Warmish / 14 / cryogenic baby
oh, are we having cake?
code by mechanicalanakal
Hey guys and gals! I'm Warmish Winter, everyone's favorite self proclaimed racial slurry and professional xenophiliac, HAH. Enjoy your stay, or don't.
Hello I am a chILd. I'm terrible and love
Anyways, if you join me now, and I'm here long enough, you might be able to see a poorly written chILd grow into a poorly written dysfunctional adult, sounds cool, right?
semi-automatic game-antagonist backstory comin yo way
warnings for emotional cowardice and impLIEd abuse/rape and honest to dog misunderstandings rip in fucking pieces you guys
Huey came home late today. Dad wasn’t ok with that. I’m writing this to distract myself, I wish I had mom here to sing to me so that I could focus on something other than these words, so that I wouldn’t have to hear it. It’s especially loud tonight. I’m lucky, I don’t know why but dads never so much as touched me, I’m still afraid that one day he’ll get bored and it’ll be my turn. I wish I could tell Huey that I’m sorry I can’t do anything, but I can’t force myself to apologize. I feel like he’d hate that even more, but I honestly don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know.
A few weeks ago I was sitting in the kitchen, it’s far away from Hueys room and I can ignore things easier, a while after the noise stopped I heard someone coming downstairs, at first I thought it might be dad but then I realized it was too soft to be dad, the stairs didn’t creak enough. Huey was trying to get some water, he didn’t even bother looking at me or turning on the lights. He was shaking so bad that he dropped his cup and spilled it all over the floor, I didn’t help him clean it up. I’ll be honest here, I rarely help him, I’m afraid that if I do and dad finds out then it’ll finally be my turn. Now that I think about it, everything I do is governed by this fear, I just want to fade into the background so that dad never notices me. I don’t bother him and hopefully he doesn’t bother me. Sometimes I’m too scared to be guilty, but other times my little brother is trying to clean water off the floor in his too-small, dirty old pijamas and crying silently.
He’s gotten good at crying silently.
God it’s still going on, this journal was pointless, all I can think about is what's happening through the walls. But it’s not my fault, and there's nothing I can do about it. No one listens to kids, that’s what dad always said, nobody cares what a kid says, because everyone knows that kids are liars and brats, and how could I do that to Huey? How could I just tell everyone what dads been doing to him? He’d be horrified if anyone knew, no, that’s his choice, it’s all up to him. I can’t say anything, if nothing good comes from me telling then I’d be dads next target for sure. I can’t tell anyone. I can’t tell anyone. I can’t tell anyone.
- - - -
Huey threw his notebook at his teacher today. It’s worse than usual, I can actually hear Huey crying this time, that means it’s especially bad. Dad hit him with the exact notebook he’d thrown before they went into Hueys room. I picked it up. I don’t know why but now I’m looking through it and I see why Huey threw it.
There are pages that are littered with the word HELP, it’s only a few pages but if you flipped through the notebook you’d see it in a heartbeat. This was his plea for help, the only way he knew how. Of course he couldn’t say anything, of course he couldn’t speak up, but he wanted help. Of course he does. I can’t stand this anymore.
I’m so glad I’ll be going to college soon. I can’t stand this place anymore, I never want to think of it again. If only I could say something, I wish I could tell him that my lips are sealed as well, maybe the both of us would have the strength to do something together. But I can’t speak to him anymore, and he’s always angry and sad and hurting. I know he won’t speak to me anymore, too little too late I guess. I know he won’t be alright without me here. I can’t help but feel like I’m abandoning him. Maybe I am.
- - - -
He did it. I heard the news today. I never thought I’d write about him in this thing again, it’s the only thing I brought with me from that wretched house, I couldn’t leave it behind. He did it. He told someone, or someone found out, or something, it doesn’t matter, dads gone. They say they’re gonna lock him up. Maybe Huey’ll come and live with me. I’m so proud of you, Huey, if you ever read this, I’m sorry that I was useless. That I couldn’t help you and that I needed- no, that I wanted to distance myself, for myself more than I needed to help you. I’m sorry Huey, I hope we can be better together.
