Mama said, Dad said

Contains Profanity, Gore, 

October 22nd, 1985

 It’s the disgusting meatloaf again.  Mom always makes it on Tuesday nights.  Maybe I can distract her long enough to feed some to Rover. 

I break the silence with a question Mama hates to answer. 

“Mama, what happened to Dad? I know you said he ran away but why? I wanna know the whole story.” I watch Mama sigh, holding her head in her hands. 

“I've told you this before Marty, it’s a complicated story. I don’t want you worrying about him, he’s out of our life now.”

“But Mama-” Mama cut my sentence off.

“Zip it. Go to your room, right now.” She slammed her hands onto the table. 

I got up, stomping to my room, slamming the door. I flop down on my bed. 

Thank gosh I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf, it was so bad tonight. Though, why did Mama get so upset about me asking? She usually just doesn’t answer. Should I go through her stuff?  

I slowly get up, grabbing a flashlight. I quietly crack the door open, tiptoeing out. Peeking down the stairs, I rush over to Mama’s room, stepping inside. As I look around for anything that could be important, the stairs creak loudly. My eyes widened, going into her closet, hiding behind racks of clothes. 

“That’s weird…” Mama says as she notices the drawer I left a little open. I cover my mouth, hoping she won’t notice me.

I watch as Mama looks into the closet, turning off the light. I hear the TV click on her favorite show,  Murder, She Wrote. The volume was so loud I had to cover my ears for a second. I carefully move around, looking for more clues. I thought there was nothing until I saw it: the key behind the dresser. 

October 23rd, 1985

I knew what to do. Fake being sick. At this point it’s practically my profession, Mama falls for it every single time.  

“Mama, I don’t feel too well.” I stumble to her room, setting my plan into action.        

“My baby! Are you okay? Do you have a fever? Are you going to vomit?” She got out of bed, holding a hand to my head. 

“I might be sick Mama…my head hurts very bad and my stomach is in knots.” I put my hands around my stomach. “I also have a really bad fever…” I showed her the thermometer that I put under hot water. The temperature read 102.3℉.

“Oh no! I really needed to go to work today, I have a really important meeting, sweetheart.” Mama says, hugging me and patting my head.

“It’s fine, I can stay by myself and call Grandmama if I need to…” I fake-cough as I make my voice hoarse. 

“Are you sure, Marty? I could call off, it just wouldn’t be great…” 

“It’s fine Mama, trust me.” I walk off to my bedroom, sliding under the covers, ready to investigate as soon as I hear Mama leave. 

Mama goes downstairs, quickly grabbing her keys and leaving. Finally, my plan can start.

What to look for first? I have that key to use somewhere, but nothing is really locked here. Maybe the attic? 

I spring out of bed, grabbing my flashlight, dashing to open the garret. I swing the door down, quickly climbing up the steps. 

It is so dusty and moldy up here, this might get me actually sick. 

As I plug my nose, I click on the flashlight. Everything is cluttered, and there's barely any walk room. It smells horrible, like something died here. I open nearly every stack of boxes, searching through each one top to bottom. Nothing. 

Ugh, why’d I even bother coming up here? I should’ve checked the garage or something. 

As I almost head back down, I notice four boxes I left untouched. I slowly creep towards the boxes, noticing the pungent smell filling my senses. Gagging, I examine the outside of the boxes. Mold and dust are practically wrapping paper to most of these boxes. The fourth box stood out, though. Fingerprints were placed on the edge, and there is fresh duct tape holding it together. 

I rip the box apart, finally hitting the goods. A book that looks like a used diary, a cloth, and locket, and what looks to be a dead rose. I take out the book, then run down the steps, shutting the garret.

The smell, the smell is so bad. I could barely breathe in there, my god. 

I close my bedroom door, sitting on my bed, opening the book. The pages are filled with dust, the handwriting now harder to read. I squint my eyes, shining my flashlight on the book to get a better look.                       

August 29th, 1973

I don’t think I’m being crazy, I’m right this time. She’s been having these…psychotic…episodes, and she goes FUCKING insane. Throwing everything, breaking the dishes, screaming at the top of her lungs. I’m worried for Marty. Thank god he’s at Grandma’s, because if he was with her right now, he also wouldn't be.

I want Meredith to get help, I really do, she just won’t let me. Every time I even THINK  of asking her if she needs help, she just slams on the table, rejecting every offer I make. 

I flipped the page, noticing there were pages ripped out.  

What happened? Is this the truth? Did he not leave me?

November 15th, 1973

She’s going to do it. She’s going to kill me. I hear the knife sharpening now, I can see the smile on her face even though I can't actually see her. I can feel the sharp pains in my neck and chest already, and I can taste the blood spilling from my mouth. This will be it. I won’t get to say goodbye to Marty.

Marty,

If you ever see this, it wasn't me. I wouldn’t do this to myself. I know you’ll be all grown up and happy once if I see you again. Do not listen to your mother. I was not content with dying, especially the situation.  When If your so-called mother gives you this note, know that I die, losing the opportunity to play catch with you, teach you to drive, and go to your graduation. Without you, I will die having half of my heart, half of my life, and all of my happiness gone. I will always love you, Marty. 

Ron, your father. 

My teardrops fall onto the diary as I clench the book tightly, holding it and sobbing. My heart pains thinking about Dad, who could’ve been here, comforting me right now. He could’ve helped me with homework, and he could’ve helped me practice catch. We can’t do any of those things now, now that he’s gone. Forever. 

I shut the diary quickly as I hear the door unlocking, she's home already. I tuck the diary under my bed, getting up and running to the garret, yanking it down. 

What am I gonna say? Is Mama gonna kill me too? I don’t wanna die…I’m just a kid. 

I run up the steps to the attic, scurrying through the boxes again. This time, I looked into the first three boxes.

It’s him. He’s gone. He’s completely gone. 

There I stand, staring at the lifeless, dismembered body of my own dad. His intestines hung out like decorations, his neck to stomach stabbed open His eyes rolled back, dried blood hiding his skin. He was nearly unrecognizable, but somehow, somehow I could still know it was my own father.  Flies surrounded the body, my eyes filling with tears. As I fell to the floor, I made up my mind. I’m getting Mama arrested. 

I ran into my room, wiping my tears as I cried more, grabbing the diary, running out through the back door so Mama wouldn’t catch me. 

After running the whole way to the police station, I collapsed on the floor. I ran a whole three miles, I don't even know how I did it. A police officer picked me up, sitting me against a wall.

“Are you alright boy?” The police officer waved a hand in front of my face. 

“My dad…He’s gone. He’s…gone.” I held onto the officer, shaking him. “He’s gone, he’s dead. He’s dead.”

“Sir, please calm down. Who exactly is your father?”

After a long couple hours of explaining, the call from my mother about me “missing” rang. A few minutes later she showed up and got arrested.

“WHY!? Marty, why are you letting the fucking cops arrest me?” Mama screamed at me, pulling away from the police officers. 

I wiped my tears as I remembered Dad, his words. I can’t remember his face. I can't remember his voice. Did he have an accent? Did he have moles?  I wouldn’t know. The only thing I know is that Mama probably remembers the look of fear on his face, tears rolling down, only thinking of his son. 

“You…you’re a monster, Mama. I don’t even want to call you Mama anymore.” I held onto myself, shaking. 

Mama’s expression completely changed, from upset to psychotic, just like Dad had said.