Tabula Rasa

His door opens, and almost immediately, he’s meeting the floor, thrown forward into the room with an unexpected viciousness. He remembers to throw up his hands in front of him at the last second, thankfully able to protect his head from impact, though his knees aren’t so luckily shielded, and catch the brunt of his fall. They slam painfully onto the unyielding surface of the concrete ground, and he bites harshly down on his lip to stifle the involuntary whimper, as a spray of especially potent pain shoots shockingly through him.

Still, he doesn’t get up, remaining firmly in the crumpled position, keeping his head down and his body utterly motionless, hardly daring to even breathe. It was a trick he’d learned over time, to play dead: remaining silent, still and utterly unreactive, till his father predictably tired of antagonizing the uninteresting target he’d become, and went off to find other things to do. It was the same tactic to be employed when faced with an attack from a wild animal; the predator thrilled in the chase and conquer, and consequently, needed reactions from their quarry to excite them into striking. It was just the same way with his father. Once he’d commenced delivering a punishment, he needed motivation to continue, needed acknowledgement that his victim was hurt in the form of sounds of pain and pitiful attempts at defence.

And he’d been taught also, that predators were less likely to view one as potential prey if they presented themselves to be as boring of a target as possible. The same again applied for his situation. His father was a bully, but thankfully, the simple superficial sort that predictably lost interest and wandered off when their unfortunate target went unresistant.

His father shifts above him and he braces himself. Sometimes, even after assuming the characteristic position of submission, the other male would still let out a few curious kicks, as if to test his commitment to remaining unmoving.

He doesn’t move.

The strategy works and after a few minutes in which he can feel his father’s disgusted stare roving contemptuously over him, he hears the man stride off, the heavy tread of his work boots slapping loudly against the floor. He waits until he can tell he’s truly well and gone, until he hears the front door open and close, till he can hear the faint sound of his footsteps making their way over to the side of the house, and till he can hear the familiar rattle of the flimsy screen as the door of his work shed slams shut.

. . .

In the safety of his locked bedroom, propped up gingerly against the sheets – the pain is still there, body still throbbing to the beat of an agonizing rhythm – he digs around in the small gap between the mattress and bedframe, to retrieve the familiar item nestled there.

The glare of the unexpectedly strong moonlight through his window illuminates the object in his hand, burnishing its length with an eerie brightness. The steel gleams compellingly, and as he adjusts his grip, the serrated edge is outlined even more, glinting sharply and dangerously.

When he’d first gotten the knife from the kitchen, he’d been entirely certain of what exactly he planned to use it for. He had it all set out, had waited until his father was asleep, till the house was dark and silent, and then crept to the bathroom. He’d chosen the bathroom because it was the most convenient place to use, in case he mistakenly made a mess as he was prone to do, and needed to quickly clean up after himself.

He remembers standing in front of the mirror, and seeing the trepidation and determination warring across his face. He remembers his breathing becoming shallower as panic had predictably set in, and yet still pushing through the fright – closing his eyes and setting the knife against his skin with a heavy breath of resolve.

But he hadn’t been able to do it. His courage was a fickle thing, easily substituted for cowardice at a moment’s notice, and as the beginnings of pin-sharp pain had set in, he’d opened his eyes a fraction to see the tip of the knife piercing its way into his flesh, a pearl of blood already bubbling forth, desecrating the pale canvas of his skin with its startlingly bold redness. The very real terror of what he’d just been about to do had set in, and the knife had clattered to the ground from suddenly slack fingers. And try as he might, he could not summon the bravery to try again, and had finally fled to his room, tears of frustration falling down his face at what he perceived as the pathetic weakness of his will.

But as he’d set the knife beside him, with a silent promise to himself to try again when he could better gather up the nerve to do so, the edge had grazed the wall, gouging a small line onto the surface and showering specks of plaster downward. He’d stared for a full minute at the minor damage he’d unintentionally caused, then as if in a trance, picked the knife and repeated an identical line beside the first.

He hadn’t expected the small action to be so hugely cathartic, but it felt truly as if he’d accomplished something significant in that moment, by inflicting some manner of mutilation, if not on his own person as planned, but at least on something else that would carry the visible mark of his release. The act filled him with a surprising satisfaction, assuaging his anger at himself now that he’d found an alternative receptacle to expend his resentment upon.

He’d hidden the knife away after that time, but barely a couple of days later, had found himself back with it, slashing angrily at the wall in another impotent rage.

And the tension was again released.

