“Tell me she’s lying.” I stopped in front of my mom. Chest heaving. Mind a blur. “Tell me you didn’t send her to my room.” My voice cracked.
Tell me I mean more than that to you. Tell me you give a shit.
She didn’t.
My father walked in. Perfect fucking timing. “That’s enough, son.”
“Do you have any idea what she’s been doing?” I pointed at my mother, who looked bored with the situation.
He clenched his jaw. “I said, that’s enough.”
He knew.
Of course he knew.
I was standing in the middle of our kitchen in my fucking boxer briefs while Mrs. Robinson—who had made her way downstairs—and her merry band of horny housewives were busy popping grapes in their mouths and eye-fucking my dick. It would take an idiotnotto know.
“You’re fucking sick.” I shoved at his chest. “You’re all fucking sick,” I said to the rest of them.
My father grabbed me by the hair and slammed me, face first, into the nearest wall. He pinned me with his weight as he leaned in close to my ear. “If the worst thing that happens to you in your pathetic little life is that a gorgeous woman wants your dick instead of her husband’s, then consider yourself lucky.” He let go of my hair, then stepped away, brushing a hand down the front of his suit like I was the one who ruffled him. “I said that’s enough. Now, go to your room.” He ran a hand over his face. “And for Christ’s sake put some clothes on.”
Without another word, I went back to my room. I closed my door, plopped down on my bed, lit a joint, and stared at the ceiling. Willing my body to stop shaking. Begging my heartbeat to calm.
A few months later, that woman stopped coming to brunch. Maybe she got all she needed and finally dipped. Maybe she moved onto her next victim. Or maybe her husband found out and decided he wasn’t into sharing. It didn’t matter to me. I was just glad she was gone.
I hated her.
I hated them all.
I hated my mother for being nothing more than a glorified pimp to her own child. I hated my father for allowing it. While he was out fucking his way across New York, I was at home getting molested by a Stiffler’s mom.
I hated the man she was married to for not handling his shit at home.
I’d heard people say even the darkest hour only has sixty minutes. I called bullshit. The clock started ticking on mine one Sunday afternoon months ago, and I was still waiting for it to end.
By its very definition, darkness was the absence of light. When the last flicker of hope burned out, that was when darkness came. It was almost romantic the way it crept in and comforted me in that moment. When everything else had gone, there was darkness.
Some people ran from the dark.
I embraced it.
Some people were afraid of it.
I became it.