts until Dad gets tired, which takes a long time, and then he suddenly flips me over, and pulls me up so that I'm on my hands and knees. I barely have time to react before my pants are down and the inevitable happens. I try to close my eyes and bring myself to a place anywhere but here, but it's hard. Dad's being rough today, mostly because he's drunk, and he's probably drunk because he's mad at me.

He whispers horrible things in my ear about how I'm a mistake and I'm lucky I'm good for something. He tells me I mean nothing to anyone. He stomps out any spark of hope that might have had potential to form. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself not to cry. It works.

Once he gets his rocks off, he pushes me away, pulls on his clothes, and stumbles drunkenly out of my room. I'm paralyzed. Not in the completely literal sense but in the sense of being suspended by shock and fear. I hate fear. Fear is a weak emotion that keeps people up at night. But there it is. I lay in my bed, scared that he'll come back. I must be awake for at least an hour before exhaustion pulls me into a fitful, nightmare-filled sleep.

I haven't had nightmares since I was a child. When I was really little, I had dreams about monsters in my closet and under my bed. When I was a little older, my nightmares turned into ones where my mother would find out about me and my father's real relationship. In every dream, she'd wear this horrified expression as she stared at me and say, “Tommy?” She'd look at me like I disgusted her. Like somehow she knew that some sick part of me enjoyed the body of another male against mine. But this dream was different.

In this dream, Dad came into my room like always and climbed into bed with me. He started touching me, and then the touching got more intense and I couldn't help the semi-erection I was getting. He was soon inside of me and hurting me, like always. He whispered sweet nothings on my ear and kept calling me Tommy. I had to swallow to keep my vomit at bay. I looked up at one of the stars on my ceiling and tried to wish myself away from my reality.

Suddenly, the door flew open. My eyes nearly popped out of my head in shock as I looked over and saw Connor, looking equally as shocked. The expression on his face will stay with me forever. He looked at me sort of like Mom did in my nightmares. Disgusted—with me. And I knew what it looked like. It looked like I was having sex with my father. I didn't want my father! I didn't want him!

I pleaded with my eyes for Connor to understand.

But the worst part of the dream is that Connor just stood there, and Dad never stopped what he was doing. Connor watched, but his eyes never left mine. I tried to yell, “Help me. I don't want this!” but my mouth wouldn't work and so I just stared at him as he stared at me, like I was the most disgusting sight he'd ever seen. The dream lasted until Dad got off and then I just lay there, and Connor slowly disappeared into thin air as I lay naked and cold in my bed.

I wake up to hands on my body. It isn't unusual, but this time I flinch. Then I realize that the hands aren't doing anything hurtful, really, just gliding across my stomach. I lay there, trying to stay perfectly still, as the hands trace lines over my stomach. “I know you're awake,” chokes out a gravelly voice. Dad.

I don't say anything, just keep my eyes shut. He flips me over, gently, and for a second I'm terrified of having a repeat of last night, or any other night when he's hurt me. I remember how much of a monster he is. He spreads my butt and I brace myself for what's coming but nothing happens. He just gently flips me back over and runs his hands over my stomach again.

I finally open my eyes. I probably shouldn't have. “I'm so sorry, Tommy,” he whispers, tears brimming in his eyes. I follow his eyes to the deep purple, red, and yellow bruises lacing my stomach. He did this to me. He's a monster. I stare at the star on my ceiling again because I can't bear to look into his blue eyes that are so much like my own.

“I'm sorry I hurt you, Tommy,” he says quietly. He's 'sorry he hurt me', as in last night. Does he realize he's been hurting me for six years? Hurting me, all the time, with no remorse. He enjoys every minute of it. “Tommy, please talk to me.” I ignore him and continue staring at my ceiling, mostly because I can't form words.

And then he starts touching me, gently. I jump away from him, drawing my knees up to my chest, even though pain shoots through my ribs and stomach as I do this. He's trying to make me feel good. Oh, God. That's the worst part—that it does feel good. My father playing with me is not supposed to feel good. Another male playing with me is not supposed to feel good. It isn't right. I'm not right.

“Tom, it's not wrong to like it,” he whispers. There he is, in my head. But he's wrong. It's disgusting. It's disgusting to like it. So I just shake my head at him without daring to meet his eyes. “It's okay to be gay.” My eyes flicked up and met his involuntarily. I wanted to yell, “But you're not gay, are you? You're just a monster. A sick, disgusting monster.” But I don't have the energy in me, don't have anything to drive the words out of me. I feel nothing, like I'm nothing. Nothing more than a speck of dust in the wind.

I realize that I don't know what I am, or why I like to look at the bodies of other boys, or why I sometimes dream about touching other boys. Not like how my dad does, but gently, to make them feel good. The worst part is that I know this isn't Dad's fault. I was like this before he hurt me. I was fascinated by boys before Dad ever touched me. And now I don't know. I don't know anything.

As Dad's eyes bore holes through me, the itch comes back. A flood of the overwhelming need to hurt myself. To draw blood.

I read somewhere that you can't feel pain and pressure at the same time. That if you apply pressure, you won't feel the pain because your mind can't focus on both at once. Hurting myself is like that pressure, blocking out all the pain that my father causes me. I need it.

Dad sighs and gets up to leave, pausing at the door before exiting. I don't wait more than five seconds before I'm scrounging through my bookbag for my compass. I sit on the wood floor next to my bag and I pull it out slowly, looking at the shiny metal surface for a second before pressing vertically down the side of my wrist, deep. Holding my wrist in my other hand, I let the blood trickle down my naked thigh. I let out a breath and then feel a laugh bubbling up and let it out quietly. Suddenly, I'm sucked into a fit of breathy giggles. I'm pathetic, sitting naked on my floor with blood dripping down my wrist and thigh, bruises covering my stomach, and the filth of what my father does to me clinging to my body.

I don't know how in all of this manic laughing, blood, and fear I manage to fall asleep but I do. And I dream of running. Not running away or to something, but just running.