A to Z - 5. In the Basement

(In the Basement, Continued)

(undated entry)

Everything still aches. But I want to tell the rest of what happened after I blacked out that Wednesday night.

I came to, with every bone in my body aching. Everything hurt. Sharp pain in the ribs and neck. Later, I found swelling where my head must have hit the wall, the stairs, or something on the way down the stairs. I’d been thrashed, no doubt about it. I lay on the cold cement basement floor, pretty much where Dad had left me.

The basement had no windows. No light. Nothing to tell what time of day it was, or how long I’d been there. I tried to conduct a tactile investigation of my body – my fingers weren’t broken, at least. Scrapes on my hands, and face - a big, crusted-over cut on my head by the hairline. Bruises on my neck, jaw, arms, ribs. Basically anyplace his fists and boots could reach. I wondered if I had a cracked rib. I tried to shift, and the bruises on my torso told me that was a bad idea. It might have been possible to stand with the six inches of chain on my ankle, but what good was that?

I twisted and turned, trying to find a comfortable position for my various bruises and scrapes. I couldn’t sit up unless I faced the workbench and that hurt my back and twisted my ankle. The leg cuff chafed.

I tried to think about things like winning the lottery, or building my dream house, or what kind of car I would drive. I tried to think about my math homework, working through problems in my head. I tried planning my history project in my head, so I could just write it all down later.

I wondered how long it would take for Dad to cool off. I knew he would probably set me free when he got tired of the house being a mess. He hated to do any kind of work around the house, so he’d let me out when he got tired of doing it himself. That usually took a day or two.

Mostly, I stared off into the dark, too hurt to do much else, even reach my backpack.

I dozed. I had at least one nightmare about Uncle Ray. I’d sleep for a while, then wake up with something hurting when I moved wrong.

Sometimes, I heard movement upstairs: footsteps on the floor above, a door closing, the TV on loud. Usually, there was silence.

Time passed away, and I knew nothing of its movement.

In one of my wakeful moments, I realized I had to pee. I was foggy and didn’t really think straight. I struggled to stand, and began to try feeling my way to the stairs when the leg chain pulled tight, and I pitched forward, landing flat on my face in the dark.

And I still had to pee. Usually, Dad left me a bucket or something, but he'd forgotten this time. I'd have knocked it over at least once if he had.

I lay still and tried to think of something else. Like that was going to work. I closed my eyes, and tried to doze again, but my mind started drifting to dreams in which I was looking and looking for a bathroom, and I’d wake up again.

Eventually, I got too tired to fight the urge. I got myself into a standing position facing the workbench, unzipped and let it go. There would be a smell, and I sure hoped I wouldn’t be lying down in my own puddle in the dark, but what else could I do?

I lay down again, in a dry place against the wall, my left ankle stretched out as far as it could.

I slept.

The noise that woke me next was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

How long had I been out of it? Was Dad finally cooled down enough?

Dad’s feet stopped in front of me.

“Oh, God! What’s that smell?”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t even look at him.

“Did you piss your pants, you stupid idiot? God, what a stink.”

Silence.

“So, not only are you a homo, you’re a stupid, retarded homo who wets his pants. You’re sick, you know that?”

He paused for breath. His speech was a little labored, and I wondered if he had been drinking.

“But you know what? I got the cure for your ho-mo-sexual disease, kid.”

He chuckled. He grasped the hem of my jacket and pulled it off, jerking my arms up. It was tossed aside. I closed my eyes, not bothering to resist. I was surprised when he messed with my belt and slid it off. Suddenly, I felt him cinch my hands together with my own belt. Too late, I realized this was something new. He roughly yanked me to my feet. The hurt coursed through my body.

“You stinking little pansy,” Dad hissed as I was pushed over to the workbench. Even over the reek in the basement, I could smell beer on his breath. He must have had quite a few.

“You just take, take, take, sucking the life out of decent, hard-working people. You’re just a fucking, pathetic, fudge-packing parasite. Well, I’m gonna beat the queer out of you, boy.” Dad bent me over the work surface, face down, stretching my arms out in front and holding them in place by securing the end of my belt in the vise mounted on the table.