- - - -
Too little too late. He doesn’t even look at me. This is all my fault. He hates me. What’ve I done. I can’t speak to him. I can’t. I can’t.
I was avoiding going home. No matter what the consequences, I needed to stay away, just for a little. I mostly just wandered around and tried not to think about what all this mindless time wasting was going to earn me once I got home. I bought a soda. I talked to some guys at the park. I hung around and stared off into space until it was too dark and too cold to ignore home anymore.
The punishment wasn’t so bad. I’d long stopped struggling, if I just thought of other things and let him do what he wanted it wasn’t too bad. If I just pretended I wasn’t there it wasn’t so bad. Sometimes I’d go numb, I’d stop being able to feel things, it’d be like I was watching things happen through a tv screen. When that happened I was ok, and I’d just take time and think and wait.
I remembered that a few weeks ago had been especially bad, pain was worse than usual so I couldn’t just escape. I was shaking when I went downstair to do, well, at the time I had no idea, but by the time I reached the kitchen I’d decided on water. Unsurprisingly, my sister was there. She just watched me with those cold distant eyes of hers. Sometimes I wondered if she thought I deserved this when she watched me like that. Maybe I did in some way. I was a disappointment of a son, I’d had problems even before all this started. I was terrible at everything I tried and had a short temper to boot. You were a brat and you still are. A voice in my head told me. I hadn’t liked other kids much, but I used to be able to get along with them at least somewhat-ly ok. Not anymore though, I couldn’t even take a joke anymore. One word and I’d be biting some kids arm or calling them all “fucking morons”. I fumbled with my cup, snapping back to the present with the realization that I was trembling too badly to hold the cup, too late, I’d dropped it. Good thing I’d picked a plastic one instead of one that would shatter otherwise this could’ve been much worse.
If she didn’t think you deserved it, she’d be helping you right now. The little voice inside my head told me, as I grabbed a roll of paper towels and tried to mop up the water. Shuddering as I realized that voice was probably right. I could feel her stare on my back and I knew that she knew I was crying, but I wouldn’t let her hear me, just like how I wouldn’t let him hear me. She’s right you know. You only made everyone's lives harder, you made your own mother's life harder. The only person who loved you could barely stand you. Dad’s right, this is all you’re good for. I tried to form a rebuttal but the voices were coming non stop, accusing me of all this, telling me there was no way I didn’t deserve this. I eventually stopped trying and focused all my attention on keeping quiet. It was one of the few only things I had control over, so no matter what, I would stay quiet. I could keep quiet. I could. I could.
- - - -
I couldn’t take it. The other kids around me were laughing, they’re always laughing, it’s so painful to hear. I’d written HELP over and over and over as if I was rehearsing it. Now all I had to do was actually fucking say it. But I couldn’t, it was too hard, the teacher would say “What do you need help with?” and I’d say some bullshit about the subject or ask them to re-explain something. I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t even hand the fucking book to them. I wanted to be rescued, it had to look like an accident, I wanted them to notice that I needed help, because after all these years, actually asking for it was too hard.
So I threw the notebook. I hoped that maybe the teacher would pick it up and at least notice the darkened pages full of scratchy desperate text, but I guess it was a bad day for them too because they didn’t even look at the pages, just picked it up and yelled at me, telling me that this was unacceptable. I told them that they were a useless teacher and that they should go fuck themself. I don’t know why, maybe out of frustration, maybe because I knew that I’d already lost my chance and I might as well let out as much steam as possible before dad got his hands on me.
I got detention, several detentions, but I couldn’t speak to my counselor. They were the only one who knew something was up, but they couldn’t do anything unless I told them what it was. And I couldn’t even write it down. I couldn’t even try to speak without my throat being clogged up with the memories of every time and every way he’d touched me.
