THE DYING OF BOBBY MARS: SNEAK PEEK PART 4

THE DYING OF BOBBY MARS: SNEAK PEEK PART 4

If you haven’t read the beginning of The Dying of Bobby Mars, you can start by clicking here.

This story is coming closer and closer to completion. The edits and polish are still underway, but  I’m hoping to reveal the cover in the coming months along with put out a finished product before the end of the year. However, I can’t ask you to wait that long (that’s rude),so here’s the sixth uncorrected piece to the story. This is one of my favorite scenes for many reasons.

Hope you enjoy.

I’m taking my first steps. I have been watching through the eyes of fetal imprisonment a little over a year now, but at least I’m walking. This hasn’t amounted to much of a freedom, however. My mother chases me when I run from her and my giggling turns to crying when she jerks me to a stop with a death grip.

“Can you just fucking behave?”

I start to cry weakly pushing at my mother’s claws.

“You’re a fucking nightmare.” My mother says as she releases me and plops onto the couch. She lights up a cigarette and turns on the tv. I run down the hallway away from her. My wobbling feet trip me up and I fall bumping my head into the fake wooden panels of the wall and begin wailing once more.

My mother turns up the volume on the tv to blaring.

After a while, I stop crying. I walk to the edge of the hallway. Peeking out around the wall, I see my mother scowl at me before returning to watching her soaps.

How can she hate a child this much? I wonder.

The phone rings.

My mother rings the cord from the wall and returns to watching to tv and smoking. I see tears streaming down her cheeks.

Why’s she crying?

“Fuck this,” she shouts standing up and pushing pass me with a shove that knocks me on my ass.

I’m crying again with my hands reaching up. “Up! Up!” I wail at my mother as she enters her and my father’s bedroom at the end of the hall.

She returns ten minutes later with a suitcase in one hand and a cigarette in another.

“Up, ma—”

“Shut up!” She roars inches from my face. Then he takes a long drag of her cigarette. I’m still crying, but when my mother blows the smoke in my face, I break out into a coughing fit.

I hear the door slam shut.

I cry and run to the door screaming for my mother.

“Shut up!” I say after an hour of nonstop crying. “For Christ’s sake just shut the fuck up!”

I cry myself asleep despite the growls of in my belly. I feel hate burning me alive.

How could she just leave me here? She’s my fucking mother. How could she do that to me? Her fucking son!

The cold of the tile square of floor in front of the door causes me to shiver. A hear footsteps coming up the drive, crunching the gravel underfoot, while a thought dawns on me.

How can I hear and feel things when I’m asleep? There’s no way I could remember that. If my life was playing like a movie before my eyes, wouldn’t that mean I would only see flashes of what I remember or what was important or something?

Maybe I am really reliving my life…

The door opens.

“Bobby?” My father says. “What in the—” He cuts himself off and through clenched teeth calls out, “Jessica?”

JESSICA?” He howls.

My eyes burst open in a start and I cry out looking around frantically.

“Hush now, Bobby-boy. It’s okay,” My father says as he picks me up. “Everything’s just fine. Don’t you worry.”

“Jessica?” My father calls out softly but none the less angry.

My father moves to the fridge, grabs a bottle, and tries to silence my crying, but I reject it. I often put a fight with the bottle and would instead—if my mother was trying to feed me—reach for her breasts instead. But the need for cigarettes outweighed the oxytocin infused bonding of a mother caring for her young.

He tries again to feed me the bottle, to calm me while searching the house, saying, “Jessica are you here?”

I continue to reject the bottle from my father’s trembling hands seeing the sorrow and hatred build in his eyes. He enters the bedroom, and sees what I assume to be a hasty packing job. Still holding me, my father quickly makes his way to the living room, finds the phone tries to dial several times as I continue to cry and squirm.

“Hush now, Bobby-boy.” He says. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right. Daddy’s got you.”

I hear him mutter something under breath. He moves to the phone messing with something that I assume is the phone cord. My father shifts me in his arms bouncing me slightly, hushing me. I look up at he and see the bright red phone pressed against his ear. My eyes go to the cord. I grab it and begin to play with it. I put it in my mouth and gum at it.

I’d hate to be in his shoes. I think. Sitting here with a child he didn’t want in a marriage that’s his own personal Hell.

“Jessica? Hello Maggie. Can you put Jessica on?” My father says into the phone while I try and remember who Maggie is. My grandmother on my mother’s side? That makes sense. “You tell her to come to the damned phone.

“No? Well, they why don’t I explain why she’s there. I came home today, and thank God I wasn’t over the road, to find our son—our baby boy—alone and asleep in front of the front door. Now, I—”

My father is interrupted, nods, and says, “That’s right. Now, you tell her to get to the phone.”

There’s a pause, a low screaming on the other end of the line, and then my father growls, “You get the fuck home, woman. You get the fuck home right fucking now, you hear me? If I have to track you down, it ain’t going to be pretty. I swear to God, it ain’t. So, you get the fuck home and that will be the end of it…” My father pauses and I can faintly hear…crying? I look up at my father as he takes a deep breath, I see fear in his eyes more than anger, that fear that comes with losing someone, and quickly composing himself, my father continues with, “…and if you ever, ever, leave my son home alone again, I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me?”

His hands are shaking, eyes wide like a rabbit starting at a coyote, and he chews his bottom lip as he listens.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen me so shaken.

“Good. Now you get home right fucking now, and we can forget all about this. If you need a break, we can hire a sitter or I can ask my mom if she’ll help watch Bobby, but I ain’t having you abandon our son again.”

My father hangs up the phone. He pulls the cord from my mouth, places me in my swing, and turns it on. The rocking sets in and after a bit more fighting, I take to the bottle and drink the formula.

I lay asleep yet able to listen to conversation that ensues when my mother finally returns. It quickly devolves into a hushed argument. From an argument of words to a battle of animalistic barks that wakes me. I cry louder than before. And then I hear it. I hear my father slap my mother. Hear her cry, I wail while I lay in my swing fully awake and crying and thrashing during the entire exchange unable to control my infant self.

I could only watch through the eyes of the past. Only listen. Just lay there and squirm and cry like the baby I currently am.

“You see what you made me do?” My father says trying to sound strong, yet I can hear the terror in his words. The fear of what happens to a man that beats his wife. “You see? I didn’t want—”

“Get the fuck away from me, you bastard!” She screams. “You stay the fuck away from me or I’ll call the police!”

“You’ll call the police?” My father screams over my cries rage roused.

The door slams shut with a finality that tells me this was the day—is the day—that she ran out on us…and, honestly, it’s hard to blame her.