I didn’t resist; it hurt, and I wasn't going to allow him the satisfaction.

My pants were tugged down. His strong hands tore my shirt in half right up the back. There was the sound of his belt being readied.

Despite not wanting to give Dad anything, I cried out with the first blow. Dad was a big man, using a heavy belt, and he was putting his strength into it.

How long did it last? I can't say, but he must have drawn blood pretty quickly. I found blood splashed on the walls later on. I just remember quivering, whimpering, trying not to feel the pain he’d inflicted on my flesh, lash after lash with his heavy leather belt. Dad worked hard at it.

At some point, he stopped for a rest.

“So, you’re a fag, huh?” Dad’s voice jeered at me, panting. I couldn’t see him. I heard him rummaging in his tool box for something but not finding it.

“Of all the idiot boys I could get for a son, and he turns out to be a faggot,” I heard him mutter.

I felt him reach up over me to grab the big two-and-a-half pound sledgehammer from the rack on the wall over my head. Through the pain, I felt real fear. He was going to bash my head in; he was going to kill me.

He stepped up behind me and bent so he could whisper in my ear.

“Listen, you dumb fuck. You will never, ever, humiliate me like this again, you got that? And now, just to show you how much I care, I’m gonna give you a present, little fag boy. You’re gonna love this.”

I felt the thick blunt end of the hammer’s handle push up against my asshole. I realized that I’d die quicker if he’d just hammer in my skull.

“Oh God, no, Daddy, please, no…”

One hard shove, and the shaft of the hammer tore me open. The pain was unreal; I couldn’t even scream at first. It wasn’t until Dad pulled it back and shoved it in again, harder, that I started to yell.

This only made Dad angrier. “SHUT UP, you cocksucking fairy,” he shouted right back at me, ramming the hammer in again. “You’re supposed to like this!”

My stomach heaved with the pain, and I puked whatever I had in my stomach all over the worktable. It wasn’t much, but that probably saved my life. Dad didn’t notice at first, but when he did, the hammer stopped moving.

“Aww, hell!” Dad cried out, breathing heavily. “Look what you did now.”

At least the torture to my bowels had ceased. Dad yanked the hammer out of my ass, and dropped it on the floor with a clank. I was in agony inside and out. It seemed there wasn’t any part of me that didn’t hurt.

“Ugh. What a mess.”

I felt him free my hands, grab me by the hair and toss me onto the floor. One swift, powerful kick knocked any remaining breath out of me. Heavy feet climbed the steps. They turned.

“You get that shit cleaned up, you hear? If it’s polished beautiful tomorrow, I might – maybe – let you out in a few days.”

The door slammed.

Again, darkness. Cold. Blood and mess. I'd thought I might just bleed out, never wake up, just slip away into the darkness...

No such luck.

Do you know what it’s like to wake up on an icy floor, pretty much naked, in a dark basement, when it even hurts to shiver? Do you understand the fear that it might all be repeated, only worse, the next time he shows up?

I had no idea what time it was. I tried to move, and the pain hurt so bad, I had to lie still again, staring into the blackness.

After a long, long while, I tried again.

I managed to get onto my hands and knees. I stayed that way for a while. When I moved, the skin on my back and legs felt wrong – too tight. My back sometimes felt like that after a beating, which meant that there had been bleeding. There would be more scars. Later, I saw that my ass had bled down my leg, and the blood had dried. My shirt was gone – the collar hung uselessly on my neck. I finally managed to get to my feet, leaning on the wall for support. I got my pants back up so I could get a little warmer. I wondered where my belt was. I remembered I was chained to the bench in time to prevent a repeat of my face-plant.

I got back down on my hands and knees and felt around for my jacket to put around my shoulders. My hand made contact with the hammer on the floor, and I recoiled at the touch of cold steel. I pushed it away in panic and jerked away to the end of my chain.

I tried to calm down, tried to tell myself that the hammer wasn’t going to attack me again. I was afraid of it. But I wanted my jacket for warmth, for protection. Besides, fixating on the jacket gave my mind something to do instead of dealing with pain. In a little while, I stretched out on the floor, feeling around for it, fingers searching.