Thereafter, it evolved into a sort of ritual, regularly returning to the sanctuary of his room to scrape line after line into the wall. Unsurprisingly, his wall was soon filled with a network of jagged scratches. He grouped them in the form of tally marks, turning his therapeutic past-time into a sort of personal record-keeping: a line for every instance he emerged bruised and bloody from another unwarranted beating.

. . .

His father was sitting on the couch when he got home. And he knew instinctively that there was trouble ahead. He should not have been there; it was still early evening and he usually worked in his carpentry shed till around six, sometimes even till it was well dark out. Him lounging lazily in the living room at this out-of-schedule time was a blatant sign that something was wrong.

He gradually takes in the other supporting evidence. The scarily blank expression on his father’s face was the eerie calm before the storm. And the multitude of beer cans scattered about, some crushed underfoot, bore testament to the fact that he was very deeply intoxicated. One still dangles from the tips of his fingers, and he can tell from the casual way it’s handled that it’s nearly empty. 

An obnoxious belch sounds out as he closes the door. A full body shiver works its way through him, an unpleasant thrill of anticipation that has his breathing falling into an erratic rhythm. He dimly wanders if he can make his way past to the safety of his room without being noticed, but the hope is dashed when his father speaks. 

“Hello, Jimmy,” his father says, following the words with a gulp of his drink. He wipes his mouth and stares listlessly at the empty can, then throws it down to join the rest. His foot comes down to crunch the can under the heel of his heavy work boot, flattening it with a deliberate determination that seems almost malicious in its intent.

“Hi, dad,” he replies, swallowing the little moisture left in his suddenly dry mouth. Nausea sweeps over him, and his hands tighten around the straps of his backpack, in a bid to quell the urge to heave out of sheer nervousness. He’s certain he’ll find marks of rope burn when he examines his palms later.

“Have a good day at school today?” His father is still not staring him in the face, instead idly examining his fingernails with a small frown on his face.

“Yes.”

“Hmm?” his father questions absentmindedly, finally turning his attention onto him. He can feel himself quaking under the stare as dread fills him. Even from the distance across their positions, he can see the redness of his eyes, the blotchiness of his puffy skin and the still unsettlingly unreadable expression settled over his features.

“My day was fine. It was. . . I had a good day.”

His father rises off the couch, so suddenly, he takes a startled step back. The man strides in his direction, and he blanches the closer he gets, apprehension increasing with each step that brings his father closer. Stopping in front of him, his father reaches a hand out and he automatically flinches, and closes his eyes. He feels fingers brush over his scalp as the other ruffles his lank hair. The hand moves down to the side of his face, and his eyes snap open and upward in surprise as the calloused palm strokes his cheek tenderly. The look in his father’s eyes is distant, as if his mind has been transported elsewhere.

He remains frozen, not wanting to break whatever spell this is.

“You know I care about you, right?” The words are unexpected, and carry an unabashed sincerity.

“Right,” he replies hurriedly, conscious that the slightest hesitation could give room for a misinterpretation.

His father nods, seemingly satisfied by the confirmation, and gives his cheek one last fond pat, before he reaches for the door. A tentative relief sweeps over him as the other makes to step outside. His hands relax their agitated grip.

His father is halfway out the door already when he pauses.

“What’s the time?” he inquires.

In hindsight, he should have noticed the affected innocuous tone. In the moment however, he’d foolishly let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. His father was always good at that, expertly putting him at relative ease before he struck.

He obligingly looks over at the clock and responds. “Four thirty.”

The hand crashing across his face greets him the second he turns back to face his father. He stumbles backwards from the force of the blow, blinking stupidly in momentary stupefaction, as he struggles to stay upright. Just mere seconds ago, the same hand had been lovingly caressing his face, and the slap feels like a cruel mimicry of the previous affectionate touch.

He wonders resignedly what he'd done now, knowing however there was never any real rationality to his father's actions when drunk.

The metallic clang as the lock is bolted carries the splittingly loud resonance of a death knell. It might just be the ringing in his ears though, he reasons, that has every sound around him momentarily amplified and echoing.

A familiar weariness settles over him, and his limbs feel leaden.

There’s no expressionless façade now, only a very real rage reddening his features. He imagines his father’s already bloated face swelling further from the force of his own fury, the pressure building up till it could no longer be contained and finally burst through, like how it happened in the cartoons. He envisages the headless body keeling over dramatically, pieces of bloodied brain matter splattered colourfully round the room from the explosion.

It’s an entertaining visual, and his lips quirk unconsciously in amusement.

“You think this is funny?” his dad bellows, and he wipes the smile off his face immediately. “You coming home at this time, when I told you, when I warned you that it was unacceptable?”

“I’m sorry,” he says simply. Any explanation was an excuse, and excuses were also unacceptable.

