• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

My Father speaks.

We’re very worried about you, James.

I hear my Mother start to cry.

I know you are.

We really want to come up there.

Cry.

Do what you want, but don’t expect me to participate if you do.

Do you need anything?

Cry.

I need to go.

We love you, James.

I know you do.

My Mother speaks.

I love you, James.

Her voice breaks.

I know you do, Mom.

My Father speaks.

Call us if we can help in any way.

I’ve got to go, Dad.

Please reconsider the Family Program.

Bye, Dad.

Bye, James.

My Mother sobs.

Bye, James.

Bye, Mom.

My Mother sobs.

We love you.

I’ve got to go.

I hang up the phone and I take a deep breath and I stare at the floor. My Mother and Father are at a House in Michigan that I’ve never seen and my Mother is crying and my Father is trying to comfort her and their hearts are broken and they want to come see me and they want to try to help me and I don’t want them here and I don’t want their help. My Mother is crying because her Son is an Alcoholic and a drug Addict and a Criminal. My Father is trying to comfort her. I have broken their hearts. I stare at the floor.

I walk back to my Room and I sit down on my bed. John is in his area and when he sees me he stands and walks toward my area.

I’m sorry for giving your friend my card.

I’m not mad at you.

It’s okay if you are.

We thought it was funny.

I figured out a way to make it better.

I’m not mad.

Let me make it better.

There’s nothing to make better.

Please.

He sits down at the edge of my bed, gives me an earnest look.

How old are you?

Twenty-three.

You’re so young.

I chuckle.

What’s your offer, John?

He takes a deep breath.

This is to make up for all my wrongs.

Okay.

And if it’s not sufficient, we can talk about something else.

What’s the offer, John?

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a picture, hands it to me. It is of a beautiful young Girl in a bikini.

What’s this?

My Daughter.

She’s beautiful, but I don’t want a picture of your Daughter.

That’s not it.

Then what is it?

I want to give her to you. You can do whatever you want to her.

Goddamn, John.

I hand him the picture.

You don’t like her?

You can’t give me your fucking Daughter.

My Family supports her and pays all of her and her Mother’s bills.

So what.

She’ll do what I say.

Go away, John.

She’ll do anything I say.

Then tell her to go to School, stay away from drugs and stay the fuck away from you.

That’s good advice.

Go away, John.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry, John. Just go away.

He stands.

Okay.

He walks to his section of the room and he climbs into bed and he buries himself under the covers and I can hear him cursing himself. He’s a poor, sick, sad Motherfucker, but once he was an innocent young Boy. A Boy with a future, a Boy with his whole life in front of him. His Dad was rich and powerful, and one day, one horrible fucked-up day, his Dad decided to molest him. I can imagine young John, alone in his room with a set of army men or stack of Legos or a pile of baseball cards, and I can imagine his Dad coming in and shutting the door and telling John he wanted some private time with him. After it was over, I can imagine John crawling into his bed and burying himself under the covers and cursing himself.

I sit and I listen to John crying and I wish there was something I could do to help him. I sit and I listen to John and I wish there was some way I could make him better. There is no hope for John, no hope at all. He could go to five hundred Clinics and spend ten years working the Twelve Steps and it wouldn’t make a bit of fucking difference. He has been broken beyond repair, wounded beyond the point of healing, abused beyond the point of recovery. He will never know happiness or joy, security or normalcy. He will never know pleasure, satisfaction, serenity, clarity, peace of mind or any semblance of sanity. He will never know trust or love. You poor, sick, sad Motherfucker. You will never know. I’m sorry.

I hear voices and activity outside the door to the Room and I know