Then I felt something unexpected. Cold. Flat. Metal.

At the very edge of my reach, I made to slide it towards me, and then I picked it up. It couldn’t be. It sure felt like one. A key.

My brain refused to understand the possibility for a moment. Could old Dad have messed up for once? Could it have dropped out of his pocket when he was busy whipping me to death? There was one way to find out.

After a few frustrating minutes, I got the key lined up with the lock. It slid in. I held my breath, and turned it. The lock unsnapped, and I was free.

Free! My adrenalin surged. I wanted to whoop, and shout, and dance all at once. Not that I had the strength for any of that. Besides, I had to be quiet. This could be some trick of Dad’s, some trap. Or maybe he was upstairs, just waiting to hear me moving around.

I realized at least that I could do something about the dark.

Eventually, I stood up and wobbled over to toward where I thought the washer and dryer might be; there was a light hanging from the ceiling there.

Crash! Shit. I stood stock still. I’d run into the shelf and knocked a tin can off it. If Dad had heard that, he would come thundering down the stairs in a moment. I waited as seconds ticked by. Silence upstairs.

I moved away from the shelf, felt my way over to the washer and dryer, and searched for the overhead light’s pull cord. In an instant, my world was transformed.

Light. Blindness. Then the dim basement came into full view. I looked awful – bloody, bruised, vomit-stained where the puke had splashed back. I felt worse. I was just a bundle of hurt. But I was free. I pushed the pain away.

I had to think in small steps. That’s what my brain does – just shuts off the part of the brain that reports the pain, and withdraws into what absolutely needs to be done. Sump drain in the far corner. I could try to pee there. Stop to think.

My t-shirt was ripped to rags, so I got what was left of it off. Found my jacket, mercifully without any blood or upchuck on it. Put it on – yow! Took it off. The rough fabric hurt the fresh welts on my back way too much.

Shuffled over to the workbench. Jesus. Work surface a pool of vomit. Hammer on the floor, covered in dried blood and shit. My blood. God, I hurt so bad. No time to think about that – Dad could come back any minute. Gotta get this cleaned up.

Using the remnants of my useless t-shirt, I got the vomit mostly wiped up. I used a clean corner to take care of the hammer, but I hated touching the heavy steel tool. There wasn't much I could do to clean my blood splashes off the rough brick walls. I’d need a bucket and soap for that. Feebly tossed the rags into the trash.

At that point my legs felt weak, and I had to sit down on the floor again. My ass throbbed. I leaned my shoulder against the wall to spare my back. I rested, but I couldn't sleep. I crawled over in the other direction, toward the painting stuff and the big drop cloth. I spread the big paint-spattered canvas on the floor and laid down on my stomach on it. I reached out, and yanked my pack over.

Somebody had to know what had happened. Someone had to know the truth. I got out my journal and started to write, but it was no use. I couldn’t think straight through the weariness and pain. The floor was still cold through the rough cloth, but I put my head down on my arms, just for a second. In moments, I was fast asleep.

I need a break right now. Just a little bit of sleep. I'll get to the rest later.

(undated entry)

Okay, a little better now. I think I can write out the rest. So here it goes:

When I woke up again, I had no idea how much time had gone by. Everything still hurt. I was freezing cold from the floor, and my neck ached. Ass was still a dull, insistent throb, but maybe better than before. Ribs still sore. Skin on my back all tight and painful where the welts were starting to scab over (still hurts now, but then it was so much worse). Then another discomfort that made itself known even as all the others clamored for my attention. I was hungry. My stomach hurt. Bad. My mouth was dry as a bone.

How long had I been down here? What time was it? What day was it? There was no way to know. I listened to the house for a long time. I figured Dad must have been at work because there wasn’t any noise from upstairs.

I focused on what I could do again. Up on my feet, my head suddenly swam. I was dizzy. I shuffled over to the stairs, my hand out to steady myself. I crawled slowly upwards. I reached up and tried the knob gently, quietly. I pushed on the door. Nothing. I pushed a little harder. Still nothing.

