Sick
***
I get so restless. My mind isn’t focused on anything but flesh, pretty flesh. I get set off when I get close and I can smell soap on her, fruity soap mixed with honey. I can smell it deep, like a dog. It crosses my mind that I shouldn’t be stupid, but my mind doesn’t talk to me as sweetly as my imagination. The voice that runs my fantasies is rich and warm. The track of this girly whisper lies over small knees, eyes tightly closed, weak arms with tiny hands that wave me away like an insect. It just gets me going.
My arms get those pin-prickles, my dick fills with blood, my head weighs on my neck like a stone. I start hating myself, feeling guilty and all, but that angel voice calls me back to the feel of fresh, nervous skin contorting under me. I don’t want to see her fight. I tell her it’s not going to hurt. It’s like getting a needle at the doctor. She’ll feel better when it’s done. I promise her over and over. I know how to speak to her because I’m a father.
I have a little girl. My wife, Susan, is a good mother. She is going to raise our kid like a fucking princess. I want good things for my angel. We live with Susan’s parents, on the third floor of their plastic house. No ghosts live here. There are no stains on the walls, and nothing tense. I should feel calm. But being here makes me get more restless, like I have enough energy to run a marathon. When I get like that, being in her room, breathing in her scent soothes my itch…. gets me feeling calm. I get restless, and all I want is to get wasted, and fill up, and feel better.
Susan’s house is nothing like mine. It didn’t matter how slick you were there, a belt would fuck you up just the same. It was a tough situation. My dad was an alcoholic and he loved his guns. He would shoot at us to get us going. He was petty like that, always getting off on screwing with our heads. I had seven brothers and sisters, and he beat us all, my mom, too. My mom was a ballerina, and hardly made a sound. It was quite a show. He’d toss her around the room real easy. Even if she landed hard, she didn’t make a sound.
My older brother lit my father on fire one time when he thought he was asleep, and, when my dad caught him, he chained him to the radiator and beat him with the metal point of an umbrella. I felt for my brother because he was brain injured, so he probably didn’t understand what he was doing. He couldn’t even wash himself without my mom’s help. She begged my dad that night, but he tore a hole in my brother anyway…a hole right in his fleshy middle. I puked on the carpet when I saw it.
Right before my father was killed, he told me, just because I knocked up a pretty thing, didn’t mean I wasn’t still a piece of shit. I told Susan what he said, and she covered her eyes with her fingers. I’m not sure why she was crying. I don’t bother paying attention to the tears of girls. They cry over fresh air, birthdays, chipmunks…it’s like they have a waterspout inside of them with an endless supply.
My little sisters always came to me when our dad was letting loose. I could see his eyes turning, getting ready for it, filling up with confidence. We all knew to disappear when he got real slow, when his limbs had the look of a puppet on strings. He waited until his fists were numb from the booze, so he could go for longer. The three of my sisters would come in my room, and jump in my bed. They told me they loved me the best. They said I had the best jokes and told the best stories. I would take turns rubbing their backs. I would ask them to tickle me all at once. Katie was ten, the oldest. Jenny was seven, and Amanda was five. I liked Jenny’s hands, but Katie took her time. The devil would let loose on the ballerina, and I would get into bed with my sisters.
When my sister Katie got older, like thirteen, she said she didn’t want me in her bed anymore, and I got irritated dragging her to mine. She would start all those big tears going. I told her she wasn’t right for needing me, and then wanting me out. I hated her for it, and I slapped her wet little face, then I gave her a little anyway, until she seemed better. I think people are animals, you know? I feel ashamed, but what if this is the way it’s supposed to work? It’s not like I’m a fucking fag.
I can never let Susan know anything. I love her, but I wish I could mute her mouth a lot of the time. She’s got this way of going over and over the same fucking point. I want to tell her to shut the hell up. I put her down when I need to, just to get her off my case. She talks like she is so brilliant at everything, like she is helping me by being my wife. I hate when she talks to me like I can’t tie my own shoes. I bite her while we make love, it gets out my urge to throw her through the fucking wall. She cries, but she’s always crying when we’re alone.
Why is she crying? I’m the one who has to find work, fit in with her cardboard family, and all Susan has to do is take care of the baby. I got a lot on me right now, and it’s not my fault that I need some release. I get high. I get drunk. I get all itchy…and I just need her; I need Caroline, Susan’s little sister. I hear that angel voice, soft. I get all wrapped up in it. I think of her belly button under my breath. The elastic on her pajamas stretched out over my wrist. She has a constellation of freckles on her shoulders. She hasn’t been shot at by the devil, or out of work, or lonely, or chained to a hot radiator, or old, or sick with restlessness. She is just a little piece of pretty flesh, living in a plastic house. She is my new little sister, and all I want to do is make her feel better.
***
About the Author
Rana left the streets of Philadelphia for the sun-drenched byways of Los Angeles. She currently attends Antioch University where she is finishing her B.A. She spends her days studying, writing, reading, teaching, and working. Though Rana is not particularly clever, she is well known for her brevity.