He doesn’t even remember the rule in question ever being communicated, but he knows it doesn’t matter anyway.

His father shakes his head and he knows the apology will not be accepted. “You never learn. You never ever learn. No matter what I say, you never listen. You just go ahead and do what you want. What is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry,” he tries again.

“You’re sorry,” he sneers, repeating the words in a high register, a clear attempt at mockery. “You’re always sorry. But you never mean it. And sorry isn’t good enough.” His father advances towards him, grim determination plastered across his features.

The best defence he’d learned from experience, was to immediately fall to the floor and curl himself into a ball. He immediately does so, scrunching himself into as much of as foetus-like a position he can manage, before the first blow has the chance to land. If he were to be standing, his father would undoubtedly have access to much more surface area. But when he made himself as small of a target as possible, he was limited in how much he could cover, and he certainly couldn’t reach the more vulnerable parts. And luckily, he also had the good fortune in form of his school bag to serve as added protection.

Soon enough, pain flares across the unprotected expanse of his back but he grits his teeth and remains silent. He can hear his father panting above him, out of breath from the exertion, and wonders how many more minutes till he tires himself out.

Despite his resolve to stay quiet, he cannot stop the yelp of pain that escapes when a particularly brutal kick connects with the back of his head. The severe hit dazes him, involuntarily relaxing his muscles from retaining their protective position, and leaving his body open to more hits. His father doesn’t waste a minute of the opportunity, hitting even harder, as if to make up for being previously unable to reach the areas of him that’d been shielded.

His world spins precariously on its axis and finally crashes over. A void of blackness rises up hungrily to swallow his mind as sensations fade, and everything gradually dissolves into nothingness.

. . .

He comes to slowly, blinking sticky moisture out of his eyes under the harsh glare of white fluorescent lights. He coughs, and someone rushes immediately to his side, the heavy floral scent of their unbearably cloying perfume heralding their presence. He lifts a leaden hand to wipe at his clogged vision, and a familiar face fills his line of sight.

“Aunt Marge,” he questions confusedly. “What are you doing here?” He looks around himself, taking in the unmistakable sterile surroundings of a hospital room, with bewilderment.

“Oh, Jimmy,” is the only response, before his aunt bursts into tears. It’s a loud undignified weeping that has him faintly embarrassed for both of them. He looks towards the door every few seconds, worried someone might come in to see the display.

Mercifully, his aunt exhausts herself soon enough, and straightens up, sniffling and dabbing furiously at her reddened eyes.

He’s eventually able to drag an explanation out of her. His father had finally gone too far – had successfully kicked him into unconsciousness – and had then gotten worried when all attempts to wake him had proved abortive. He’d called for an ambulance in a panic, and had unsurprisingly been taken in as a suspect in his son’s assault considering all the clear circumstantial evidence. They’d called in his emergency contact, and his aunt had flown all the way from across the country to stay at his side.

She apologizes over and over, for not knowing the depths of how bad it’d gotten, for never considering to physically check up on him over the years ever since his mother had passed, and for unknowingly leaving him at the mercy of his abusive father. She apologizes for anything and everything until the effusive requests for forgiveness start to make him deeply uncomfortable, and he implores her to stop.

. . .

He stays with her for the following weeks in a little apartment she’s rented. It's proximal to his school.

When his junior year finally draws to a close, and the summer holiday starts, his aunt sits him down with complete seriousness and asks him the question he’d been expecting all along.

Would he consider moving back home with her?

He hardly needs time to reflect over his answer. What was waiting for him at present? His father was in jail. And he was awkward and antisocial by nature; there were no friends to miss him. A complete change of scenery and lifestyle would do him good.

The answer fills his aunt’s face with relief.

She starts the process of setting up his old home for sale. He’d taken his essentials along to the apartment, but the majority of his stuff still remains at the house. So, his aunt drives him there, to pick up the rest of what he wishes to pack along, before she hauls everything else away, to be held indefinitely at the storage locker she’s rented.

The house is already in the process of being stripped bare; numerous boxes are strewn about the expanse. He climbs the stairs and stops at the door of his room.

The room smells of chemicals.

He looks over to the wall he’d defaced over the years. It’s completely unmarred now, boasting a fresh coat of paint, smooth and clean, wiped free of all the disfigurements it’d carried.

It’s been healed of its scars, given a new beginning.

His aunt stops behind him. “What’s wrong?” she questions worriedly.

The paint is an untainted whiteness, reminiscent of a blank slate.

And that is exactly what his life will be now: a blank slate he can start an entirely new story on.

He turns back round to face her, the sunny smile immediately putting her at ease.

“Everything’s perfect.”