So I went home after detention, told my dad what happened, and resigned myself to hopefully blackout or drift off from what was going to happen. No such luck. It was the most painful thing I’d ever experienced. He didn’t choke me enough to black out and the sharp pain kept me in the moment. He didn’t give off any pretense of care, didn’t prepare me in any way. He held me down just knowing it would bruise painfully, and he kept at it long after I’d been fully exhausted. I cried loud enough that I knew my sister could hear me. It’d been years since I’d cried like this, and here I was again, acting like the child I was back then. I hadn’t changed at all. I’d pretended that me being able to keep quiet meant something, anything at all, but no. It was just another lie I told myself.
- - - -
After my sister left, I tried to convince myself that he wasn’t always bad. Sure, I never wanted it, but sometimes he’d be almost gentle. Rarely, he’d even tell me that I was doing good. It usually made me feel sick when he said that, but I kept telling myself that I was being ungrateful. He was hardly even hurting you. It could’ve been much worse, what’re you complaining about?! I told myself it could be worse, because it could be. So I just accepted it. I just tried to accept it, at least. I’d never gotten so low before, that after all these years, I believed that I really did deserve this. I didn’t want to live but I was too scared to die.
- - - -
I broke when I was 17. Still legally a minor, but almost ready to leave. I don’t know why it was then, I could’ve waited a bit and left without a sound and nobody would know. Nothing particularly bad happened, I’d had my spirit cracked and damaged so much starting so long ago that I didn’t realize I was big enough to fight back, until I did, and I shoved him so hard that he actually fell off of me. I didn’t usually struggle, but sometimes when I realized I couldn’t drift off into nothingness to escape this time, my fear took over.
It was a stunning realization, and I felt as though I’d finally -and suddenly- grown up, that I wasn’t just a little kid anymore. The moment he hit there ground, I ran. Maybe he’d realized what I had too, because the police had a little bit of trouble finding him. But they found him. And I just stared at my hands, realizing how big they were, realizing how big I was. Wondering how long I’d been this way, and how long I’d had the power to shove him off me.
I was only forced out of that daze when I was told I’d be going to live with my sister, only for a few months, only until I turned 18. Then I could go wherever I wanted, though that wasn’t saying much, for some reason I hadn’t planned on living past 18. Maybe I thought (or hoped) that something would kill me before then. Maybe life seemed too hard to consider what would happen after I got out of the worst of it. I had no plans but I was ecstatic, as long as I left my sister alone, didn’t provoke her, didn’t speak to her I could finally leave everything behind.
My sister hadn’t helped me, and I’d long since convinced myself she had never wanted to. Maybe she was cruel, maybe she didn’t care, maybe she thought it was my fault, whatever the reason, I didn’t care. I would just ignore her and give her no reason to hurt me, and then I’d be free.
- - - -
A few years later, dad died and my sister passed the house to me. I had nowhere else to stay and I couldn’t bear to be around her and her boyfriend anymore. It was too painful how he seemed to think she was a good guy and that we just needed to reconcile. I wanted to tell him off, but didn’t feel like it. I didn’t feel like much of anything.
I could live there so long as I avoided a few choice areas. It’d been ok. I would finish school maybe and keep working my shitty minimum wage jobs and I’d do something. I’d go somewhere and do something. Thinking after today was still hard but I would be okay as long as I kept running. That’s what I told myself. I would be okay as long as it was all forgotten.
- - - -
Then Irene died and left me with her fucking kid. I didn’t know what to do at first. I was a borderline alcoholic with too many personal problems to be in a relationship, let alone raise a child I’d wanted nothing to with in the first place. Then the brat started breaking things. My things. My only things. They’d run around and hide my stuff and laugh and cry like all annoying kids do. I used to leave them alone, but they don’t deserve it. They’re such a fucking brat. A reminder of the sister who hated me, brought up by the sister who thought I’d deserved everything. Running around and laughing in the halls and rooms where my father tortured me. They destroy my things and I hate them, they fight me and bite me and their stupid hands slap at and rip at my stupid fucking scars. I hate them. They deserve it. They keep setting me back, this stupid family keeps setting me back. Everytime I try to move on, one thing, always at least one thing keeps setting me fucking back.
I hate them.
They deserve it.
I can hardly think with all the alcohol in my system.
But I know that
I hate them
And that for some reason, when I see their face, I know it’s true when I think
That they deserve it.