The bastard had locked the door. I was out of my chains, but no more free than before. Shit. In the mood Dad was in, he probably meant for me to starve down in the cellar.

I went back down the stairs and laid back down on the drop cloth, this time on my side that was less bruised. I stared off into the shadows. Thirsty. Hungry. Cold. I slept. I woke again. I reached back into my memories, searching for a happy thought I could latch onto. I thought long and hard, so much that I fell into a half-sleep. Dozing, I began to dream.

We were on a boat, Mom and Dad and me. The day was sunny, blue and warm; Mom and I were in the front. I remember the smell of water and the big orange life vest I wore. As the boat plowed through the waves, we got splashed by the spray. I remembered the sound of Mom’s laughter in the spray and the beautiful sunshine. I don’t really remember her face – there aren’t any pictures of her in the house. But the sound of her delighted amusement is still with me.

Where was she? Why did she have to run away? I slept again, but this time I dreamt about her alone. I imagined her breezing into the kitchen, throwing open the cellar door, and letting blazing sunshine pour down the stairs. She’d come lightly down through the shafts of pure golden sun, and find me. Her face creased with worry and sorrow.

“Stephan? Get up, silly boy, it’s time to play.”

I could almost hear her calling me.

I shivered, and woke up out of my doze. Was there a breath of air stirring over my skin? Same cold. Same hurt. Same hunger. Same thirst.

Well, there wasn’t much I could do about these things. Or was there?

Suddenly, I had an idea. I got up and hobbled over to the washing machine. Why hadn’t I thought of this earlier? I set the machine to cold wash, turned the setting for a heavy load, and pulled the knob. Immediately, there was the hiss of the washer filling with water.

I lifted the lid wide, and the water promptly stopped flowing. Damn. Opening the lid flipped a switch. I closed the lid, and the water came on again. I tried the lid again. Off. Again, open, just partway, six inches, slowly. I could see the water. Tantalizing. Cold. I raised the lid, stopping the flow. Found a bottle of detergent, closed the lid, and opened it again, slowly. I propped the lid open with the bottle on its side, and reached in for a handful of water.

It wasn’t much, but it was the best water I’d ever tasted. It was the taste of something going right for once.

I must have slurped from my hand for ten or fifteen minutes before the machine clunked and went into the wash cycle. I pulled out the bottle and let the machine rumble on. I looked around with a fresh mind.

How could I get out of here before Dad starved me to death? I wasn’t feeling strong enough to tackle the door to the kitchen. It was a stout wooden door, and I’d beat on it before – and suffered for doing so, too.

The only other way out was through the bulkhead door to the backyard but that was padlocked inside and out. Feeling hopeful, I tried the key to the leg iron padlock, but it was the wrong type to fit the lock on the bulkhead door.

I leaned heavily against the washing machine to think, as it thrummed through its cycle, sloshing about uselessly. It hurt to stand, but I figured sitting on the floor was worse. I looked along the walls, but there were no escape routes. No windows to open. No –

Wait. Windows? I looked at the dryer. It had a vent that ran through a big piece of plywood that had once been a small ground-level window. Dad had run a big wide vent pipe out of the back of the dryer and out through a hole cut in the plywood.

I examined it more closely, leaning over the dryer to squint. I ignored the pain. This was too interesting, too important. It looked like the board had been screwed into an old window frame.

I stumbled back to Dad’s toolbox. I grabbed a screwdriver. Back to the dryer. I forgot my aches and hurts. I clambered up, getting as close as I could to the plywood. I tried the nearest screw and twisted. Slowly, carefully, I backed it out. I tried another, and it came away easily. The third was tougher to get out, and by the time I had it free of the plywood, I was exhausted. I felt weak, and I sank back down on the machine. Rest.

The washing machine was on its spin cycle now; uselessly expelling all that water I couldn’t drink. And what if Dad came back and found me here? A repeat of the last episode would kill me.

I pulled myself together. I turned again to the screws with a feverish energy. The washer finished its cycle and went mute. The top row of screws were the hardest, because the angle was so bad. I nearly wept with frustration trying to get them to turn. But the vision of Dad finding me trying to escape his prison pushed me to keep going.

