There's nothing for me here.
There's nothing for me here.
I let out a small sigh as I stared outside the window of my father's car as it navigated through the New York weekend traffic. It was a nightmare, both to me and him. I hated being stuck in traffic, he hated being with me.
"How's school been?" My father's voice sounded, jolting me from my thoughts.
He waited for a few seconds, expecting a reply from me but the only answer he got was a blank stare.
"I asked a question... how's school been?" he said again, his tone different this time. He was slightly pissed off.
I shrugged. "When has it not been fine?"
It was a pointless question in my opinion. I can't remember how many times he had asked me that question and I can't remember, or rather, there has never been an instance where my answer deviated. If you know the answer to the question, why bother asking?
"Tsk..." my father hissed and turned his attention back to the road. I continued peering out the window.
"There's nothing for me here," I muttered under my breath.
However you choose to look at it, my life wasn't exactly the most colorful. In fact, even the most optimistic of optimists would struggle to find something positive about my life.
I was born by accident to parents who didn't want anything to do with me. Yes, I'm exactly what happens to careless men who think their pullout game is impeccable.
The only thing that my mother ever did for me was to give birth to me. She didn't like me, she didn't want me, and she made sure to remind me of that every chance she got. I stayed with her until I was five, and our neighbors at the time were kind enough to call child support after my mother left me at home alone for a week without any food or money.
Everyone thought she was just careless and irresponsible, but I knew the truth—she wanted to kill me, and she wanted it to be slow and painful. She told me so, a couple of days before she left me at home alone.
After the entire incident with my mother, it was decided that I would stay with my father. That was when my life started to go downhill.
You see, from the moment I knew what feelings were, I hated my father. I hated him so much. He was the one who left me with my mother. He was the reason she hated me so much—because I looked exactly like him. Instead of him being a man and raising the child he birthed, he abandoned us. He abandoned me and left me to stay with that mad woman. I hated him… and he hated me.
He lived a perfect life away from me and my mother. He had a loving wife. He had two kids. And I took that away from him. Apparently, my mother was an extra-marital affair, so things didn't end well between them after my existence was brought into the light.
My father hated me for taking his love away from him. And like mother, he made sure I knew it. Unlike my mother, he didn't say it with words. He said it with regular beatings—with whatever weapon he could find. Belts, rods… his fists.
He wanted me to leave, to run away, but I didn't. I didn't mind the beatings or his negligence because they made me know that he hated me almost as much as I hated him. And as much as I hated being with him, I promised myself that I would never leave, because he would love it if I left. And I hated him too much to give him that little bit of joy.
You see, some people cling to hope. They say things like, "Maybe one day he'll change," or "There's still good in him," but I don't waste my time with fantasies. People don't change. Not really. They just get better at hiding their rot. And if there's anything my father's taught me, it's that some people are just born broken. Shattered at the core. You can tape over a cracked mirror, but it's still a broken thing. That's how I see myself too, if I'm being honest. Just a broken piece of his broken mess. And I've stopped pretending otherwise.
The city outside the window blurred by. Billboards, rusting fences, people dragging their feet through their own sad little Saturdays. The sky was grey, smeared like a cigarette stain across the skyline. Somewhere, probably not too far away, someone was dying. Maybe in a hospital bed. Maybe under a bridge. Maybe with a needle in their arm. And maybe—just maybe—that person was luckier than me. Because at least it was ending.
I used to believe in things. When I was younger. That was the worst part. Believing. Believing that things would get better. That someone would swoop in and save me. That someone would see the bruises on my arms or hear the way my voice cracked when I said my name and understand. That never happened. No teachers pulled me aside. No neighbors knocked twice. People saw. They just didn't care.
You stop crying after a while. You stop yelling. Eventually, you just sit with it. The hate, the numbness, the cold shoulder of the universe. You carry it like a second skin, and before you know it, you can't tell where the pain ends and you begin.
I used to fantasize about what I would say at my father's funeral. Something short. Cruel. "He lived. He hit. He died." Or maybe I wouldn't say anything at all. Just stand there in silence and let the world forget he ever existed. But then I realized… I don't even want that. I don't want revenge. I don't want closure. I want nothing. I just want out.
The light turned red again. We jerked to another halt. Horns blared. Some guy in a cab screamed out his window. I watched a rat scurry along the sidewalk, dodging litter and cigarette butts. The city didn't care if you lived or died. It just kept moving.
I turned my head and looked at myself in the side mirror. My face looked pale, drained. Eyes sunken, mouth drawn tight. I wondered what people saw when they looked at me. Did they see the cracks? Did they feel the emptiness behind the eyes? Or did they just see another forgettable kid with a forgettable life?
Maybe in another world, I was born into a family that loved me. Maybe in another world, I came home to warm hugs and the smell of cinnamon. Maybe I had a little dog. Maybe I smiled more. Laughed. Felt things.
But this world wasn't that world.
And I've stopped hoping it ever will be.