| Escape the Harsh Realm All of my childhood memories are the same. At least, they�re all similar enough to SEEM identical. The only piece of furniture I distinctly remember is our old couch. It was bright white, Dad�s idea. Mom had point out that, with 3 boys under the age of 10, the couch would no longer be white within a year. �Don�t worry,� Dad said slyly. �They won�t ruin it.� I was the first to almost prove him wrong. I was probably about 6, and Dad and I were watching boxing on TV Muhammad Ali, I think. Dad had his fifth mug of beer in his had, and clutched in my tiny fist was a nearly-full root beer. Ali (or whoever it was) punched the guy out, and my dad and I jumped up and cheered. Unfortunately, a good portion of the root beer sloshed out of the mug and onto the white plush. I stared in wide-eyed terror at the growing brown spot. My father saw it, and, the next thing I knew, I was pinned on my stomach on top of the dark-colored carpet. Sitting on top of my back was Dad, smacking me as hard as he could. �Daddy, stop! I didn�t mean to spill, I really didn�t! I�m sorry! Please, Daddy, stop hurting me!� I screamed. David, who was nine at the time, ran down from his bedroom, where he�d been doing homework. �Dad, stop hurting Danny!� he cried, running over and trying to pull him off of me. But Dad didn�t budge. Except, of course, to wheel around, smack David, and turn back to me. By this time, Mom had come running into the living room. �Robert, stop!� she ordered him. �Get off of him! He didn�t mean to spill!� Then, the most amazing thing happened. The lightning blows to my neck and head stopped, and the pressure on my back was lifted. After that, things settled into a routine at the Rydell household. Dad drank almost nonstop, then he�d beat any of us who did something he didn�t like until Mom would come in and save us from our tormentor. She was the only one who could stop him from beating on us. The only problem (other than the obvious) was that, since Dad couldn�t keep a job due to his habitual drunkness, Mom had to work twice as hard to support us. She caught a break, getting a really good job with a publishing company in New York City. But the long commute from our house in Connecticut meant she often left before we woke up and didn�t get back until after we were in bed. Which meant we had no safety from our abuser. Which is why, when I was about twelve and got offered dope, I didn�t turn it down. People always tell you about all the bad things marijuana does to you. But they leave out the one good effect of it. Immunity. You see, if you get high enough often enough, reality isn�t where you reside. You escape the harsh realm into your own world. And that�s what I did. It was the only way to not feel the pain. And, when Sam wanted to try it four years later, I let him. Because he had to go through all the same things I�d had to when I still lived in the real world. I don�t know. Looking back, I don�t know for sure that I wouldn�t have given Sam half of my supply or those two years. Because, had he never gotten high like me, he would�ve had to deal with it all himself. Plus, I would�ve been smoking it anyways, and who knows when I would�ve stopped if he hadn�t died in the car crash, being high and drunk while driving around with his buddies. The night itself Sam died is sorta a blur to me. It was my first night away at college, and I�d gone to a house party with some of my buddies. So I was a little drunk. Okay, I was a lot drunk, but anyways. The first thing I remember is walking up my front walk. Don�t ask me how I got there. I opened my front door and heard...nothing. No television, no conversation... nothing. Upon entering, I heard muffled sobs coming from my parent�s bedroom. �Mom? Dad?� I said cautiously, opening their door. �Oh, Danny...� Mom said, then burst into tears again. I sat beside her on the bed and hugged her, letting her cry on my shoulder. �You bastard,� my father growled. �It�s your fault Sam�s dead! He wouldn�t have been stupid enough to get hooked by himself! You�re just the bad seed!� �Robert...� Mom said pleadingly. Dad pulled me back by my shirt and kneeled on top of my back while he took off his belt. Lash after lash fell upon me, each one stinging more than the one before. �Robert, stop! Don�t make all this worse than it already is!� �Get off me!� I screamed. �It�s not my fault! Get off me!� Finally, after much pleading on Mom�s part, he got off of me. �Go,� he said. �I never want to see you again. Go.� So, a few hours later, I was back on my way to college. Where I remained for four years straight, except for spending my summers in New York City. At least then I could see Mom, who still treated me as before. No one ever knew about it. All through school, I�d come up with clever and logical excuses, then I was away from it and didn�t have to think about it at all. Actually, the first person I ever told was Abby, my therapist. Fitting, eh, telling a total stranger things I hadn�t told my best friend? Not surprising to anyone who knows me, though. They would be the first to tell you that there are two things I hate in life: Soccer and being the object of pity. But then the time had come to deal with it. Abby suggested it might be more helpful if I talked to a friend about it. And so Casey, as he was sitting innocently in our office one day, became the unwilling victim of my therapy. �Hey, Casey, can I talk to you?� I asked tentatively. �What�s on your mind?� he asked, not looking up from his computer. �Well, Abby thinks a big portion of my problem is that I never dealt with all the stuff in the past and I should, you know, talk to someone.� �Okay.� �You remember how I was telling you about the root beer?� I asked. I had mentioned to him one time a few weeks earlier about my dad and me watching fights together when I was a kid. �Sitting on the floor during fights? Yeah,� he said, still typing away. �Well, there�s a part I left out of the story. The reason I was so afraid of spilling was because, the one time I HAD spilled, he...My dad used to drink, Casey, he drank a LOT. And then he�d hit me.� Casey looked up at me in shock. �He beat you?� I nodded slowly. �God, Danny, I had no idea!� �No one did. You are only the second non-family member to know about this, so you can�t tell anyone, not even Dana and especially not Nat or Jeremy...� The one thing I did NOT need was the entire office knowing my dark past. �Okay,� he said, still looking shocked. �And quit looking at me like that,� I said. �Like what?� �Like...that. The �Oh poor Danny� Look. Just don�t, please.� �Sure,� he said, trying to change his expression, waiting for me to open up. �Do you want to talk about it?� �I don�t know...I mean, it was a long time ago, I...� �Danny. Whatever you want. I�m here, man.� I drew a deep breath and considered. �Okay, but...there may be long periods when what I say isn�t anything you�d want to hear.� �It�s okay.� �And there may be long periods when I don�t really say anything...� �That�s fine.� �I just...I want to be okay with it.� �And so do I. So whenever you�re ready, you can talk to me. Your friends are here, Danny. And we want to help.� �Thanks,� I said quietly. �I appreciate it.� |