And suddenly, the screws were all out, and the plywood sagged off the frame, only held in place by the dryer vent hose. I shoved the plywood and hose aside roughly, and beheld dark night. I breathed in fresh air. The prospect of freedom gave me new energy.

Night. Was Dad home but asleep? Had he heard me stirring? Was he just lying in wait for me outside the window?

I hesitated. I decided that I was screwed if I waited and whipped if I didn’t. Standing on the dryer and leaning over, I pushed my head through the small opening. This wouldn’t work. Withdrawing again, I got my hands out first, then my head and shoulders. My back and sides scraped painfully on the window frame as I wriggled through. Suddenly, I was on green grass in the back yard. There were stars in the sky. The house was dark and neighborhood slept. Slowly, quietly, I crept around the side of the house.

Dad’s truck was not in the driveway. That was odd, but a good sign, I thought. Where the hell was he? I wasn't sure I cared. I shivered again. It was then I remembered that I was outside and half-naked in the middle of the night. I needed to get back in. How to break into your own house? Dad never kept a key under the mat, or anything like that.

A lucky break for me – I found my bedroom window open. Back by the driveway, I grabbed a garbage can for a boost. Carefully setting it down and climbing on it gently, I raised my window higher and let myself tumble through the window onto the floor.

That was a big mistake, as it really, really hurt to land. I lay there, absorbing the pain, trying not to make a sound, and letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I wasn’t sure I wanted to advertise to anyone that I was up and awake.

Recovering after a few minutes, I padded haltingly out of my room and down the hall. I tripped on something smooth, and realized after a second that I had struck an empty beer bottle. Looking into the living area, I saw the floor strewn with them. Dad must have gone through the whole case.

In the kitchen, I found some cereal. The milk in the fridge was sour; I couldn’t stomach it. There was no beer left in the fridge, but there was water at the tap. Cheerios and water was perfectly fine for me. After however long I’d been in the basement, this was better than a restaurant.

After making my big escape, eating for the first time in God knows when, and sneaking around in the middle of the night, I walked back to my room and laid down to think out my next move. Bad idea. I was out before I could say the word ‘exhaustion.’

Light was streaming in my bedroom window when I woke next.

Luck was still with me, because Dad either hadn’t come home yet, or hadn’t figured out that I’d escaped.

I sat up and blinked at my clock. It couldn’t be right: it said 3:37. I’d slept, what, twelve hours? I walked over to my dresser and pulled out clean clothes from my meager supply. Underwear, socks, a pair of jeans, a tee and a nice, old, soft flannel shirt.

Shower.

I didn’t linger in front of the mirror. I knew what I would see. My back would be a mess of scars, and my torso would have some really colorful bruises blooming. There was a cut on my head that showed, but it could have been worse. It stung, but I took plenty of time under the cascade of hot water, trying to soak away some of the pain. My ass still hurt, but maybe the pain was subsiding. Thank God I'd puked, or Dad would have really hurt me. I cleaned up the blood and shit and did my best to wash my hair. It was getting long again; Dad would insist on cutting it soon, if he didn’t cut my throat first.

I shuddered to think about it and realized I’d better hurry out of the bathroom.

Dried off and dressed again, I unlocked the bathroom door and listened carefully for any sign of Dad returning.

Safe so far.

I was hungry again, so I had a look around the kitchen, foraging for something to eat. I must have been downstairs for a while, because there wasn’t much left in the cabinets or the fridge.

There was a can of soup and a couple of eggs. I figured that I would eat the soup, and have the eggs for breakfast, if I was still here then. As the soup warmed, I kept looking out the front window nervously to see if Dad’s truck was pulling up. I decided to prop a couple of chairs under the front and back doors to keep them jammed shut if Dad should surprise me while I ate.

That's when I had the bright idea of going down to the cellar to get my backpack, this notebook, and my jacket.

I opened up the cellar door, and a wave of reek hit my nostrils. I made it quick. By the time I sat down with my bowl of soup, I was ready to write, to tell it all.

Not that anyone will care.